Chapter 28 #2
He leads us into a grand hall with creamy walls, polished timber floors, and an unlit open fireplace. Ornate curtains frame multi-paned windows, filtering in shafts of sunlight, while chandeliers sparkle overhead.
“This is the Mallandain Room—the heart of the castle,” Jack announces, sweeping an arm like a tour guide.
“Largest room on the estate. Regency décor. Original ceiling mouldings.” He gestures towards the windows.
“Those overlook the gardens—so don’t let anyone spot you,” he adds as Ellenor moves towards them.
“It’s like a ballroom,” Lily-Anne says in awe.
“I do love a good ball!” Ellenor lilts, affecting the over-enunciated tone of an aristocrat. Then, so softly I think only I hear it, “This would be perfect for a Hogwarts Sorting Ceremony. If I ever have children…”
“This room’s popular for weddings,” Jack explains, joining Lily-Anne by the fireplace. “Couples often take their vows right here by the hearth.” His tone dips—but not enough that it doesn’t carry. “Quite romantic, don’t you think?”
It is romantic. Enchanting, even.
But as I watch him move closer to her, whispering sweet nothings in her ear, jealousy spikes. Darkness seeps into the room, draining it of colour and warmth, the chandeliers flickering like fluorescent bulbs.
Recognition and memory swirl, the room blurring into a hotel lobby. The fireplace is lit. Nova and Jack are there, facing me, while I sit like a king—except it isn’t a throne, only a visitor’s chair, and I’m the mug who’s just been traded in for another.
That was the last time I saw her, resolute as she followed Jack to the lift. I chased her, blocking the doors from closing, pleading for her to stay, to leave this madness behind—not for my sake, but for the career that I could see was slowly devouring her.
For a fraction of a second, through glitz and glamour and tear-streaked makeup, I saw a trace of Natalie. But then she shook her head and whispered goodbye as the doors slid shut.
The air thickens with cigarette smoke as the Mallandain Room warps, its elegance melting away like candlewax, red banners unfurling to bleed down the walls.
Nova. She’s back, her laughter ricocheting off marble as her arms slink around Jack’s shoulders. Her hair is as slick as oil, her lips incarnadine. A final distortion of herself, garish and wrong. It’s the last version they could wring out of her before she burned out completely.
Her mouth curls. “Do you see it now, Brandon?”
I blink, heart hammering.
“No?” Her voice sharpens, and she grips Jack’s jaw, turning his head towards me, one face of his duplicity meeting mine, the rest of him still laughing with Lily-Anne, both blissfully unaware of my trance. “How about now?”
Enough. What do you want? I demand silently.
“What do I want?” She laughs, a brittle sound like ice breaking. “Darling, I’m your subconscious. What do you want?”
I shake my head helplessly, but my silence only infuriates her, her teeth bared as she spits, “I’m here to tell you to wake the fuck up. Do you think you can do that?”
I stare back silently. It was never wise to argue with Nova when she was like this.
Except…
This isn’t Nova. It’s not even the ghost of her. It’s…
Me.
“Bingo,” she whispers. She waltzes over to jab my chest with a long, painted nail. “Something rotten is festering here.”
As I stare at her hostile image, the years of not knowing bear down like a crushing weight, and my lips move silently with the question that has plagued me. Why?
There was no note. No explanation or goodbye. Only silence.
“These wall panels are amazing, aren’t they?” Ellenor’s voice cuts through the vision, Nova vanishing.
I flinch. The room is whole again, restored to all its glory and elegance, the bloodless walls aglow with sunlight once more.
“They are,” I manage, pretending to be tracing the bevel with my fingertips.
“Searching for a secret door? Let me know if you find one.”
I follow the others to the door but hang back at the last second. I need time to collect myself.
Silence buzzes as I stand in the empty room.
I exhale slowly, then I lean my back against the wall, the plaster cool on my neck. The past seeps through me like water through stone, seeking every crack, every weakness—until I force it back, schooling my features still, my eyes drifting shut.
Calm—at least on the surface.
But inside, everything spins, past and present colliding in the space between Jack’s grin and Lily-Anne’s gentleness.
What am I missing?
It’s nothing to do with Lily-Anne. Yet somehow, her arrival in Whitstable has started a tidal wave I’ve no hope of stopping, stirring up silt long settled.
The real instigator was Jack, years ago when he plunged Natalie into that glittering, noisy world. He enjoyed the fame and the thrill.
The responsibility, not so much.
“Brandon…” A gentle whisper, more Natalie than Nova.
“Brandon?”
I snap my eyes open.
It’s Lily-Anne. She came back, her soft voice a balm against the chaos still ringing in my head. I almost reach for her, my hand twitching before I rein it in.
Now, more than ever, I cannot.
“What’s wrong?” she murmurs, concerned eyes peering at me. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
I give a hoarse laugh. “Yes. You could say that. I lost myself for a moment.”
“How so?”
“Sometimes…I imagine conversations,” I admit quietly. “They’re not real. Just thoughts spliced with memories.”
“Thoughts of Nova?”
I blink. “Yes, actually. Only lately, my mind conjures her when I’m tired, or when…” I trail off, hating how exposed I feel.
“You can tell me,” she says.
“When I see the colour red.”
She blinks. “Really?”
“It reminds me of her.”
We’re quiet for a moment. Just when I expect her to suggest I see a therapist, she says, “You know, I’m not sure I like red either.”
I frown. “But your dress…?”
“I’m trying to embrace the colour again.” She shrugs, her smile sad. “Toby used to give me roses, and they were always red. I was thrilled, of course. Who doesn’t like roses? But…” She gives a bitter laugh. “He wanted me to keep them. Dried and preserved, as if throwing them out would offend him.”
Christ. Perhaps it’s a good thing I never gave my roses to her.
“The last one hung in my wardrobe,” she adds with a note of disgust.
“That wouldn’t leave much room for clothes,” I remark.
“No. It didn’t. It looked like a dead bat hanging there.”
“Is it still there?”
“God, no. I threw it in the bin. And good riddance.”
“Yes. I daresay, it can be unhelpful—perhaps even harmful—to hold onto too much of the past. Especially the bad bits.”
She hums her agreement. “And what bits are you hanging on to?”
A faint smile tugs at my mouth. “I’m not sure yet. But when I figure it out, I promise to put it in the nearest rubbish bin.”
“Okay.” She grins, then she sobers, smoothing her red skirt. “So…I’m guessing I probably shouldn’t wear this to your barbecue tomorrow?”
“Actually, I quite like your red dress.”
“Thanks,” she says shyly. “But I can’t wear it back-to-back.”
“Why not?”
“The washing machine hates me, for starters.”
“I’ll get a new one.”
“I’m joking.”
“I’m not.” If it’s too much, I don’t care. My heart is on a knife’s edge. “When we go home, I’ll make sure it behaves.”
Her head dips, laughter spilling softly. “Alright. I’ll wear it tomorrow.”
“Good.”
She studies me, her expression soft. Something in me lifts.
“You’ve got your colour back,” she says gently. “Feeling better?”
“Yes. Thank you.”
My chest aches as the moment fades, fragile and stolen.
At the door, Lily-Anne pauses, hand resting on the frame. “Oh, by the way,” she says. “About the red roses…I’m sure Ellenor would have been happy with any colour. I know she seems fussy, but she’s actually really gracious. You probably already know that.”
The only thing I want is to know what colour she’d prefer.
As we leave, I notice she’s left the rose Jack gave her on the polished timber floor.
We begin retracing our steps toward the cellar when, suddenly, a voice rings out from the corridor ahead.
A woman’s voice—brisk, clipped, authoritative—punctuated by the sharp click of heels on timber.
She rounds the corner mid-sentence, attention fixed on her phone as she speaks into it.
There’s no time to think.
I catch Lily-Anne around the waist and pull her sharply into an alcove, half-hidden behind a suit of armour that looked real earlier but is actually plastic. She stumbles as she finds her feet, then she goes still as I draw her close, her back against my chest, my arm braced around her.
We hold our breath.
“That’s ridiculous. I need it fixed, not a shutdown,” she argues.
To my horror, she slows to a stop right beside us.
Lily-Anne leans back against me, her weight pressing against me, my grip tightening instinctively.
“No. We are not cancelling events.” The woman pauses to listen. “Absolutely not. They can speak to our lawyers.”
Then she strides past, arguing with her caller as she disappears down the hall.
The moment she’s gone, the tension drains from us both, our shoulders sagging as breath rushes out in shared relief. We don’t move right away, still pressed together, as if separating too soon might tempt fate.
Only when the sound fades do I ease my grip, though some darker instinct resists, reluctant to let her go.
Lily-Anne’s hand brushes my chest as she turns, steadying herself, and she lets out another shaky exhale. She looks up at me then, close enough that I can see the faint tremor of her lips and the light dusting of freckles across her nose.
“I think we’re clear,” she says, though her hand is slow to drop from my chest.
I nod, not trusting myself to speak as we step apart and return to the corridor.
When we rejoin the others, Jack’s hand finds the small of her back, light but possessive. The ache in my chest intensifies.
She’s not mine.
And it seems she never will be.
“Where were you two?” Ellenor asks. “I thought Filch got you.”
“We were avoiding Peeves,” Lily-Anne deflects with a shrug.
I feel a surge of gratitude for her quick thinking—and her discretion in not mentioning my lapse in the Mallandain Room.
Jack concludes the tour and, apart from a near call when we almost cross paths with a departing group by the front door, leads us safely out the way we came.
We have lunch on the tearoom terrace. I have no appetite, but I order something anyway.
Lily-Anne and Ellenor excitedly scan the menu, but Jack overrides their preferences with his recommendations. It grates on me, though the sisters seem happy enough with his suggestions.
I mull it over as I pick at my food, watching them enjoy the sandwiches no one wanted except the man who ordered them. And yet, by the time we stand, not a crumb remains on their plates.
Perhaps the problem is me.
It’s time to face a hard truth. For all my criticisms of Jack Willoughby, he has one considerable thing to recommend him: at least he isn’t seeing ghosts.