The silence that followed Howard's smug declaration was a living thing. It filled the morning room, thick and suffocating, pressing in on Julia from all sides. She stood frozen in the doorway, a spectator to a play she never wished to see, its cast a collection of ghosts and predators who had taken over the stage.
Howard lowered his newspaper with a soft rustle, his eyes, small and porcine, fixing on her with amusement. "Won't you join us, my dear? It appears we are the only ones awake in this cavernous place."
Julia's feet felt like lead. To her left, Silas appeared in the hall behind her, his presence a sudden, solid warmth at her back. His gaze swept over the scene, his expression hardening into one of cold contempt. He understood immediately. The enemy was inside the gates.
"It seems you've made yourselves at home," Silas said, his voice deceptively mild, yet with an edge that cut through the room's cloying stillness.
Howard's smile tightened. "We are home, Mr. Corwin. A fact my stepson seems to conveniently forget."
"Alistair forgets nothing," a new voice clipped.
Alistair stood at the far end of the hall, emerging from the corridor that led to his study. He was immaculately dressed in a dark grey suit, not a single hair out of place. The raw fury of the previous night was gone, replaced by a terrifying, polished calm that was infinitely more menacing. His eyes were chips of ice. He looked not at his family, but at a terrified maid who was hovering nearby.
"Mary," he said, his voice quiet but carrying with absolute authority. "Set the dining room for breakfast. For seven." He paused, his gaze finally flicking to Julia. "Miss Harrow, Mr. Corwin. Will you join me?"
It wasn't a question. It was a summons. A drawing of battle lines.
Breakfast was a masterclass in psychological warfare.
Alistair took his seat at the head of the table, a king presiding over a court of vipers. He had placed Julia to his right and Silas to his left, a deliberate formation of allies that boxed him in, shielding him. The rest of the family arranged themselves down the long table, a tableau of resentment and greed.
Howard, at the opposite end, attempted to play the patriarch, loudly complimenting the silver as if he had chosen it himself. Alistair ignored him completely, his attention focused solely on pouring Julia a cup of coffee.
"I trust you slept, Miss Harrow," he said, his voice a low murmur meant only for her, a stark contrast to the simmering tension in the room.
"I did not," Julia confessed quietly, unable to lie.
His fingers brushed hers as he passed her the cup, the brief contact sending a strange jolt through her. "Nor did I," he admitted, his eyes holding hers for a fraction of a second too long. In them, she saw not anger, but a profound, bone-deep exhaustion.
"This kedgeree is rather bland," Cordelia announced loudly, pushing her plate away with a look of distaste. "Marian had a much better recipe. But then, everything was better when Marian was here, wasn't it, Alistair?" She smiled sweetly, the peacock-blue scarf still knotted at her throat.
Alistair didn't flinch. He took a slow sip of his coffee, his eyes fixed on his stepsister. "Marian," he said coolly, "had the good sense to despise you. It was one of her most charming qualities."
Cordelia's face paled, her mouth falling open slightly.
Lucien, who had been morosely nursing a glass of water, let out a nervous laugh. "Now, now! Let's all try to be civil. We're family! It's been far too long."
"Not long enough," Alistair replied without missing a beat, turning his attention back to his breakfast.
Vespera, seated next to Howard, ate nothing. She stared at the wall just behind Julia's head, her expression serene, her fork and knife untouched on her plate. She seemed to be listening to a conversation no one else could hear.
Julia felt a headache beginning to bloom behind her eyes, the familiar precursor to a migraine. The air was thick with unspoken history, with venom and bitterness. She risked a glance at Silas. He was watching the family with a hawk-like intensity, his jaw tight. He was not just a guest now; he was a sentry. He was here for her, and in that moment, she was profoundly grateful for his steady, silent presence.
The excruciating meal finally ended. Howard announced his intention to inspect the stables, while Lucien declared he needed a long walk to clear his head. Cordelia, with a final, withering glare at Alistair, swept from the room, Vespera trailing in her wake like a shadow.
The moment they were gone, the oppressive atmosphere lifted slightly.
"Who let them in?" Silas asked, his voice low and hard.
Alistair placed his napkin on the table, his movements precise. "A question I intend to have answered. The locks on this house are not simple things." His eyes were dark pools of suspicion. "Someone was careless. Or treacherous."
He stood, and his gaze fell upon Julia. The cold mask seemed to soften, just for a moment. "I require some air. Miss Harrow, would you care to join me?"
Silas stiffened beside her, but before he could object, Julia found herself nodding. Curiosity, a dangerous and persistent trait of hers, overruled caution. She wanted to understand the man who had trembled with rage last night and now sat like a stoic statue at the heart of the storm.
"I would, my lord."
Alistair led her not to the gardens, but up the grand staircase and down a long, quiet gallery lined with portraits of his ancestors. Their painted eyes, so much like his own, followed their progress. He didn't speak until they reached a set of large double doors at the very end of the wing.
He pushed them open, revealing a vast, dust-moted room. It was his private study. The air was thick with the scent of old books, beeswax, and something else… something heavy and sad. This was the room where his father had died. Silas's words echoed in her mind.
Alistair walked to the enormous window that overlooked the sprawling estate, the gardens giving way to rolling fields and dark woods. The view was breathtaking.
"Do you see that?" he asked, his voice quiet. He gestured to the world beyond the glass. "When they left me here, it was all decay. The east wing roof had collapsed. The fields were fallow, the tenants hadn't paid their rents in a year because there was no one to collect. The name Blackwood was a synonym for ruin and tragedy."
He turned from the window to face her, his back to the light. His face was in shadow, but she could hear the change in his voice, the raw edge of memory.
"My mother," he said, the word tasting like ash in his mouth, "took what was left of the gold and her new husband. She left me with the mortgages, the death duties, and the ghosts." He gave a short, bitter laugh that held no humour. "I was ten years old."
Julia's heart constricted. She pictured him, a small, lonely boy in this enormous, crumbling house, abandoned by everyone.
"What did you do?" she whispered.
His shadow moved closer. "I survived." He walked over to a massive oak desk that dominated the room. He ran a hand over its polished surface. "The first thing I did was dismiss the tutors. They were teaching me Latin and Greek. Useless. I found my father's ledgers in this desk. I locked myself in this room… in this very room… and I taught myself accountancy."
He looked at her then, and in the dim light, she saw it. Not just pride, but a burning, obsessive fire. This was his creation story.
"I taught myself crop rotation from almanacs in the library. I learned about engineering to repair the roof. I negotiated with the bankers myself. A boy of twelve, telling them how I would restore their investment." He smiled, a thin, sharp, and utterly mirthless expression. "They laughed at me. At first."
He moved around the desk, closing the distance between them until he stood only a few feet away. His intensity was a physical force, drawing her in.
"No one gave me this estate, Julia," he said, his voice dropping to a fierce, intimate whisper. "I bled for it. Every stone in that wall, every restored portrait in the gallery, every book on these shelves… I paid for it all. Not with my father's money—there was none. I paid for it with my own sweat. My own blood."
Here it was. A glimpse behind the curtain, a look at the raw, wounded heart of the man. It was a story of incredible strength, of sheer, indomitable will. But it was also a story of profound loneliness, of a wound so deep it had shaped his entire being. He hadn't just rebuilt a house; he had forged himself into its king, its protector, its prisoner.
She could see the boy he had been, standing in the shadow of the man. And for the first time, she felt a dangerous, unwelcome pang of empathy. It wasn't pity. It was a profound and unsettling understanding.
He saw the shift in her expression, and a flicker of something new entered his eyes. A raw, startling vulnerability. He had shown her his deepest wound. He had made her a keeper of his history, a history he had clearly never shared.
"They think they can take it," he murmured, his gaze possessive as it swept over her face. "They think they can walk back into my life, into my house, and claim a single piece of what I built from the ashes."
He took one more step, and the air between them crackled.
"They will learn."