Alistair Blackwood remained by the chair, his gloved hand still resting on the dark wood. The drawing room felt vast and hollow around them, the weak light from the windows doing little to dispel the gloom. Julia stood facing him, the heavy mahogany table a fragile barrier between them. His grey eyes, sharp and assessing, held hers.
"Stories," Julia repeated, the word feeling inadequate for the weight of the events unfolding in Blackwood Hall. "Is that what this house is? A collection of unfinished stories?"
Alistair's smile faded, replaced by a thoughtful, almost mournful expression. It looked carefully crafted, like his impeccably tailored clothes. "Every old house holds echoes, Miss Harrow. Whispers of lives lived, of secrets kept. Blackwood Hall, perhaps, holds more than most." He lowered his hand from the chair, taking a slow step back. "Marian believed it, you know. That the house had a... memory."
Julia felt a chill that had nothing to do with the drafty room. Marian's shattered reflection, Mrs. Keene's fearful ramblings about a hungry house, the footsteps in the east wing... Marian believed it too.
"Did you believe her, Mr. Blackwood?" Julia asked, her voice quiet.
He turned and walked towards the large fireplace, its grate cold and empty. He stared into it for a moment before answering. "Marian had... fascinations. Interests others might find... peculiar. The occult. Superstition. Things I preferred not to dwell on." He turned back, leaning an arm on the mantelpiece. "She spent too much time in her study, surrounded by old books and... ideas. Perhaps they influenced her too much."
Julia thought of the study, the heavy velvet, the broken mirror. It had felt less like a place of quiet scholarship and more like a cage. "Her study is... unsettling," Julia admitted.
Alistair nodded slowly. "It was her sanctuary. And sometimes, her prison." He paused, his gaze returning to Julia. "Finch tells me you visited it. Found the catalogue."
He watched her reaction closely. Julia felt a flicker of irritation. Finch, the silent watchman, reported everything. "Yes," she said simply. "It's what I came here to do."
"And you've found it... illuminating?" Alistair prompted, his tone casual, but his eyes were anything but.
"It's incomplete," Julia stated. "Many items are missing or uncatalogued. And..." She hesitated. Should she mention the necklace? The music box room? No, not yet. Not to him. "And there are... inconsistencies."
Alistair pushed away from the fireplace, beginning to pace slowly across the rug. "Marian was sometimes... disorganized. Especially towards the end." His voice was low, almost confidential. "She had her difficulties. Her health wasn't always... robust."
Julia remembered Mrs. Keene mentioning Marian's "unraveling." Was this what Alistair meant? Illness? Or something else?
"Difficulties?" Julia prompted softly.
Alistair stopped his pacing, facing her again. He sighed, a sound that seemed just a little too theatrical. "A certain fragility of mind, Miss Harrow. Prone to... flights of fancy. Exaggeration." He ran a gloved hand through his dark hair, a gesture that seemed practiced, designed to convey weariness. "It made things... challenging."
Fragility of mind. Flights of fancy. Exaggeration. He was painting a picture of Marian as unstable, perhaps even mad. It was exactly the kind of narrative someone might weave to explain away unsettling events. Julia remembered Mrs. Keene's fear, the raw terror in the mirrored face. That hadn't felt like fancy.
"She seemed very... grounded in her work," Julia said carefully, choosing her words. "Very precise."
Alistair's faint smile returned. "A facade, perhaps? Marian was a talented woman, yes. But complex. Very complex." He took another step towards her, his voice dropping. "It takes a certain kind of strength, Miss Harrow, to live in a place like this. To carry its burdens." His gaze drifted over her face. "You seem... stronger than she was."
The compliment felt like a test, a veiled invitation. It also felt like a subtle dismissal of Marian's reality. Julia didn't respond, simply holding his gaze.
Alistair held her eyes for a long moment, the air thick with unspoken things. His charm was undeniable, a subtle current drawing her in, yet the coldness beneath it kept her rooted to the spot, wary. The grey light outside seemed to dim further, casting longer shadows in the vast room.
Finally, Alistair broke the silence. "Well, I mustn't keep you from your task." He took a step back, putting more distance between them, the moment of unsettling intimacy dissolving like smoke. "If you require anything at all, Miss Harrow, please do not hesitate to ask. Finch, Thorne... they are here to ensure your comfort." He paused, his eyes glinting faintly in the dim light. "We look after our guests. Especially those Marian held dear."
With a brief, formal nod, Alistair Blackwood turned and walked silently from the room, his figure quickly swallowed by the shadows of the hallway. Julia was left alone, the weight of his words settling upon her. Fragility of mind. Flights of fancy. Exaggeration. He was already beginning to build the narrative, the one where Marian was simply unstable, and the house was just an old, noisy building. But Julia had seen the face in the mirror. She had heard the footsteps. And she was beginning to feel the first insidious tendrils of Blackwood Hall's influence taking root within her.
* * *
The grey days blurred into one another, a monotonous cycle of cold light and oppressive silence. Julia tried to lose herself in the catalogue, in the dusty volumes in Marian's study, but the house resisted her efforts to find solace. It seemed to be waking up, responding to her presence, pressing in on her.
One afternoon, driven by a need for fresh air despite the damp chill, Julia ventured into the small, neglected garden behind the house. The air here was heavy with the scent of wet earth and decaying leaves. A single, gnarled rose bush still clung to a stone wall, its last, rain-battered blooms hanging like bruised jewels. As she passed it, she caught a faint whiff of old, sweet perfume, the same cloying scent she had smelled near the east wing stairs. It seemed impossible; the wind was blowing the other way. She shivered, pulling her shawl tighter.
Seeking shelter from a sudden gust of wind, she ducked back into the house through a side door. She found herself in a narrow, little-used corridor. Dusty tapestries hung on the walls, depicting faded hunting scenes. The air was stagnant and cold. As she passed a small, ornate table, her eye caught something half-hidden beneath a stack of old journals.
It was a book. A leather-bound volume, thick and heavy. It looked like the collection of Byron she knew was in Marian's study. But why was it here? Had she misplaced it?
Curiosity overriding caution, Julia picked it up. The leather was worn smooth with age. She carried it back to the relative warmth of her room, a small act of defiance against the house's secrets.
Later that evening, nestled in her armchair with a cup of weak tea, Julia opened the Byron volume. She flipped through the familiar poems, looking for any annotations Marian might have made. About halfway through, something slid out from between the pages and fluttered to the floor.
It was a folded piece of paper, thin and brittle with age. Julia picked it up, her fingers trembling slightly. It was folded in half, the crease sharp. She unfolded it carefully.
Marian's handwriting filled the page, though it was less precise than the catalogue entries, more hurried, the lines slightly shaky. It was a short note, just a few sentences.
My dearest J, the note began. The house feeds on silence. Don't let him convince you I was mad.
Julia stared at the words, her breath catching in her throat. Don't let him convince you I was mad. The words seemed directed at her, a warning echoing across the chasm of death. Who was "him"? Alistair? Or someone else?
The note was dated. October 24th.
October 24th. Marian had died three weeks later.
Julia's eyes scanned the note again. Near the signature, Marian's initial 'M', there were faded smears. Dark, almost reddish-brown. Teardrops? Or something darker? The thought sent a fresh wave of fear through her. Inked blood?
Her hands began to shake violently. She clutched the paper, the fragile warning crumpling slightly in her grip. Marian had known. She had known something was wrong. She had tried to warn someone.
The realization hit Julia with the force of a physical blow. This wasn't about Marian's mental state. This was about a threat. A deliberate attempt to silence her, to dismiss her fears as madness. And the person doing it was still here, in this house.