The whisper, or whatever it was, faded, leaving only the sound of the crackling fire and the steady ticking of the grandfather clock. Julia stood before the portrait, her heart still racing, trying to convince herself it was just the house playing tricks. The rain outside continued its relentless drumming against the unseen windows.
She felt cold, despite the fire. The air in the room felt heavy, thick with the past. She looked away from Marian's painted eyes, scanning the room again, trying to find something normal, something solid to anchor her. The heavy furniture, the dusty velvet curtains, the dark wood—it all felt alien, borrowed from another time, another life. Marian's life.
Julia rubbed her arms through her cloak. She needed to move. To break the spell this room, this portrait, was casting.
She turned towards the door she had entered, but hesitated. What if Finch was waiting? What if she was meant to stay here? No, Alistair had just said to wait *here*. He hadn't said *don't leave*.
She walked towards the door, her footsteps making soft, unfamiliar sounds on the thick rug. Her hand reached for the cold metal handle.
The hallway outside was dimly lit by a single gas lamp on the wall. Long shadows stretched and twisted. Julia stepped out, letting the door swing softly shut behind her. Silence immediately wrapped around her, deeper than the silence in the drawing room.
She stood for a moment, uncertain. Where should she go? Her rooms hadn't been shown to her yet. Finch had just led her straight here. Dinner wasn't for another hour.
She decided to explore. Cautiously. Perhaps she could find a window to look out, to see something of the grounds, to feel less enclosed.
She moved down the hallway, the floorboards creaking faintly under her feet. The walls were lined with more portraits, their faces indistinct in the low light. The air here smelled faintly of damp stone and old wax polish.
She turned a corner and found herself in another, wider hall. This one led off into different directions, a confusing labyrinth of shadowed doorways and intersecting passages. She felt a prickle of unease. It would be easy to get lost in this place. Too easy.
As she walked, she noticed a doorway slightly ajar. Curiosity pulling at her, despite her apprehension, she approached it quietly. The room inside was dark. She reached out, pushing the door open just a little further.
Before she could peer inside properly, a voice spoke. Sharp, flat.
"Lost?"
Julia jumped, startled. She turned quickly.
Miss Agnes Thorne stood a few feet away, seemingly appearing from nowhere. She hadn't heard her approach. The housekeeper's black dress blended into the shadows, making her presence even more jarring. Agnes held a small, intricately carved wooden box in her white-knuckled hand, polishing it slowly with a soft cloth. Her pale lips were pressed together tightly.
"No, I… I was just looking around," Julia said, trying for a polite smile. It felt stiff on her face.
Agnes didn't return the smile. Her dark eyes, sharp and unblinking, scanned Julia from head to foot. That same look of cold disapproval was there, maybe even stronger now. She looked like a bird of prey, perched and ready to strike.
"Looking around." Agnes's voice was low, dry. It held a brittle quality, like snapping twigs. She took another slow swipe at the box with her cloth. "This house has many corners."
She stepped closer, her presence filling the narrow hall. Julia caught the scent of her – faint, sharp, like vinegar mixed with something musty and old, like forgotten books.
"Some corners are best left undisturbed," Agnes continued, her gaze fixed on Julia's face. "We keep the eastern corridor locked. Too many drafts."
Her words felt like more than just a statement about the house. They felt like a warning. A veiled threat.
Julia nodded slowly. "I see."
Agnes paused her polishing. She lowered the wooden box slightly. Her eyes narrowed.
"You have her eyes," she said. The tone was not complimentary. It was an observation, delivered with a strange, quiet intensity. "Marian's eyes."
Julia's hand instinctively went towards her own face. "Yes, we were cousins."
"That's…" Agnes trailed off. She looked away for a moment, towards the dark doorway Julia had been curious about. A flicker of something unreadable crossed her face – pain? Resentment? Then she looked back at Julia, her expression hardening again. "That's… unfortunate."
Unfortunate? Having Marian's eyes was unfortunate? Julia felt a chill that had nothing to do with the drafts Agnes mentioned.
"Why do you say that?" Julia asked, keeping her voice steady.
Agnes's lips tightened further. She gave the wooden box a final, vigorous rub. "This house… it remembers," she said, her voice dropping almost to a whisper. "It remembers who belongs here. And who does not."
She tucked the box under her arm, holding it possessively. She didn't wait for a response. She simply turned and walked away down the hall, her black dress rustling softly. She moved with surprising speed and silence for such a rigid figure.
Julia watched her go, the word 'unfortunate' echoing in her mind. She looked back at the half-open doorway Agnes had been near. What was in that room? And what was in the eastern corridor?
Feeling shaken, Julia decided not to explore further inside the house for now. She needed fresh air. She needed to escape the oppressive feeling of the interior, the watchful eyes, the veiled warnings.
Finding her way back towards the front of the house took longer than she expected. The corridors twisted and turned, seeming to rearrange themselves in the dim light. She finally located a side door that led out onto a gravel path, away from the main entrance.
The rain had eased slightly, but the air was thick with mist and the heavy scent of wet earth and decaying leaves. The grounds were dark, shadowy shapes looming in the gloom. She walked along the path, listening to the soft crunch under her shoes, trying to clear her head.
She found herself near some outbuildings. Stables, she realized, seeing the low shapes and the faint smell of horses and hay. The air here felt slightly more grounded, less haunted than inside the house.
As she passed one of the stable doors, it opened suddenly. A young man emerged, carrying a bucket. He stopped abruptly when he saw her.
He was young, perhaps seventeen or eighteen. His face was smeared with dirt, freckles visible beneath the grime. His hair was a mess of damp curls. He looked startled, like a rabbit caught in the open.
He bowed his head quickly, awkwardly. Julia noticed he limped as he shifted his weight. One foot seemed misshapen, causing him to favor the other leg.
This must be Callum. The stable boy Alistair had mentioned might assist with bringing luggage.
Julia offered a small, gentle smile. "Hello," she said softly. She didn't want to startle him further. "I'm Julia Harrow."
The young man didn't speak. His eyes were wide, dark, and held a look of deep fear. He glanced past her, towards the house, then back at her, his gaze lingering on her face for a moment. He looked afraid of her, or perhaps afraid *for* her.
He shifted the bucket nervously in his hands. As he did, something small and dark tumbled from his pocket and fell onto the wet ground near his feet.
He flinched, looking down at it. Julia looked too.
It was a small toy horse, carved roughly from wood. Simple, childlike. But on its side, etched into the dark wood, was a single letter.
An 'M'.
Callum quickly bent down, snatching up the little horse and shoving it back into his pocket. His movements were quick, furtive. He looked at Julia again, his fear seemingly deepening.
He gave another quick, almost frantic bow, then turned and hurried away into the mist, disappearing around the corner of the stable building. His limp was pronounced as he fled.
Julia watched him go, a strange mixture of pity and confusion washing over her. The fear in his eyes… what had caused it? And the little wooden horse with the 'M' carved into it? Marian? Had he made it for her? Or had she given it to him? It felt like another small piece of a puzzle she couldn't yet see. Another hint that Marian's presence was still woven into the fabric of this place, into the lives of the people here. Even the quiet, fearful stable boy.
Dinner was announced by the soft gong of a distant bell. The sound echoed through the damp air. Julia turned back towards the house, the brief respite outside ending. The house loomed before her, dark and silent, its numerous windows like eyes watching her return.
She found her way back inside, the warmth feeling artificial after the cold air. She smoothed down her dress, trying to compose herself. Agnes's words, Callum's fear, Marian's portrait – they all swirled together, a disquieting welcome.
Finch met her in the main hall, silent as ever. He didn't lead her back to the drawing room. Instead, he indicated a different direction, towards the back of the house. Towards the dining room.
The dining room was large and formal, lit by flickering candlelight from a heavy candelabra on the polished mahogany table. The light cast long, dancing shadows on the paneled walls. The air here smelled of beeswax polish and something faint and metallic, like old silver. Only two place settings were laid at one end of the long table, making the room feel even larger, emptier.
Julia walked towards her chair, feeling exposed in the vast space.
Then the door at the far end of the room opened.
Alistair Blackwood entered.
He was tall, impossibly elegant in the candlelight. He wore a dark suit, impeccably tailored, the black fabric offset by a vest woven with a subtle silver thread that caught the light as he moved. His raven hair was dark against his pale skin. His face, in the wavering light, was a study in controlled grief. He looked handsome, yes, but there was a coolness in his grey eyes, a reserved quality that held her at a distance even as he approached.
He came towards her with a smooth, unhurried stride. His expression was one of polite sorrow. He looked every inch the grieving widower, but Julia felt a strange disconnect. It felt performed, somehow. Masterful, but not entirely genuine.
"Julia," he said, his voice low, resonant, carrying clearly in the quiet room. "Thank you for coming. I know the journey was arduous."
He didn't touch her, didn't offer a hand. He simply stood opposite her chair, his gaze steady.
"Thank you for having me, Mr. Blackwood," she replied, her voice a little quieter than she intended.
"Alistair, please," he corrected gently. He offered a brief, small smile then. It didn't quite reach his eyes. It was the only smile she would see on his face that evening.
He gestured to her chair. "Please. You must be tired."
She sat. He took his place opposite her. Finch appeared silently, placing a plate of soup before them. The silence was thick, punctuated only by the soft clink of silverware against china.
"The house is… very grand," Julia offered finally, needing to break the quiet.
"It has been in my family for generations," Alistair said, his gaze sweeping over the room. "It demands… attention."
Finch poured water, then presented a decanter of wine. Alistair gestured for him to pour. Red wine, dark as blood, filled the glasses.
"I hope you will be comfortable here," Alistair said, picking up his wine glass. He held it for a moment, swirling the liquid slowly. "It is not London."
"No," Julia agreed softly. "It certainly isn't."
She picked up her own glass, took a small sip. The wine was dry, potent.
Alistair watched her drink. His grey eyes were observant, assessing.
"You remind me of her," Alistair said, his voice dropping slightly. "Marian."
Julia lowered her glass. "Do I?"
"Yes." He paused. "Before the stillness set in."
Stillness. The word hung in the air. It felt wrong. Marian had been many things – passionate, sometimes volatile, always vibrant. Stillness didn't fit her.
"Stillness?" Julia prompted.
Alistair looked away, his gaze drifting towards the dark windows. He seemed to hesitate for a long moment. When he spoke again, his voice was softer, heavier, laced with a carefully constructed sorrow.
"She stopped speaking," he said. "Towards the end. She would just sit… quiet. Looking out at the rain. For hours."
Stopped speaking? Marian? Julia remembered her cousin's boundless energy, her quick wit, her love of conversation. The idea of her being silent, withdrawn, was jarring. It didn't sound like the Marian she knew. It sounded like someone else entirely.
"I… I didn't know," Julia murmured. She hadn't spoken to Marian in months. Not since she'd stopped replying to her letters. A fresh wave of guilt washed over her.
Alistair looked back at her. His expression softened slightly, a show of sympathy that felt just a fraction too smooth.
He reached across the table, picking up the decanter to pour more wine into her glass. His fingers, long and elegant, brushed against the back of her hand as he tipped the heavy glass.
Julia jolted. Not just from the unexpected touch, but from the sudden, electric jolt that went through her skin. It was cold, sharp, almost unpleasant. It made her skin crawl.
She pulled her hand back instinctively.
Alistair paused pouring. He didn't comment, didn't apologize for the contact. He simply finished filling her glass. His gaze met hers across the flickering candlelight.
Julia's face felt warm. She looked down at her plate, feeling a sudden, intense discomfort. The brief touch had felt intimate, but also cold. Calculating.
When she looked up again, Alistair was watching her. The corner of his mouth lifted. Barely. It was a tiny, almost imperceptible movement. Not a smile of amusement, but something knowing. Possessive.
He had noticed her reaction. And it seemed to please him.
The air in the dining room, already heavy, felt charged. With tension. With something unspoken. Alistair Blackwood might mourn his wife, but his gaze on Julia held a different kind of hunger. It was unsettling. It was wrong.
Julia took another sip of her wine, needing to hide her reaction. The silence returned, but it was no longer empty. It was filled with unspoken words, with hidden meanings, with the heavy weight of Alistair Blackwood's watchful, assessing gaze.
Dinner had just begun. And Julia felt a growing dread settle in her stomach, cold and heavy. She had come seeking answers about Marian, but she was finding only more questions. And the man who held them seemed more dangerous, and far more complicated, than she had ever anticipated.