Cassandra wasn't sure which was louder—the wind battering the windows, or her heartbeat—as she followed Julian down the long, dim hallway.
"Did you hear that? It was a female voice," Cassandra whispered.
"Yes."
"This place has vibes," she muttered, trailing him with reluctant steps.
"Vibes?" he asked over his shoulder.
"Yes. As in, haunted manor energy. Murder mystery starter pack. Definitely the kind of place where someone dies in Act One."
Julian stopped in front of a door she hadn't noticed before. It had a strange, ornate design—roses carved into the dark wood and a tarnished brass handle shaped like a lion's head. He turned it slowly.
"Wait," Cassandra said, grabbing his sleeve. "What if someone's actually in there?"
He looked down at her hand on his arm, then back up with a bemused smile. "Then they'll get a very awkward introduction."
He pushed the door open. Inside was… empty. Mostly. A room filled with covered furniture greeted them. Sheets draped over grand armchairs, an armoire, a mirror. Dust floated lazily in the beam of Julian's flashlight.
"Okay, that's a relief—but I'm still worried," Cassandra murmured.
"Don't worry, I'll protect you from ghosts." He made a mock sign of blessing and laughed.
"Cut the crap, that's not funny," Cassandra snapped.
"So sorry. I just wanted to make you laugh," he said, still chuckling.
A soft creak came from above. They both froze.
Julian turned the flashlight toward the ceiling and whispered, "Attic?"
Cassandra stepped back. "Okay, no. That's where the monster lives. You might not know that. And probably the murderers," she said, smiling nervously.
"Or maybe just Elise," Julian offered, though there was doubt in his voice now. "She's been here for years—the kind of woman who makes things appear before you ask. Maybe she heard we were coming."
"Then why not say hi? Why sneak around with tea and creepy ambiance?"
Before he could answer, another sound came from behind them. They spun around.
In the hallway stood an elderly woman in a gray dress, calm green eyes, and an apron—Elise, presumably—holding a basket of towels and staring at them with unreadable calm.
Cassandra jumped. "God, you scared me!"
"My apologies, Mrs. Ashford," Elise said, her voice low and smooth, like aged velvet. "Didn't mean to intrude."
Julian frowned. "Elise, when did you get in? I didn't think anyone was here yet."
"I arrived this morning," she replied. "The roads were still open then. I prepared the rooms as instructed."
"Instructed by who?" Cassandra asked.
Elise tilted her head and smiled faintly. "By your father, Mr. Ashford."
Julian stiffened. "That's impossible. He's in Hong Kong."
Elise didn't reply. Her expression never changed—just that gentle, unsettling smile. Then she added, almost too quietly, "The house has its own way of preparing for guests."
Cassandra blinked. "Okay. That's either poetic or terrifying."
"Maybe both," Julian said.
"Dinner will be served at seven," Elise continued. "In the old dining hall. Please… do not wander into the east wing. Some doors are best left shut."
"Wait," Cassandra asked, "was it you who said, 'The winter always takes what doesn't belong'?"
"Oh yes," Elise replied simply. "I was talking to myself."
She turned and walked away before either of them could respond.
Cassandra stared after her. "That was not reassuring."
Julian sighed. "You'll get used to her."
"I'd rather not."
---
Dinner was as awkward as expected.
The dining hall was massive, lit only by a roaring fire and a chandelier swaying gently above. A long table stretched across the room, but Elise had placed two seats close together at one end—as if intimacy could be staged with furniture.
Cassandra sat stiffly, watching Julian across the flickering candlelight.
"You're being weirdly quiet," she said.
"Just digesting the ambiance," he replied dryly. "And the fact that someone might be living in our attic."
She smirked. "If it's a monster, I hope it takes you first."
"How romantic."
"I said hope, not pray. Don't get excited."
Julian chuckled. "You know, I expected you to be more difficult."
Cassandra raised an eyebrow. "Oh? I'm failing at being a nightmare wife already?"
"Quite the opposite. You're far more entertaining than I anticipated."
She blinked. "You thought I'd be boring?"
"Unbearable, actually. I thought you'd be unbearable."
"Thank you?"
He met her eyes. "But you're not. You're sharp, funny, and you've only threatened to kill me twice."
"So far," she corrected—but her lips tugged into a reluctant smile.
They ate in silence for a while. Then the fire cracked louder than before, sending a shower of sparks into the hearth. The chandelier swayed again.
Julian looked up. "Did you feel that?"
Cassandra froze, eyes darting upward. "Was that… an earthquake?"
"In Vermont? Doubt it."
They both stood, instinctively moving toward each other as the chandelier creaked again. A soft thud echoed from upstairs. Followed by another. And another.
Footsteps. Slow. Pacing.
They looked up. And the footsteps stopped.
Cassandra exhaled slowly. "We're not sleeping tonight, are we?"
Julian shook his head. "Not unless we take shifts. Or get holy water."
"Do you believe in ghosts?"
"Didn't. Until I married one."
She glared, dead serious. "Funny. If I die, you'd better avenge me."
He raised a hand. "Scout's honor."
"Were you a scout?"
"God, no. But it sounded comforting."
They stood there a moment longer, the fire popping, shadows dancing across the walls.
Cassandra huffed a laugh despite herself and cleared her throat. "Goodnight, Julian."
"Follow me, I'll walk you back," he said.
They returned to Cassandra's room in silence, the mood dampened by the tea, the attic noises, and the cryptic housekeeper. Julian paused at the threshold.
"Well, goodnight then."
"You're not going to keep wandering?"
"Tempting, but no. I think I'll avoid the east wing out of sheer superstition."
He turned to go.
"Wait," Cassandra said suddenly.
Julian stopped. She didn't know why she said it. Maybe it was the storm. The house. The strange unease tightening her chest. "Just… don't get murdered tonight, okay?"
He smiled. It wasn't smug or sarcastic—just soft.
"I'll do my best," he said. Then lingered. "Right. See you in the morning."
"If we make it that far."
He smirked. "Now you're starting to sound like an Ashford."
Cassandra laughed softly—her first real laugh in months. When Julian turned and disappeared down the hall, she watched him go, her stomach unexpectedly warm.
She wasn't sure if it was the wine, the duck, or the first time she'd genuinely laughed in so long—but something was shifting.
She stood there for a moment, heart pounding—from the fear, the storm, or maybe from him. The wind howled through the windows.
The storm had only just begun.
And so had everything else.