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Chapter 5 - V - An Unexpected Invitation

Victor didn't move right away. He just watched me with that practiced calm of his, as if silence alone might pry me open. Then, with the faintest tilt of his head, he said, "I've heard of your work, Miss Montclair."

That glint again, like he was measuring the weight of each word before dropping it between us. "Word travels quickly when someone dabbles in the... less conventional arts."

My stomach lurched, though I forced a crooked smile. "Conventional is a matter of opinion. I consider myself very conventional. I read, I write, I drink tea. Sometimes I even pay my rent on time. Hardly the stuff of legend."

One dark brow arched. He clearly wasn't buying it.

Before I could spin another excuse, he raised a hand-neither sharp nor dramatic, just a quiet signal to let me know he wasn't interested in my deflections. "You needn't explain. I don't deal in rumors. Only facts."

"Oh good," I muttered. "Because I've heard a few rumors about you, too."

Something flickered in his eyes again, but it vanished quickly. He leaned back slightly, folding his hands with the composure of a man who could wait all night if he needed to. "I know what you're capable of, Masha. And more importantly, I know you're capable of more than this."

My pulse ticked up. "More than what?"

"This," he said simply, gesturing around the little hotel room like it was a stage set I'd stumbled into by accident. "Scraping by. Hiding. Pretending to be less than what you are."

Ouch. What on earth was he saying?

I narrowed my eyes, torn between bristling and laughing. "And what exactly am I, Mr. Darkstone? Pray tell, I'm excited to hear."

His faint smile returned, maddeningly unreadable. "A woman with choices. If she's willing to take them."

I took a deep breath, trying to steady my racing thoughts. "Show me the way, Victor."

A faint smile appeared at his lips, the kind that made me wonder if he practiced it in a mirror. With a flourish, he retrieved a card from his pocket. Its weird design of a serpent in a mirror gleamed in the lamplight as though it had been forged to impress nervous onlookers.

"I'd like to invite you to the Shadow Covenant," he said, each word weighted like a solemn vow. "Here is the address of our lodge. Come when you are ready, and we will begin your journey into the hidden realms of the highest science."

I accepted the card, half-expecting it to combust dramatically in my hands. Instead, it just sat there, harmless, though the emblem glinted ominously enough to make me wonder if it was enchanted or simply very well-polished.

"Uh, thank you," I said with what I hoped was an appropriately serious nod. Outwardly, I looked calm. Inwardly, my thoughts spiraled. The Shadow Covenant? That sounded less like a school and more like a particularly theatrical cult. Was I supposed to bring a black cloak and a candle to the first meeting?

Victor seemed satisfied with my response, his eyes lingering on mine as though he'd just entrusted me with a profound secret. "I would like you to join us, Masha. To study the hidden Art. It is no trivial pursuit - and rare is the student with promise such as yours. Take your time to decide; it is no light matter. Unfortunately, I cannot stay long. But I do hope we will speak again, soon."

He lingered at the threshold, his silhouette half-swallowed by the dim corridor beyond. "Do not rush your decision," he added, voice low but steady. "Once chosen, some paths are not so easily unwalked."

I gave him a nod, hoping it looked more confident than I felt. "I'll keep that in mind."

His gaze held mine for a moment longer, unreadable as always, then he inclined his head in a polite farewell and stepped into the hall. Within a few strides, he seemed to dissolve into the shadows, as though the dimness belonged to him.

The door clicked shut, and at last I allowed myself to lean back against it. The card remained in my hand, cool and stubbornly solid, a reminder that the conversation hadn't been some fevered imagining.

It felt both heavy and ridiculous, like holding the keys to a secret library, or the RSVP to a cult initiation ceremony. Excitement and doubt tangled inside me. I couldn't deny that his stories had stirred something in me, but the strange way he spoke about the Covenant made me wonder if I'd just signed up for a correspondence course in Dark and Mysterious Posturing.

I wasn't sure if I'd just invited myself into a grand adventure or signed up for an elaborate mistake. Either way, the thought of turning away now seemed impossible.

"Of course," I replied, smiling faintly, though my brain added: And if I'm not ready, will he still show up outside my door with another ominous speech?

Still, I couldn't bring myself to ignore the card. Whatever this was, it promised adventure. And adventure, even when it came wrapped in ominous emblems and cultish language, was hard to resist.

For a long moment, I just sat there, on the floor actually, turning the card over between my fingers. My mind was a storm of questions, but I knew better than to let myself spiral too far. If I did, I'd talk myself out of even leaving the hotel tomorrow.

"An academy... or a cult," I muttered, half-laughing, half-serious. Victor hadn't said enough for me to be sure. His sudden exit hadn't helped either. He'd made the offer, dropped a few strange statements, then slipped away like he was late for an appointment with the devil himself.

Still, the card felt heavy in my palm, as if it carried more than just ink and paper. A chance to learn. A chance to finally stop fumbling in the dark with what I could already do. A part of me felt that this wasn't about herbal medicine that I was studying for a long time.

I leaned back, staring at the ceiling. "Well, Masha, you've stepped into stranger things before. What's one more?"

The words sounded braver than I felt, but it was enough to quiet the buzzing in my chest. With a sigh, I set the card down on the table beside my bed. Outside, the moon slipped through the thin curtains, pale light washing the room in silver. I watched it for a while, then let my eyes close.

Tomorrow would sort itself out.

*****

The morning sun slanted across the rooftops, soft but sharp, as though reluctant to surrender the streets to another day of toil. It had been several days since Victor last visited me in my hotel room, and every hour since then had been filled with quiet preparation. Now, with the small card he had given me hidden in my palm, I stood at the roadside and raised a hand for a carriage.

The horses snorted as they pulled forward, their harnesses glinting. I climbed inside, and the wheels began their uneven rhythm over the cobblestones. The city fell away slowly, its cries and colors blurring past. Market stalls gave way to narrower lanes, then to quiet stretches of old stone walls half-swallowed by ivy. My hand traced the outline of the card through the fabric of my skirt, as though to reassure myself that it was still there.

Victor had spoken little of the Covenant, but I had turned over his words in my mind until they became something heavier than mere curiosity. If they truly studied the hidden sciences-herbs, energies, the forces beneath the surface of things-then perhaps I could learn more than any apothecary could offer. Perhaps I could heal, not with superstition but with knowledge. And yet I knew how quickly others condemned such practices as witchcraft. One had to step carefully.

Well, what's wrong with witchcraft? It's not like black magic anyway, as many people assumed.

I sat stiffly in the coach, the steady clatter of hooves doing little to calm the restless churn of my thoughts. The card in my pocket seemed to grow heavier with every turn of the wheels. When the driver had asked me for the address, I unfolded it only long enough to glimpse the faded lettering, then tucked it away again quickly, as though the words themselves might draw unwanted attention.

"Are you sure, miss?" the driver called back at last, slowing before a narrow, uneven road that strayed from the main street. His brows were knit in doubt. "Not much out there."

"Yes," I answered, sharper than I intended.

He didn't move at once, only gave me a long look through the gap in the carriage window before flicking the reins. The coach jolted forward, wheels crunching against gravel as we left the safer, busier roads behind.

The familiar bustle of Amberfield soon fell away. Houses grew sparse, then vanished altogether, giving way to a corridor of trees. Their branches interlaced above us, casting fractured shadows across the road. The air shifted as well-cooler, thinner-as though we were traveling farther from the city than the distance alone should allow. I drew my cloak tighter around me, though it did little to ease the creeping chill.

When the coach slowed again, I leaned forward. Before me rose a building I might have passed a hundred times without notice: plain walls, shuttered windows, a roof darkened with age. No spires, no grotesques, no flourish to proclaim its purpose.

I had expected something else-gothic arches, perhaps, or symbols carved brazenly into stone. But secrecy demands its own architecture. The more ordinary the walls, the more extraordinary what they concealed, I supposed.

We stopped before a tall iron gate, its black bars stark against the pale morning light. A lone man stood beyond it, his rigid stance casting a narrow shadow over the cobblestones.

The coach rattled to a halt, and the driver twisted round in his seat. "Here, miss? I thought you'd be bound for the market square, down by Wexley Street." His gloved hand gestured vaguely left, toward the busier part of town. He cleared his throat. "That's as far as I go."

I glanced down at the card in my hand, careful to show him only its back. Silentium. The letters seemed to hush even my thoughts as I read them. Sliding the card back into my pocket, I steadied my voice. "No, this is the place. I'm certain."

The man studied me a moment longer, his lips pressing into a tight line. "Not many take this road. Those who do... usually have kin or business inside. Best be on your guard, miss."

The warning pricked at me more than I cared to admit, but I forced a small smile. "I'll be fine."

His eyes flicked toward the manor again, troubled, as if he wished to say more but dared not. "You won't find another coach here," he added instead. "Best return to the crossing at Wexley if you need a ride again."

"I'll remember," I promised, though my words sounded thinner than I hoped.

I passed him the fare. He accepted the coins with a muttered thanks, yet his hand lingered as if reluctant to let go. Then, with a sharp flick of the reins, the horses lurched forward, eager to be away from the place. The coach rolled back down the road in haste, the sound of iron wheels soon swallowed by the stillness. I thought I heard him mutter something as he went, but the words were lost beneath the clatter of hooves.

Silence wrapped around me. For a moment I stood unmoving, the plain façade of the building looming over the grounds. Then I stepped down onto the cobbled path, the morning warmth brushing against my skin.

The path stretched before me, pale in the light, leading directly to the iron gate. The lone figure stationed there seemed carved from stone, his shadow stretching long across the ground. Each step I took echoed faintly against the stones, the rhythm of my approach betraying the unease I tried so carefully to hide.

The man gave me a courteous nod and a smile so forced it looked as though it had been stitched on. "Good morning, miss," he said, his tone perfectly polite yet oddly hollow. "How may I assist you?"

I held out the card, suddenly unsure of what else to do. "I was told to present this."

He took it with gloved hands, and I caught a faint trace of iron and tobacco clinging to his coat, as if he had stepped straight out of a cellar. His eyes, sharp and gray, lingered on me longer than was comfortable.

"And the word?" he asked.

The word. Yes. I remembered the faint script on the back. "Silentium."

Something in his expression loosened, though it was hardly warmth. He returned the card with a small bow, his movements quiet and deliberate, as though he'd been trained to stand guard at the gates of a crypt. "Very good. Please, go on in."

The iron gate groaned as it opened, its sound uncomfortably like a sigh dragged from the throat of something lifeless. I stepped through, and the air changed instantly.

From the road, the manor had loomed austere, almost suffocating in its silence. But within the walls, the grounds breathed with a strange, watchful calm. The path curled between hedges trimmed too perfectly to be innocent, lanterns burning with a dim amber glow that made the daylight feel strangely reluctant, as if it hadn't fully risen here. Somewhere water whispered from a hidden fountain, though the sound was more secretive than welcoming.

It was beautiful, yes, but in the way a portrait might be beautiful-lovely to look at, though you're certain the painted eyes are following you.

A sudden, dark thought tugged at me: what if Victor had lied? Was he tied to some criminal circle, luring me into trouble with polite words and polished charm? My intuition - strange, stubborn thing that it was - urged me to press forward. It had rarely failed me before. Maybe something good would come of this. Or maybe I'd end up in the papers.

The building loomed ahead, respectable rather than sinister. Its facade bore the weight of centuries, its stone walls etched with weather and quiet pride. A wrought-iron gate creaked as I pushed it open, revealing a small garden, neatly tended but too still, too quiet.

Inside, the air was cooler, touched with the faint sharpness of oil and old wood. The hall stretched long and solemn, its paneled walls glistening faintly in the glow of gas sconces. Their flames hissed softly, casting just enough light to show where not to stumble, and leaving the rest comfortably veiled in shadow. It didn't feel abandoned, nor exactly welcoming either, like a library that hadn't quite decided if you belonged in it.

I caught myself staring at the carvings along the walls. There were vines, stars, interlocking circles that might've been decoration, or symbols with meaning I wasn't meant to understand. I leaned closer, so absorbed in tracing their curves, that the sudden voice nearly made me jump out of my skin.

"Miss Montclair?"

A familiar tone broke the silence, warm yet edged with something unreadable.

I turned, startled, as a figure stepped from the wavering half-light. Victor Darkstone emerged with quiet assurance, the polished black of his coat catching the dim glow from a cluster of wall sconces, their gas flames hissing faintly. Shadows danced across the paneled walls, yet none seemed to touch him. His cravat was knotted with meticulous care, his hair smooth and immaculate, as though not even the restless air of the hall could disturb him. He seemed to belong utterly to this place, as if the very light conspired to reveal him.

"Victor," I breathed, a strange mix of relief and unease flooding me. "I didn't expect to see you here so soon. How did you—"

His lips curved into that rare, natural smile. Miraculous, really, since Victor usually wore expressions like armor. "You were lost in thought. That makes one blind to many things."

He stepped closer, his presence both comforting and... suspiciously soothing, like someone slipping something into my tea without asking.

"You stand within Thornecross Manor, my friend," he said. "It has been tied to the Covenant for longer than you might imagine. The Thornecross patriarch himself once served as one of its most trusted members, many, many years ago."

The weight of his words pressed against the walls themselves, as if the house was listening.

"Thornecross Manor," I repeated, quietly tasting the name on my tongue like a secret I was never meant to speak aloud.

Victor inclined his head, eyes gleaming as though he'd just dealt me a winning hand I didn't know I was playing. "And now, you are here. Come. There is no time to waste."

He turned, his polished shoes clicking softly against the ancient floor. Naturally, I followed, because what else does one do when dragged into a secret society's lair? Politely excuse oneself?

Still, a part of me wondered if stepping past that threshold had ever been my choice at all.

Oh, splendid. May the gods help me, for I clearly have no intention of helping myself.

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