Alistair's grip on her hand softened, then released. The sudden absence of his touch left Julia feeling strangely cold. He leaned back slightly in his chair, his elegant posture returning, the mask of the charming host firmly in place once more.
"Marian suffered greatly in her final weeks, Julia," he said, his voice low and composed. It carried a practiced sincerity. "The migraines, the fever… they often brought on vivid hallucinations. Distortions of reality." He paused, his gaze sweeping over her, a subtle suggestion in his eyes. "The mind can play cruel tricks when it is in distress."
Julia looked at her freshly bandaged hand, then back at his ungloved ones resting on the desk. He was so effortlessly charming, so solicitous. It was easy to be drawn into his orbit, to want to believe his comforting, logical lies. But Marian's desperate warning echoed in her mind. And the coldness that sometimes flickered in Alistair's piercing blue eyes, despite the warmth of his touch, reminded her of the darkness that lurked beneath his captivating facade.
"So you believe it was the illness?" Julia asked, her voice barely above a whisper. She wanted to press him, to see if she could break through his composure, but she also felt a strange reluctance. She was afraid of what she might find beneath that perfect veneer.
He sighed, a sound of weary resignation. "What else could it be, Julia? A fever, a sensitive constitution. The doctors were quite clear on that point." He offered her a faint, sympathetic smile, the kind meant to soothe and dismiss. "Blackwood Hall can be overwhelming to those who are… delicate. Marian was always a fragile bloom."
Julia found herself strangely disappointed by his answer. He had dismissed her terrifying experience as mere delirium, a trick of her mind. Yet, part of her, the part that craved normalcy and reassurance, found herself almost wanting to believe him. He was so convincing, so undeniably compelling.
"Perhaps," she murmured, though the word felt hollow. She looked at her bandaged hand. He had tended it with a surprising gentleness, and for a fleeting moment, she had felt a strange connection to him, a sense of being cared for. The contradiction was maddening.
Alistair rose smoothly, his attention already shifting. "Well, I trust you will take better care of yourself now, my dear. And perhaps avoid any more… startling dreams." He moved towards the door, his presence still filling the room. "If you require anything, do not hesitate to ring for Finch. He is always available."
With another brief, unreadable glance, he was gone, leaving Julia alone in the quiet study. The air still seemed to hum with his presence, his scent lingering. She stared at her bandaged hand, the cut a tangible reminder of a nightmare he had so effortlessly explained away. Was she truly losing her mind? Or was he simply that good at manipulating reality?
The afternoon felt heavy, laden with unspoken questions. Julia wandered the house, her mind a tumultuous storm of confusion and dread. The elegant rooms seemed to mock her unease, their polished surfaces reflecting a reality that felt increasingly distorted. She tried to return to her work, but her mind rebelled.
She found herself drawn back to the drawing room, the very place where she had first encountered Marian's unsettling portrait. The room was bathed in the muted afternoon light, the rich tapestries and antique furniture casting long, still shadows. It felt unchanged, as serene and quiet as it had been on her first day.
Julia walked straight to the wall where Marian's portrait usually hung. A gasp caught in her throat. The space was empty. The heavy gold frame was gone, leaving behind only a faint, lighter rectangle on the dark velvet wallpaper, a ghost where the painting used to be.
Her heart hammered against her ribs. It had been there just days ago. She had seen it. The one with the too-deep eyes, looking past her, and the missing earring. Now, nothing. It was simply… gone.
She ran her hand over the smooth wall, feeling the phantom presence of the painting. Why would it be removed? And without a word to her? She looked around the room, her eyes scanning every corner, every shadowed alcove. No one had mentioned it. No one acknowledged these subtle shifts, these vanishing items.
Her gaze snagged on something in a neglected corner, behind a heavy velvet curtain that seemed to have been hastily pulled aside. A loose canvas leaned against the wall, half-hidden in the gloom. It wasn't properly framed, simply stretched over a wooden stretcher.
Julia approached it, her footsteps muffled by the thick rug. As she drew closer, she saw that it was another portrait. Of Marian. This one seemed to be unfinished, the background sketched in, the colors not yet fully vibrant.
But what horrified Julia were the eyes. Marian's eyes, in this half-finished painting, were not just dark and deep. They were brutally crossed out with heavy, crude strokes of what looked like red paint. Two thick, angry lines bisected each pupil, like a violent X.
Julia stared, a cold knot forming in her stomach. Who would do this? And why? This was not a simple accident. This was an act of deliberate, destructive anger.
She looked around the silent room, a prickle of unease creeping up her spine. The silence felt heavier now, laden with secrets. She reached out, touching the canvas, her fingers hovering near the crossed-out eyes.
Then she noticed something on the floor, near the base of the canvas. A paintbrush. Its bristles were stiff and matted, crusted with the same dark red substance that marred Marian's eyes. It looked like dried paint. But its texture, its deep, unsettling hue, made Julia's stomach churn. It could almost be… blood.
Julia's fingers closed around the brush, her palm tingling even through the bandage. She slipped it into her pocket, the bristles feeling strangely cold against her thigh. The small things were wrong. Terribly, unsettlingly wrong. And no one in this house, it seemed, was willing to acknowledge them. She felt like she was walking through a waking nightmare, where reality itself was slowly unraveling, piece by agonizing piece.
Night fell, bringing with it the familiar, oppressive stillness of Blackwood Hall. Julia found herself restless, unable to settle. The image of the crossed-out eyes, the strange paintbrush, the missing portrait – it all swirled in her mind, a silent accusation. The headache had returned, a dull ache behind her eyes that seemed to amplify every whisper of the old house.
She found herself walking the shadowed hallways again, drawn by an irresistible pull. Her footsteps echoed softly on the runner carpet, the only sound in the vast quiet. She moved like a ghost through the familiar gloom, the ancestral portraits on the walls seeming to watch her with knowing, judging eyes.
She wasn't consciously heading anywhere, just wandering, her mind a whirlwind of theories and fears. But then, as she rounded the corner leading towards her own room, past the hidden staircase she knew led to the East Wing, she stopped dead.
The door to the East Wing. The one Finch had so firmly declared was sealed, closed by the master's orders after the "tragedy." The one Callum had pointed to with such terror.
It was ajar.
Just a crack. A sliver of darkness within the already darkened hall. A thin line of impossible blackness that promised silence and dust. A chill, sharp gust of air, carrying the familiar, cloying scent of old perfume, pushed through the gap, ruffling the heavy velvet of the wall hanging nearby.
Julia's heart hammered against her ribs. It couldn't be. It was always locked. She had assumed it was bolted, perhaps even bricked up. But it stood there, a silent invitation.
She hesitated, her breath catching in her throat. Every instinct screamed at her to turn back, to run, to ignore the chilling beckon. But the urge to know, to understand what lay beyond that forbidden threshold, was a relentless, burning need. Marian had warned her about the house, about the hands. Callum had pointed to this very wing.
The cold gust pushed again, more insistently this time, as if the very house itself was urging her forward. The door creaked on its ancient hinges, slowly, agonizingly, swinging wider.
Inside, there was only darkness. A profound, oppressive silence, broken only by the faint, mournful sigh of the wind. Dust motes danced in the faint sliver of moonlight that managed to pierce the gloom from an unseen window. It smelled of disuse, decay, and that unsettling, sweet perfume.
Julia took a deep, shaky breath. Her hand, where the cut from the mirror lay bandaged, trembled. This was it. The forbidden place. The heart of the mystery. She had to know.
Slowly, cautiously, she stepped forward. One foot, then the other, into the oppressive darkness of the East Wing. The air was colder here, thicker. She could feel the weight of centuries of unspoken secrets pressing down on her.
The moment her second foot crossed the threshold, a soft, deliberate groan echoed through the hall. The door creaked loudly behind her.
Then, with a soft, resonant click that reverberated through the silent wing, it swung shut.