"He thinks he knows, and that's enough for him," Silas replied, his voice low, his eyes scanning the endless shelves. "He sees conspiracies in shadows, especially where you're concerned." He moved deeper into the library, leading her towards a section filled with ancient, unread volumes.
"Where are we going?" Julia whispered, her curiosity piqued.
Silas stopped before a towering oak bookshelf. He turned, his amber eyes locking onto hers, and then, slowly, he raised a hand, his fingers gently touching her lips, silencing her. "Shh," he murmured, his gaze sweeping the room, checking for any tell-tale sign of pursuit. He listened, his head cocked, before finally dropping his hand.
He moved to a particular section, his fingers tracing a specific spine. With a soft click, a concealed door, hidden seamlessly behind the shelves, swung open. It revealed a narrow, dark passage, thick with dust and the chill of disuse. "A secret exit," he explained quietly. "Long unused, I'd wager."
Dust motes danced in the sliver of light from the hidden door, clinging to their coats as they slipped through. Julia was awestruck. "How do you know about this?" she whispered as they navigated the cramped passage. "You seem to know more about this house than Alistair himself!"
Silas chuckled, a low, husky sound that resonated in the confined space. "A house like Blackwood Hall has many secrets, Julia. You merely need to know where to look. Alistair… he only sees what he wants to see."
They emerged into the crisp, damp air of the estate grounds, hidden from the main paths. "Where are we going now?" she asked, her voice hushed.
"Somewhere we can talk freely," he replied, taking her hand. "Without Alistair's watchful eyes, or his whispering servants."
They walked along the edge of the winding river, the mist clinging to the water like breath, swirling around their ankles. The silence stretched between them, then Silas turned to her, his gaze steady. "Now, Julia," he said, his voice soft, "tell me. What truly happened in your room last night? What is the matter?"
Julia looked at the swirling mist on the water, then back at him. Her words came haltingly at first, then rushed out, a torrent of fear and confusion. "I… I had another dream. A nightmare. Of Marian. At a church altar, wearing her wedding dress. And then… when I woke, Silas, I saw her. In the mirror." Her voice trembled. "My reflection, it was hers. And she was… she was begging me to let her out. To take her away from Blackwood Hall. She wants to go to London."
She clenched her hands, her voice breaking. "And then she was angry, Silas, calling me a coward for not running with her. I don't know what's real anymore. I think I'm slipping, Silas. Into her skin, her mind, her madness." She buried her face in her hands. "I'm so afraid."
Silas listened with his whole body, his attention rapt, unwavering. He didn't interrupt, didn't offer facile reassurances. He simply walked beside her, his presence a steady anchor in the swirling mists of her fear. When she finished, the silence stretched, heavy with the weight of her confession.
"Julia," he began, his voice low, "I believe in hauntings, yes. This house is riddled with them, spectral echoes of lives lived and lost." He paused, his gaze fixed on the swirling river. "But I also believe in inheritance. Not just of property, but of burdens. Of expectations." He stopped at a crumbling gravestone, half-hidden by ivy, carved with the ancient Blackwood sigils. "Like this."
Julia lingered, drawn by an invisible force. She ran her fingers over the faded name etched in stone: LORD THOMAS BLACKWOOD, 1764. The grave was split down the middle, a jagged fissure bisecting the name, as if something beneath it wanted desperately to break free. A shiver ran down her spine.
"This is old," Julia whispered, her fingers tracing the rough stone. "The first Lord Blackwood. Silas, what does this have to do with anything?"
"Everything, perhaps," Silas replied, his eyes scanning the fractured stone. "They say he lost his bride the night they wed. She either fell down the steps or ran away. The truth, as always, is somewhere in between." He glanced at her, a knowing glint in his eyes. "And curses, Julia, are just stories. Stories passed down through generations, made real only by belief. By allowing them to take root in your mind, to dictate your fate."
---
Back at the Hall, Alistair sat alone in the opulent drawing room. A roaring fire consumed the logs in the hearth, casting flickering shadows on his brooding face. He stared into the flames as if they might confess something, reveal a truth only he could decipher. He was thinking, plotting, his mind a labyrinth of schemes. Silas had to be dealt with. Permanently.
Just as a particularly ingenious idea solidified in his mind, a soft knock came at the door. "Enter," he commanded, his voice betraying none of the dark thoughts swirling within him.
It was William, the young footman, looking nervous and sweating slightly. He was Callum's replacement, a boy Alistair had personally selected because Callum had seen too much, questioned too much, even in his silence. William, on the other hand, was easily malleable.
"My lord," William began, fidgeting. "I… I followed them. Miss Harrow and Mr. Corwin."
Alistair's eyes narrowed, a flicker of cold anger. "Followed them where, William? Finch informed me they were in the library. I saw them enter myself."
William swallowed hard. "They… they went through the hidden door, my lord. The one behind the bookshelves. They walked by the river, and then… to the ruins. The old church."
Alistair's hand clenched around the armrest of his chair, his knuckles turning white. Finch had lied. Finch, his loyal, unwavering butler. The betrayal stung, sharper than any cut. But he wouldn't address it now. There were more pressing matters.
"And what did you hear, William?" Alistair asked, his voice calm, almost dangerously so. "Be precise."
"They spoke of dreams, my lord," William stammered, relishing in the perceived importance of his information. "Miss Harrow said she saw Lady Marian in the mirror, begging to be let out. And that she thought she was losing her mind, slipping into her madness. Mr. Corwin… he was consoling her. He said curses were just stories. And they talked about… about Lord Thomas Blackwood's grave. The one that's split. They seemed… very close, my lord. Closer than before."
Alistair's gaze, fever-bright, was fixed on William. He gave the boy a thin, almost imperceptible smile that didn't reach his eyes. "Thank you, William," he said, pulling a handful of coins from his pocket and pressing them into the boy's palm. "You have proven most diligent."
Once William had scurried away, Alistair rose, his movements deliberate. He strode to the bell pull, yanking it with violent force. "Finch!" he bellowed, his voice carrying clearly through the silent hall.
Finch appeared, his rigid posture unyielding. "My lord?" he asked, his voice neutral.
Alistair walked slowly towards him, his eyes never leaving Finch's. He stopped directly in front of him, the air crackling with unspoken tension. Then, with a sudden, swift movement, he slapped Finch across the face. The sharp crack echoed in the silence of the drawing room.
Finch didn't flinch, didn't utter a sound, though a red mark bloomed instantly on his pale cheek. His gaze remained steady, fixed on Alistair.
"That, Finch," Alistair said, his voice a low, chilling whisper, "is the first and last time you will lie to me about Miss Harrow's whereabouts. Or I swear to God, I will flay you alive. Do you understand?"
Finch's voice was devoid of emotion. "Yes, my lord. I apologize. It will not happen again."
Alistair's smile returned, calm, almost cheerful, as if the preceding moment had never occurred. "Good. Now, Finch, be a good fellow and ready the east wing."
Finch blinked, a rare flicker of surprise crossing his face. "The east wing, my lord? It has been locked since Lady Marian's passing."
"Indeed, Finch," Alistair replied, a cold gleam in his eyes. "And now it is to be opened. Employ workers immediately. I want it renovated. Habitable. Comfortable, even. Understood?"
"Understood, my lord," Finch replied, bowing stiffly before turning to carry out the unexpected command.
---
Julia returned to her room as dusk settled over Blackwood Hall, a warmth spreading through her chest that had nothing to do with the fading light. She found herself replaying the day's events: Silas's steadying presence, his soft touch, his reassuring words by the river. A soft smile touched her lips. She liked him more and more with each passing hour.
She took off her charcoal dress, letting it fall in a heap to the floor, and stepped into the large, claw-footed bathtub. The warm water enveloped her, easing the lingering tension from her muscles. She closed her eyes, and an illicit thought, unbidden, bloomed in her mind: Silas, with her, in the bath, his hands touching her skin. A flush spread over her, and she chided herself, a small, embarrassed laugh escaping her lips. Good heavens, Julia, what are you thinking?
She finished her bath quickly, dressed in her nightclothes, and padded towards her bed, feeling a strange mix of contentment and unease. As she reached for the covers, her hand brushed against something crisp beneath her pillow. She pulled it out.
It was a folded piece of paper. The handwriting was hers—neat, looping, undeniably her own. But she knew, with a sickening lurch in her stomach, that she hadn't written it.
Stop digging. Or you'll join her.