Chapter 2
Her breath fogged up the glass, the distorted halo spreading over the gray wet world outside her window.
From the vantage point of her new bedroom, situated on the second floor of the east wing, Phaedra could see what once must have been a rose garden spreading out into the grounds below.
The grass grew rare and unkempt, the mark of winter still visible on the pale stalks.
Yet the hedges—in truth, a tangle of vines and thorns—seemed to thrive in the cold, frequent showers of the season.
The sky, already darkening to evening, hung close and suffocating above the surrounding forest.
Phaedra wiped the glass with her palm, a shudder running along her arm and down her spine from the chill pushing into her body.
Despite the undeniable evidence of her current surroundings, she still found it difficult to believe that she was actually here, a guest at Brackenhurst Hall. The Treasure Trove.
She had known of the house long before Nathaniel had ever decided to write to her, the name of its previous master notorious throughout Britain.
Bartholomew Hawthorn had been a renowned world-traveler, his thriving business in textiles taking him to every hidden part of the globe, from where he had returned with things far more precious than beautiful silks and airy muslin.
A patron of the arts, as so many had called him, was in fact a misnomer.
What he had been was a collector. And his manor, the repository of all his spoils.
The fact that no one had known exactly the extent of the late Mr. Hawthorn’s fortune had not hindered the gossip building it to celestial heights.
There had been claims that he could have easily bought himself a title or two, had he not always shown open disdain toward the nobility.
And from the few glimpses Phaedra could see of the house as she had been led up to her bedroom, she could well believe it to be true.
Every item of furniture was carved to masterful perfection from the most exquisite wood, the upholstery made of rich fabrics and plated thread woven into transcendent patterns.
The paneling throughout was smooth and richly modeled, underlining the ethereal damask covering the walls.
Delicate sconces hung in graceful arcs between gilded frames, accentuating the breathtaking works depicted therein.
The house, in its entirety, was a masterpiece.
It called to her like nothing she had ever seen before, and she knew that given the chance, she would inevitably find herself wandering the halls in mute fascination, unable to stop until an untimely death by thirst or starvation would finally claim her. And these were merely the hallways.
She huffed a laugh, her breath fogging the glass anew. But as the condensation slowly cleared, she found her mind wandering to the people whose lives the house had actually claimed, and the smile faded from her lips.
The beauty of this place was undeniable, yet so was its tragedy—recent and raw, bleeding sorrow into the walls that still stood, effusing the air with memories that would never more be only pleasant or sad or merry.
There would always be a layer of darkness hanging over them, like tinted glass superimposed onto a canvas, corrupting the colors into shades they were never meant to take.
A shudder moved through her body that had nothing to do with the cold, and she closed her eyes, relishing in its thrill.
Here, in the solitude of her chamber, she could finally allow herself a moment of weakness.
To admit that what moved her was not merely the dazzling wonder around her.
That what took her breath in the end, what sunk its teeth into the very fabric of her soul was the darkness weaving through it all, the house and everything—everyone—within it.
She could feel how this jagged edge of loss seemed to bring all that remained into violent focus, heightening its essence and sharpening her senses to the point of overwhelming. And bringing about the tingle in her fingers that could only be awoken by such exquisite anguish.
In her younger years, Phaedra had often felt ashamed of how the devastation of others would fill her with such terrible longing.
She would have imagined her own history would put an end to whatever illusioned delight she had thought to envision behind such things.
Yet in the time since, she had come to understand that whatever this inclination was, it was an indisputable part of her being.
She could break from it no more than she could carve out her soul.
And without a proper channel to divert its current, she would always succumb to it, no matter what it would bring.
In the end, this was why she had started painting. Why wax had ultimately become her medium of choice. And maybe this ought to have been the reason she should not have accepted the contract.
She let out a slow breath, relinquishing the moment and the tyrannical hold of her secret darkness. She stepped away from the window to the large four-poster bed, where her canvas bag lay open, her belongings still within.
Her first attempt at unpacking had been thoroughly waylaid as she had surveyed the room around her, its beauty on par with the rest of the house.
And as she finally put her garments into the delicately carved wardrobe, she was surprised at how the simplicity of one did not clash with the elegance of the other, blending instead into perfect harmony. As if they were meant to be there.
The thought sent a calming wave over her latent uncertainty. Maybe she was meant to be here as well.
She draped her nightgown over the bedspread before stashing her bag at the bottom of the wardrobe. Then she moved to the vanity, laying out her brush and pins almost reverently on the ornate white table. Her eyes lifted to the mirror, its gilded frame catching the remnants of the fading light.
Her reflection was no different than what she was used to—long black hair pulled into a tidy bun, the navy dress accentuating her tall stature and highlighting the paleness of her skin.
Yet there was something new glittering in the depths of her dark eyes, something beyond the irrefutable allure of the house around her.
She wondered if it was him, the unexpected young heir and his peculiar contract. The things he had already divulged, and the things that had remained hidden. The mystery of his true purpose.
A slow smile found its way to her lips, the shine in her eyes suddenly more radiant. Because whatever this assignment would be, whatever he would ask of her, she knew it could be nothing less than utterly fascinating.
Anticipation weaved through her, threading itself with her quickening breath, painting her skin with the glow of excitement. Then something moved at the edge of the mirror and she froze, her eyes darting to the reflected image of the bed behind her. The color in her cheeks drained instantly.
For amid the fading light pulsing through the room, Phaedra had had the distinct impression of two entwined bodies shifting under the white of her nightgown, their movements fluid in their embrace.
The vision had been fleeting, there and gone with her startled gasp, yet she continued to stare at the vacated space, the image seared into her mind.
And as sight became memory, so did her understanding clear of what she had seen, and a quiver twisted through her frame just as the dinner bell rang through the house.