Julia stumbled back towards the manor, her skin still burning with fever, but her mind buzzing, unsettled. Silas's coat felt heavy on her shoulders, smelling faintly of him. It was damp with frost, and her hands, still clutching the lapels, trembled—not just from the lingering cold, but from that electric moment in the greenhouse. That touch. The unexpected tenderness. The terrifying confusion it sparked inside her.
As she stepped into the echoing foyer, the warmth of the house felt almost oppressive. And there, as if summoned by some sixth sense, was Agnes Thorne. She stood by the grand staircase, her posture rigid, her severe face already set in disapproval.
Agnes's eyes, cold and sharp, raked over Julia. They lingered on the borrowed coat, then on Julia's flushed face. "You'll catch your death out there, Miss Julia," she murmured, her voice flat. It wasn't concern. It was an accusation. A quiet, knowing judgment.
Julia didn't answer. She couldn't. She just walked past, the last vestiges of melting frost from the garden trailing behind her like tiny, shimmering footprints of guilt on the polished marble. The air inside felt thicker, heavier than the cold outside, full of unsaid things.
---
That evening, the house felt strangely alive, yet hushed. A different kind of tension hung in the air. Mr. Finch brought her dinner, gliding into her room with unsettling politeness. He placed the tray on her small table without a single word, but his eyes, sharp and calculating, lingered a second too long as he straightened. She felt his gaze, cool and assessing, before he finally turned and left.
"Thank you, Finch," she murmured, even though he was already gone. His quiet scrutiny made her feel suddenly transparent.
A few minutes later, a softer knock. Elsie.
"Come in," Julia called, trying to sound normal.
Elsie entered, her eyes wide, her small hands twisting nervously. She looked even paler than usual.
"Elsie, come sit," Julia urged, patting the space beside her on the bed. "You look exhausted. Have you eaten?"
Elsie shook her head, wringing her hands. "Oh, no, Miss Harrow. I couldn't possibly. I just came to check on you."
"Nonsense," Julia insisted. "You look ready to drop. Please, sit. There's plenty here." She moved the tray, making ample space. Elsie had barely eaten lately, she was sure of it. And something was clearly wrong.
Elsie hesitated, then, with a deep, shaky breath, she finally sat on the edge of the bed. She picked up a piece of toast, but her hand trembled so much the silver fork clanged loudly against the china.
Julia watched her, a sharp pang of concern. "Elsie, what is it? Is something wrong?"
Elsie jumped, her eyes darting to the door, then back to Julia. She shook her head too quickly, almost violently. "No, Miss Harrow! Nothing. I'm just… tired. That's all." Her voice was tight, thin.
Julia wasn't convinced. Not at all. But the way Elsie's whole body stiffened, the way her eyes pleaded, made Julia hold back. Pressing her wouldn't help now. Not when she was clearly so afraid.
Throughout the rest of the evening, Alistair never appeared. She didn't see him at all after breakfast. Yet, she sensed him. A phantom presence. She felt his gaze on the stairs above, a faint, almost deliberate creak of wood as if he were pacing the upper landing, just outside her awareness.
Later, as darkness fell, she found the curtains in her room slightly drawn. Not fully closed, not open. Just… askew. As if someone had looked in earlier, perhaps while she was in the gardens, and forgotten to reset them. It had to be Elsie, surely? But then, why?
She told herself she was imagining it. Her fever, her exhaustion, the stress. But as she prepared for bed, her hands moved instinctively. She locked her door. The heavy click of the bolt echoed in the quiet room, a small, futile attempt at safety.
---
The next morning, the fever still clung to her, a dull throb behind her eyes. But the restlessness was gone, replaced by a quiet dread. Elsie came in, her usual pale self, helping her get ready for breakfast downstairs. Elsie still seemed off, subdued, her movements stiff. Julia worried, but kept her questions to herself. Elsie would speak when she was ready. If she was ready.
After she was dressed, Julia thanked Elsie, her voice soft. Elsie gave a small, almost imperceptible nod, avoiding her gaze, before leaving the room.
Julia went downstairs to the dining room. The long table, usually set for more, held only one place. Her place.
On the crisp white tablecloth, beside her plate, lay a delicate cream envelope. No name. No seal. Just sitting there. Her heart gave a curious flutter. What was this? Who was it from?
She picked it up, her fingers trembling slightly. It felt thick, important. She carefully tore it open.
Inside, a single line of terse ink. The handwriting was elegant, precise, almost surgical in its neatness. It read:
I have arranged a task to occupy your curious hands. The North Drawing Room. Noon.
No signature. But it reeked of Alistair. The words, the tone, the subtle command. Her 'curious hands.' He knew. He was trying to stop her, to distract her from Marian. This was his way of keeping her close, but busy.
The North Drawing Room. She hadn't even known there was another one. The only drawing room she knew, the one she'd been brought here to catalogue, was Marian's. Was this another one of his games? Another layer to Blackwood Hall's strange, suffocating power?
She ate her breakfast in silence. No Finch. No Agnes. Not even Silas. Where was he? She remembered his warm hand on her cheek, the dangerous pull she felt when their hands brushed. The confusion. She still didn't know what to make of it. Or him.
---
Before noon, Julia went back to her room, hoping for a moment of quiet before whatever Alistair had planned. She found Elsie tidying the hearth, her back turned, poking at the embers with the iron poker. Elsie moved slowly, deliberately, almost as if she knew Julia was there but didn't want to turn around.
"It wasn't always like this," Elsie murmured, her voice barely audible, still with her back to Julia. "Before… before she died." The poker angled strangely in the embers, left like an unfinished sentence.
Julia's heart stuttered. "What wasn't, Elsie?" she asked, her voice low, hushed. She took a step closer, desperate to understand. "What do you mean?"
Elsie didn't answer. She straightened, her back still to Julia, then placed the poker carefully in its stand. Without another word, without looking at Julia, she simply left the room, her footsteps quick and soft.
"Elsie! Wait!" Julia called out, but Elsie was already gone, disappearing into the vast silence of the hall.
Julia stood there, staring at the empty doorway, then at the strangely angled poker. It wasn't always like this. The words echoed in her mind, chilling her more than the lingering fever. What horrors had Marian endured? And what had Alistair done to Elsie? She had to know. She would confront Alistair about this. She had to.
At noon, guided by Elsie's nervous, whispered directions, Julia made her way to the North Drawing Room. Elsie had pointed down a long, rarely used corridor, its walls lined with forgotten portraits shrouded in dust sheets. The air grew colder as she went.
She pushed open the heavy, creaking door. The room was grand, but unused, filled with a dim, diffused light from tall, grimy windows. Dust motes danced in the sparse beams. And there, standing awkwardly near a large canvas wrapped in muslin, was Silas.
He looked up as she entered, his amber eyes widening in surprise. "Julia," he said, a faint smile touching his lips. "I thought I'd been forgotten."
"Silas?" she asked, surprised to see him. "What are you doing here?"
He gestured vaguely at the wrapped canvas. "I was told to wait for you. It seems we're to be colleagues."
Julia held up the cream envelope. "Then you got one of these too?"
He raised an eyebrow, a knowing glint in his eye. "Oh, no. My summons was less… poetic. More of a royal decree, actually. From Finch." He gave a dry chuckle. "I suppose I'm to be your assistant."
Julia felt a flicker of unexpected relief. At least she wouldn't be alone. "So it seems." She walked over to the wrapped canvas. "Did Alistair tell you what this 'task' is?"
"Only that it involves cataloguing the entire North Wing collection," Silas said, rolling his eyes. "A grand gesture, I assume, to keep our 'curious hands' away from other… more interesting pursuits."
Julia nodded, a wry smile forming on her lips. "Precisely. He practically wrote 'don't investigate my dead wife's room' on the envelope."
Silas chuckled, a low, warm sound that made the dusty room feel a little less grim. "He's subtle, our Lord Blackwood." He gestured to a stack of numbered tags and a quill pen on a nearby table. "So, where do we begin, Miss Harrow? This looks like a monumental waste of a perfectly good afternoon."
They began, a strange harmony settling between them. Julia, with her methodical approach, would unwrap a piece, carefully examining its style and subject. Silas, with his quick wit and sharp eye, would offer comments, sometimes insightful, sometimes purely for amusement.
"Ah, another pastoral scene," Silas sighed, unwrapping a painting of sheep. "One must wonder about the artistic sensibilities of a man who collects so many variations of farm animals."
Julia stifled a giggle. "Perhaps he's fond of their… peaceful nature."
"Or their unquestioning obedience," Silas murmured, his eyes holding hers for a moment, a knowing glance that made her heart skip.
They moved through the room, carefully cataloguing dusty portraits, forgotten landscapes, and unsettling still-lifes. Julia would read out the artist's name and approximate date, and Silas would scribble it down on the tag, often adding his own dry commentary.
"This one," Silas declared, holding up a small, dark painting of a stormy sea, "perfectly captures my mood before coffee." Julia laughed, a genuine, unrestrained sound that felt liberating in the hushed house.
Their movements became almost intuitive. Julia would instinctively turn a piece for Silas to see the back, or Silas would reach for a dust rag before she even thought to ask. There was a comfortable rhythm to it, a strange closeness that defied the lingering tension between them. It was easy, in a way nothing else at Blackwood Hall was.
They worked their way to a far corner, hidden behind a tall, dark cabinet. Silas pulled the cabinet away, revealing a space that seemed even dustier, more forgotten. And there, leaning against the wall, was another canvas, smaller than the others. It wasn't wrapped.
Julia reached for it, her fingers brushing the canvas. It was surprisingly light. She pulled it forward into the dim light.
It was a portrait. A girl.
Marian.
But not the Marian of the grand hall, not the woman of the tragic smile and haunted eyes. This Marian was younger. Much younger. Perhaps sixteen. Her dark hair was pulled back simply, a cascade of curls framing a face radiant with youth. She was smiling, truly smiling, a wide, unburdened grin that crinkled her eyes at the corners. She looked happy. Vibrantly alive.
The sight was unsettling. Deeply, profoundly unsettling. Marian had only met Alistair when she was nineteen. This portrait was clearly painted years before. So what was it doing here? How had it gotten here?
And then Julia saw it. The paint. It looked… wet. Not literally, but the colors were so fresh, so vibrant, almost glowing in the dim light. It looked recently painted. Too recently. Impossible.
Below the painting, barely visible on the lower right corner of the canvas, a single, elegant initial.
An "O."