Chapter Two
I read Helen Cross’s email three times, then once more like the words might rearrange themselves if I stare long enough. They don’t. The bus rocks gently beneath me as it pulls away from the curb, city noise muted by the glass, the world moving on as if nothing significant just happened.
An interview.
At Blackbriar.
I close my eyes briefly and let out a slow breath. My chest tightens, but it isn’t panic. It’s the kind of tightness that comes when you’re standing at the edge of something and don’t know what will happen if you take the leap.
By the time I get home, the sky has dimmed to slate, clouds hanging low and undecided. I unlock my apartment and step inside, the familiar quiet wrapping around me like muscle memory. I set my bag down and rest my forehead against the door for a moment, grounding myself in the solid weight of it.
I push away and cross the room, toeing off my boots by the door. They land side by side, I notice it without knowing why.
I open my laptop and pull up the email again.
Arrange an interview, should you still be interested.
Thank you for reaching out, I type, then delete.
Too stiff.
I try again.
Hello, Ms. Cross,
Much better. Polite. Neutral.
Thank you for your reply. I’m still very interested in the position and would be happy to arrange an interview. I’m available in the afternoons this coming week.
I send it before I can second-guess myself.
Helen replies the next morning.
Thursday at three would work, if that suits you. Blackbriar is outside the city limits. I’ll include directions below.
I read the email in its entirety once and set the phone down.
Thursday.
The days leading up to it pass quickly. The daycare keeps me anchored. Tiny hands. Small victories. Familiar routines. I function easily here, my body moving on instinct while my mind circles the same quiet thought.
The night before, I lay out my clothes with care.
A simple lavender dress, It’s cut cleanly at the waist without clinging, the fabric moving when I do instead of resisting me.
A cardigan I can shrug into or out of if I need to breathe.
I finish packing my bag and set it by the door, keys placed carefully on top.
Thursday morning is clear and cool. I shower, dress, and pause in front of the mirror before leaving. I don’t look like someone running. I look like someone deciding.
The car smells faintly of leather and old coffee, sunlight slanting across the dashboard as I start the engine. It hums to life without complaint and I pull out of my street and let the city carry me for a while, traffic thick and heavy like always..
Then the scenery changes.
Buildings start to thin, and the roads begin to narrow. The further I go the more crowded the trees become. I keep my hands light on the wheel, my attention steady.
The iron gate appears suddenly at the edge of the drive. I slow as I turn in. Gravel crunches beneath my tires, loud in the quiet. The driveway winds through trees that block the house from view until the last possible moment, like it’s testing my patience.
Then Blackbriar appears.
Stone and glass. Old and restrained. There is ivy climbing one side like it was never told to stop. The house doesn’t loom so much as it seems to be watching, settled deep into the land as if it belongs there more than I ever could.
I pull to a stop and shut off the engine and take a moment longer than necessary.
“You can still leave,” I think. Before I can linger in the thought, the front door opens.
A woman steps out onto the stone path, closing the distance between us with unhurried ease.
She looks to be in her mid-forties, though there’s something about her that feels ageless, as if time has moved around her instead of through her.
She’s tall and her frame is narrow, built more for endurance than softness.
Her hair is pulled back simply into a bun, dark brown threaded with silver. No makeup and no jewelry except a thin chain at her throat, almost hidden beneath the collar of her cardigan.
Her face is what draws me in. Gentle without being weak. Sharp without being severe. Her eyes are light, observant, carrying the kind of patience that comes from having listened more than she’s spoken.
“Aria James?” she asks.
Her voice is calm, low, and even. It reminds me of the teachers who never needed to raise their voices because everyone wanted to hear what they had to say.
“Yes,” I answer, my pulse jumping anyway.
“I’m Helen Cross,” she says, offering a small, sincere smile. “You found us just fine.”
“Yes,” I say again. “I did.”
“Good,” she replies, stepping aside and gesturing toward the open door. “Why don’t you come in? You must be cold.”
I glance back once at my car, parked exactly where I left it, solid and waiting. A quiet reassurance at my back.
Then I turn to Ms. Cross.
And I follow her inside.
The door closes behind me with a firm, measured sound.