The morning broke grey and damp, mist curling around the edges of the manor like fingers reaching for something lost. Nora stood at the balcony outside her childhood bedroom, arms wrapped around herself, watching the fog lift off the hills.
It had always been beautiful here. And lonely.
The servants had been polite but distant since her return. She didn't blame them. Four years gone and not a single letter home, not even after the fire.
Nora turned from the view, her eyes landing on the dressing table. The mirror was cracked, jagged lines like a spider's web. She stared at her reflection. Pale skin, high cheekbones, eyes too tired for twenty-five.
She still looked like a Whitmore. Whether that was a blessing or a curse, she wasn't sure anymore.
A knock sounded at the door. Mrs. Calloway entered with a slight curtsy. "Your friend is here, Miss. Miss Marsh."
Nora's heart gave a small jolt. "Lydia?"
"She's waiting in the parlor."
Moments later, Nora descended the grand staircase, each step echoing in the hollow hush of the house. She hesitated at the parlor door.
Then pushed it open.
"There she is," Lydia Marsh said brightly, rising to her feet in a flurry of floral silk and perfume. Her arms flew around Nora before she could react.
"You didn't send word," Lydia scolded playfully, pulling back. "I nearly fainted when I heard. The prodigal Whitmore returns without so much as a telegram."
Nora smiled, a little. "It was sudden."
"Everything with you is sudden." Lydia's voice was light, but her eyes sharpened. "Is it true? Your father's dying?"
Nora stiffened. "He's ill. Not dying."
Lydia tilted her head. "Well. He always did have a flare for the dramatic. Still, I'm so glad you're back. Elmbrook's been dreadfully dull without you. And I have so much to tell you."
She settled herself back onto the settee like a queen reclaiming her throne. "For instance, you wouldn't believe who's still here. The Ashford boy, for one."
Nora's pulse flickered. "James?"
Lydia glanced up, just a beat too slowly. "You remember him?"
"We spoke. Briefly."
Lydia's smile faltered just for a second. "Careful, darling. His father's still bitter as ever. And you know the Ashfords blame your family for ...."
"I remember," Nora said quietly.
Lydia leaned in, her voice low and sweet. "There are some lines, Nora, that shouldn't be crossed. Especially not when you've just returned. People forget easily but they remember quickly if you give them reason."
The air between them chilled.
"I'm not here to stir up gossip," Nora said, rising.
Lydia stood as well, smoothing her gloves. "Of course not. But the town hasn't changed. And neither have the rules."
Nora offered a polite smile, but her thoughts were far away. Back at the station. Back at the forge.
James stood beside the glowing coals, turning a horseshoe in the tongs, but his focus was off. The rhythm was wrong. Every few minutes, his eyes would drift to the open doorway and the street beyond.
He didn't like thinking about the Whitmores. He'd spent most of his life avoiding the thought. But ever since he'd seen her, Nora something about that name no longer felt so distant. It felt close. Human.
"James!"
He looked up to see Eli Rourke, his cousin and occasional helper standing outside with a grin and soot-streaked face.
"You daydreaming, or just trying to burn down the forge?"
James glanced down. The iron had gone too hot, beginning to warp. He muttered a curse and set it aside.
"You alright?" Eli asked, stepping inside. "You've been jumpy since yesterday."
"I'm fine," James said.
Eli gave him a long look, then grinned again. "This about that Whitmore girl?"
James didn't answer.
"I heard she came back. My ma saw her at the bakery this morning, looking like she'd walked out of a painting. Didn't think she'd ever set foot in this town again, not after the fire."
James turned back to the anvil, jaw tightening.
Eli leaned on a post. "I remember her. Used to walk around with that parasol and that friend of hers, what's her name? Marsh?"
"Lydia."
"Yeah. That one. Sharp tongue, always watching everything."
James worked in silence, hammering metal to drown the noise in his head.
"Funny, though," Eli continued, more softly now. "You used to say they were all the same. The Whitmores. Cold. Proud. Useless."
"I did."
"And now?"
James set the hammer down.
"Now I don't know."
The truth was, he hadn't seen someone proud or cold in Nora's eyes. He'd seen weariness. Restraint. A kind of sadness he recognized all too well.
He couldn't say why it mattered. But it did.
Just then, the door creaked again. This time it wasn't Eli, it was a customer. Mrs. Dobbins from the farm, asking for a new gate hinge. He took her order, gave her a promise and a price, and watched her disappear down the lane.
When he turned back to the forge, Eli had sobered.
"You be careful, James," he said quietly. "The Whitmores burn everything they touch."
James stared at the coals.
"Then maybe," he said, "it's time someone struck the match first."
The east wing of the Whitmore manor had been locked since the fire.
But Nora had taken the old servant's passage, the one behind the kitchen hearth. She remembered crawling through it as a child with a candle and a book, pretending to be a heroine in one of her stories.
Now she walked slowly, her boots crunching over scorched stone and fallen beams. The once-elegant corridor was a skeleton of itself. Charred wallpaper curled away like peeling skin. Ash lay in corners, undisturbed for years.
This had been her mother's private gallery.
And it had been her fault.
The memory came in fragments: raised voices, a shattered teacup, the smell of turpentine, the painting
She swallowed hard.
The fire had started from a knocked-over oil lamp, they said. A tragic accident. But Nora remembered too well the moment her hand reached for the flame in the dark, trembling with anger and fear and something wors, the desperate urge to make it all disappear.
She didn't mean to set the room alight. But once it happened… she hadn't stopped it.
The whispers afterward had been cruel. Her mother's sudden illness, then her quiet death six months later. Her father's descent into silence. Lydia's offer to send her away to "rest."
She knelt now at the blackened edge of the window, brushing ash from the sill. Beyond it, the old willow grove was still visible in the distance. Untouched. Patient.
A wind stirred, sending loose paper fluttering across the floor. One page caught on her boot part of a burned sketch. Her mother's handwriting bled faintly across the edge: Light only falls where shadow is cast.
Nora blinked hard. Her throat tightened.
She rose slowly, brushing soot from her skirts.
Something in this place remained unfinished. Not just the ruin, but the why of it. The truth that had been swept away with the ash.
As she turned to leave, she paused just once to look back.
And in the silence, she heard her own voice from years ago, small and broken, echoing between the bones of the manor:
"I'm sorry."