The evening air had a bite to it, the kind that hinted at the coming turn of seasons. Nora pulled her shawl tighter around her shoulders as she stepped out onto the terrace of Greystone Manor, her gaze lingering on the distant line of trees where the willows bowed in silence. Something had shifted in the air, subtle but undeniable, like the first hairline crack in a porcelain vase.
She hadn't seen James in two days.
Not since Lydia's visit. Not since the words that now echoed relentlessly in her mind:
"You don't know what his family did. You weren't here."
Nora tried to dismiss it. She told herself it didn't matter, that the past was a web of half-truths and wounds no longer bleeding. But it did matter. It curled at the edge of her thoughts like smoke, threatening to suffocate the fragile peace she'd built.
That night, she couldn't sleep.
The manor creaked and sighed around her, an old body restless in its slumber. Nora found herself pacing the hallway outside her father's old study, a candle in hand, her fingers trailing along the wood-paneled walls. She hesitated at the door she'd avoided since arriving. Her father's sanctum. Locked, until today. Earlier that afternoon, Mrs. Calloway had quietly placed a rusted key in her palm and said only, "When you're ready."
Nora wasn't sure if she was. But her hand moved anyway.
The key turned with a reluctant click. The door groaned open.
Dust motes danced in the shaft of candlelight. The room smelled of old books, pipe smoke, and secrets. Papers were scattered across the desk, brittle with age. A glass of scotch, untouched, sat beside a leather-bound ledger.
She moved cautiously, as if disturbing something sacred. On the lower shelf, beneath rows of account books, her eyes caught a slip of parchment tucked behind a ledger marked Ashford. Her breath hitched. She pulled it free.
The letter was yellowed, edges curled. Her father's handwriting, harsh and precise.
"...James Ashford Sr. denied all allegations, though the proof was irrefutable. His presence near the Welling estate during the fire of '93 cannot be coincidence. The council is reluctant to act without public outcry. Until such time, discretion is essential..."
Nora's pulse pounded. The fire. She remembered stories of a mysterious blaze, one that had nearly destroyed the orchard and the eastern wing. No one had ever been held responsible.
But what did it mean? Why did her father keep this buried?
A sudden knock startled her. She turned, heart racing. Another knock—louder, urgent. She blew out the candle and stepped quietly into the hallway.
James stood on the other side of the door, his hands black with soot, his eyes scanning the manor's upper windows. When she opened the door, he looked surprised and relieved.
"You're awake," he said, then paused. "I thought I saw light."
"You did," she replied softly. "Is everything alright?"
"I…" He hesitated, clearly torn. "No. Not really."
Nora stepped aside. "Come in."
He entered cautiously, as if the manor might spit him out. His eyes didn't settle anywhere for long. She led him to the sitting room, where the fireplace glowed with embers. For a while, neither of them spoke.
Then James said, "There's something you should know."
Nora's throat tightened. "You first."
"No," he insisted gently. "Let me."
He rubbed a hand through his hair, leaving streaks of soot behind. "There are stories about my father. That he stole from your family. That he had a hand in the orchard fire. That he tried to take something he didn't earn."
Nora didn't breathe.
James continued, "I don't know what's true. My mother never spoke of it. And my father, well, he was a proud man. He wouldn't have admitted a thing if it killed him."
"I found something," she said quietly. "In my father's study."
He looked at her, wary. "What kind of something?"
"A letter. From the year of the fire. He believed your father was guilty. Said he had proof." She met his eyes. "But he never brought it to light. Never told me."
James sat back, the fire casting sharp lines across his jaw. "That sounds like your father."
The words were bitter, but not cruel.
"Why would your father do that?" Nora asked. "If it wasn't true?"
James shook his head slowly. "Maybe he didn't. Maybe someone needed a name. A reason. A scapegoat."
The silence that followed was jagged. Nora felt something fray inside her, the old safety net of certainty.
James rose and crossed to the mantle, staring into the embers. "I didn't come here to talk about that," he said finally. "I came because... I saw you walking near the willows yesterday. And you didn't look alright."
She blinked. "You were following me?"
"No," he said. "I was working near the creek. But I saw the way you stopped. Like something had hollowed you out."
Nora swallowed. "It's hard to be here. With all of it. The house. The memories. The weight."
He turned to her, his eyes dark and honest. "You don't have to carry it alone."
And there it was again that quiet strength in him. The stillness she found herself leaning toward without meaning to. But the letter still burned in her pocket.
"I want to believe you," she whispered. "But everything feels like it's wrapped in shadow."
James stepped closer. "Then let's bring it into the light."
The space between them shrank. The fire hissed low, but the air sparked with something far hotter, fear, need, memory.
He didn't touch her. He didn't need to. The distance hummed with what might happen if one of them moved.
Then a sound shattered the moment, glass breaking in the hallway. They both turned sharply.
"What was that?" Nora whispered.
James stepped ahead of her, protective instinct snapping into place. "Stay here."
She didn't.
They moved into the corridor cautiously. At the far end, near the old portrait of Nora's grandfather, a window stood ajar, its latch broken. A shattered vase lay beneath it, spilled across the floor.
James glanced outside, eyes narrowing. "There are footprints," he murmured.
"Someone was watching us," Nora said, her voice hoarse.
They didn't speak much after that.
James helped her bolt the window, then left with a promise to return in the morning. Nora lay awake long into the night, the broken letter folded beneath her pillow.
Something was unraveling. Something that had been buried long before she was born. And if she wasn't careful, it would take everything she was just beginning to love down with it.