The dawn brought little relief. Julia's head still throbbed, a dull, insistent ache that refused to recede. The cut on her palm, a stark red line against her pale skin, was a constant reminder of Marian's dream-warning. Don't trust the dead man's hands. The words echoed in her mind, intertwining with the image of Alistair's gloved hand on her door, his voice murmuring, "You are not alone here, Julia."
She had eventually fallen into a fitful sleep, her dreams haunted by distorted reflections and the chilling sound of Marian's broken voice. The silence that followed Alistair's departure had felt less like peace and more like a predator's patient wait. She bandaged her hand herself, clumsily, avoiding the shattered mirror shard on the blanket.
The grey light seeping through the heavy curtains offered no comfort. It simply highlighted the dust motes dancing in the air, the oppressive weight of the forgotten room. Every creak of the floorboards, every distant draft, seemed to whisper of unseen eyes.
She felt them. Even in the pale morning, she felt watched. Not just by the house, but by something more tangible. A sense of expectation.
A soft rap, firmer than Mrs. Keene's, interrupted her thoughts. Before she could speak, the door opened.
It was Mr. Finch. He stood in the doorway, his gaunt frame silhouetted against the slightly brighter hall. His dark eyes swept over her room, assessing, missing nothing. He held a silver tray with a teapot and a single cup.
"Good morning, Miss Harrow," he said, his voice as devoid of warmth as ever, yet with a subtle undercurrent she couldn't quite place. He carried himself with that unyielding posture, his movements silent as ever.
Julia sat up straighter, pulling the blanket higher to conceal her bandaged hand. "Good morning, Mr. Finch," she replied, trying to sound composed. "You needn't trouble yourself with tea."
He ignored her protest, stepping into the room. He placed the tray on the small table beside her bed, his gloved hands precise, unhurried. He poured the tea, the gentle clink of china the only sound in the quiet room.
"The master instructs that you must begin your day with nourishment," he stated, his gaze briefly flicking to her, before returning to the teapot. "Especially after… a restless night."
Julia's heart gave a small lurch. Did he know she had screamed? Had Alistair told him? Or was it merely a butler's observation of late rising? She chose her words carefully. "Indeed, the house can be… active at night."
Finch paused, his gaze settling on her face. For a fleeting moment, his dark eyes seemed to hold a flicker of something akin to concern, or perhaps just weary knowledge. "Some things, Miss Harrow, are best left alone. And some sounds are best ignored."
It was the same line he had given her after the footsteps. A warning. But what did he know? And why did he never explain?
Julia took a deep breath, emboldened by the carved bird in her pocket and Marian's chilling dream-warning. "Mr. Finch," she began, her voice firm. "Last night, I was near the East Wing staircase. I heard… something. And then a thud from behind the locked door. Who is up there?"
Finch straightened fully, his gaze unwavering. His eyes held a chilling stillness. "The East Wing is closed, Miss Harrow. It has been closed for many years. Sealed, by the master's orders, after the… tragedy."
"Tragedy?" Julia pressed. "What happened?"
He remained impassive. "That is not for me to say. The master's wishes are absolute." He picked up the teapot, his gloved hand steady. "No one resides there. No one is permitted to enter."
His eyes dropped, just for a split second, to her bandaged palm. He said nothing about it. Not a word. But the fleeting glance, the unspoken acknowledgement, was more unsettling than any direct question. Did he know? Did he suspect how she got the cut? Was he aware of Marian's presence?
Julia felt a prickle of unease creep up her spine. He might appear cold and detached, but Finch missed nothing. She knew he was loyal to the Blackwood family, to its secrets. But a part of her wondered if there was something else, a hidden layer to his stoicism. He was a red herring, she reminded herself. But a very unsettling one.
As he turned to leave, he paused at the door, looking back at her over his shoulder. "There are many things in this house, Miss Harrow, that do not wish to be disturbed. It would be… prudent to respect their silence."
Then he was gone, his footsteps swallowed by the vast silence of the hall. Julia was left with the cooling tea, the dull ache in her hand, and the certainty that even in daylight, she was under constant scrutiny. The very air seemed to hold a thousand unseen eyes.
Later that morning, Julia tried to focus on the catalogue in Marian's study. But the shattered mirror in the corner seemed to mock her efforts, its fractured surface a constant reminder of the night's terror. Her hand throbbed, a dull, persistent reminder of the mirror's power.
She was attempting to decipher Marian's cryptic notes about a lost manuscript when Alistair entered. He moved into the study with his usual languid grace, but today, there was a subtle difference. He seemed… tired. A faint shadow beneath his captivating blue eyes, a slight slump to his shoulders. He didn't wear his gloves today, and the faint scar on his wrist was visible, a thin white line against his tanned skin.
"Julia," he said, his voice softer than usual, lacking its usual practiced charm. He walked towards the fireplace, gazing into the cold grate. "I trust you slept better after our little disturbance last night?"
Julia's gaze darted to his ungloved hands, then to the thin scar. "I slept," she said carefully, not quite answering. "And you? You seemed concerned."
He sighed, a genuine sound of weariness. "Blackwood Hall has a way of… unsettling even its oldest inhabitants. Forgive me for intruding earlier. I heard a cry." He turned from the fireplace, his gaze meeting hers. His eyes, usually so piercing, seemed clouded with a genuine fatigue. "It has been a trying time."
He paused, his gaze sweeping over the catalogue on the desk. "You've made progress with the inventory, I see."
"I'm trying," Julia replied, her fingers tightening around the pen. She felt a strange pull towards him, a mixture of apprehension and something that felt almost like sympathy. This was a different Alistair. More human. More… approachable. This was the part of him, she realized, that could be so dangerously attractive.
"I'm still trying to understand Marian's system," she continued, pressing for answers, even though she knew he often evaded them. "There are so many gaps. And speaking of which… you mentioned her illness was sudden. A fever."
Alistair's features tightened almost imperceptibly. He walked over to a bookshelf, running a finger along the spines. "It was swift, yes. Unmerciful." His voice was low, almost a whisper. "But… she had been changing for some weeks before that."
Julia leaned forward. "Changing? How so?"
He picked a book from the shelf, turning it over in his gloved hands. He often wore gloves. But not today. He looked up at her, a wistful expression on his face. "She became… withdrawn. Restless. Sometimes, I would find her pacing the upper halls at night. Or staring out windows, speaking to herself." He shook his head slowly. "Her mind seemed to wander. She was… not herself."
He was implying Marian had been unstable. Unraveling. Was this how he explained her terror, her warnings? Was this a red herring, designed to make Julia question Marian's sanity, and thus any warnings she received?
"Was that why the East Wing was closed?" Julia asked, seizing the opportunity. She remembered Callum's fearful gesture, Finch's cryptic warnings.
Alistair's jaw visibly clenched. The weariness in his eyes hardened into something cold and unyielding. His posture straightened, the languid grace replaced by a rigid tension. "The East Wing is not meant for guests, Julia. It is a private area. A forgotten part of the house." His voice dropped, becoming a low, resonant murmur. "It is best left undisturbed. The house remembers too much."
His eyes bore into hers, and the charm, the weariness, seemed to vanish, replaced by a chilling resolve. The house remembers too much. Was he speaking of the house's history? Or Marian's descent into madness? Or something else entirely?
He took a step towards her, then another, closing the distance between them. Julia felt a familiar jolt of fear, but also that unnerving magnetic pull. He was dangerously close. His ungloved hands, which Marian had warned her against, hung at his sides.
"Perhaps we should speak of more pleasant things," Alistair said, his voice suddenly soft, persuasive again. He reached out, his hand hovering for a moment, as if to touch her face, then dropped to the desk, resting near her bandaged hand. His touch didn't connect, but the proximity was unnerving. "You look tired, my dear. This house drains one, doesn't it?"
He offered her a faint, sympathetic smile. It was a practiced gesture, yet somehow, it felt disarmingly genuine. Julia felt a tremor run through her. He was so handsome, so charming, so capable of seeming utterly sincere. It was easy to see how someone could be drawn to him, how they could overlook the hints of darkness for the captivating light he could project.
But Marian's voice echoed in her head. Don't trust the dead man's hands. His hands were not gloved now. Were they the ones Marian warned her about?