The perfume was a ghost.
It clung to the air in Julia's room, a suffocating, sweet shroud of lavender and vetiver. Panic, cold and sharp, seized her. She scrambled from her bed, her bare feet hitting the cold floorboards as she rushed to the door, rattling the handle. Locked. She flew to the window, her trembling fingers confirming the latch was secure.
There was no source. No explanation.
Her breath came in ragged, shallow gasps. Was this it? Was this the beginning of the end? The Harrow affliction her aunt—her *mother*—spoke of with such grim certainty. A madness of the senses. A mind turning on itself. Alistair's words about her needing protection, about the clause in the will, echoed in her head, no longer a manipulative threat but a terrifying prophecy.
She backed away from the window, pressing herself into the corner of the room, wrapping her arms around her knees. She squeezed her eyes shut, trying to will the scent away, trying to anchor herself in the tangible reality of the cold floor beneath her, the rough texture of her nightgown.
And as slowly as it had arrived, the ghostly fragrance began to recede. It did not vanish at once, but thinned, like smoke dissipating on the wind, until all that was left was the familiar, musty scent of old wood and cold stone. And Julia, trembling in the dark, questioning her own sanity.
Sleep did not come. She sat awake until the first weak, grey light of dawn seeped through the glass, a new day that promised no relief, only a continuation of the siege.
***
The house felt different in the morning. It was no longer just haunted; it was occupied. The air was thick with the invaders' presence—the scent of Howard's cigar smoke lingering in the hall, the sharp, artificial sweetness of Cordelia's perfume warring with the house's natural decay.
Alistair was gone. A maid, her face pale and nervous, mentioned he'd ridden out for London at dawn on an urgent matter. His absence created a vacuum, a void of authority that his stepfather, Howard, was all too eager to fill.
At breakfast, Howard sat in Alistair's chair at the head of the table, a smug king on a stolen throne. He loudly critiqued the bacon and demanded a different vintage of wine be brought up from the cellar for luncheon. The servants scurried to obey, their eyes downcast, their movements tight with fear and uncertainty.
Silas sat beside Julia, a silent, brooding statue. His presence was her only shield. He'd found her just after dawn, her face pale and drawn, and his questions had been soft, his concern a palpable warmth. She had not told him about the perfume. How could she? To speak it aloud would be to give it a reality she could not bear, to admit a crack in her own mind that he might see as weakness, that Alistair's family might see as an opportunity.
She needed to think, to find a moment of quiet away from the festering resentment of the family. After the miserable breakfast, she escaped to the conservatory. The air within the glasshouse was warm and humid, thick with the scent of damp earth and blooming orchids. It was usually a place of peace.
But peace was a luxury Blackwood Hall no longer afforded.
"A beautiful rose hiding amongst the thorns," a voice purred behind her. "Or perhaps, a beautiful ghost."
Julia turned. Lucien was leaning against the doorway, a half-empty glass of brandy swirling in his hand. It wasn't yet noon. His eyes, so like Alistair's in color but lacking their sharp intelligence, roamed over her with a look of lazy, theatrical appreciation. The flirtation was a performance, and not a very convincing one.
"I was seeking solitude, Lucien," she said, her tone cool.
"Solitude?" He laughed, a short, unhappy sound. "My dear Miss Harrow, there is no such thing in this house. There are only secrets and watchers." He pushed himself off the doorframe and sauntered toward her, his movements loose, unsteady. He stopped too close, his breath a foul mix of brandy and bitterness.
"You are very like her, you know," he murmured, his gaze unfocused, looking at her but seeing someone else. "Marian. The same dark hair. The same tragic eyes. It's no wonder my brother is so taken with you."
"I am nothing like my cousin," Julia said, stepping back, putting a display of ferns between them.
Lucien's smile was sad and unsettling. "Oh, but you are. You're the new thing he wants to put in the pretty cage. But the cage is old. And it remembers." He took a slow sip of his brandy.
"Don't mind us," he whispered, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial hush that chilled her to the bone. "We're all just trying on a part. We all wear Marian's skin here. Some of us just find it a better fit than others."
He gave her a strange, lopsided bow and then wandered away, leaving his cryptic poison hanging in the humid air. We all wear Marian's skin here. Was everyone in this house simply playing a role, using the memory of a dead woman as a mask? The thought was grotesque, and it clung to her as she fled the conservatory.
She needed to find Alistair. As much as she feared him, he was the master of this chaos, the only one who seemed to have answers, however twisted. But he was gone, and in his place, his family's rot was spreading.
Later, as she passed the main drawing-room, she heard voices from within. The door was slightly ajar. It was Vespera, Alistair's mother, and Alistair himself. He had returned. Julia pressed herself into the shadows of the hall, her heart beginning to pound.
Vespera's voice was not the ethereal, detached whisper Julia was used to. It was sharp, lucid, and cold with a frantic urgency.
"You must secure the estate, Alistair. This… chaos cannot be allowed to continue."
"The estate is secure," Alistair's voice replied, tight with controlled fury. "It is mine."
"It is yours until it is not!" Vespera hissed. "Howard sniffs around the deed records like a rat after cheese. He whispers with his lawyers. You are a widower with no heir. The line is vulnerable. You need a wife. You will make the girl your bride."
The words were like a slap. The girl. They were talking about her. Not as a person, but as a solution. A broodmare to secure a bloodline.
"A marriage would unite the Harrow fortune with this estate permanently," Vespera pressed, her voice hard. "It would silence any questions about the girl's inheritance. It is the only sensible move. You must do it."
Julia held her breath, waiting for Alistair's reply. Would he defend her? Would he dismiss his mother's cold, pragmatic scheming?
"I am handling the matter," was all he said, his voice a flat, unreadable wall of ice.
Julia recoiled from the door as if burned. She slipped away before they could hear her, her mind reeling. They were plotting her future as if she were a piece of land to be acquired. Alistair's story of his past, his moment of shared vulnerability—had it all been a lie? A strategic move in this cold, heartless game?
She retreated to the one place she felt she could think: the library. Its silence and rows of silent, sleeping books were a balm. She needed facts, not feelings. She needed something solid to hold onto in this house of mirrors.
But the library was not empty.
Howard was there, hunched over the large table in the center of the room. A massive, leather-bound volume lay open before him. Julia recognized it from her own research. It was the Blackwood deed register, the official record of the estate's holdings for the last three hundred years.
He hadn't heard her enter. She ducked behind a tall shelf, peering through a gap between the books. Howard was tracing a line on the yellowed parchment with a thick, blunt finger, his lips moving as he muttered to himself.
Julia strained to hear, her breath catching in her throat.
His words were a low, greedy rumble. "…the entail is weak here… but the Harrow clause…" He paused, a disgusting, self-satisfied chuckle escaping his lips. "It doesn't matter. It all comes to us in the end."
He leaned back in his chair, his voice gaining a triumphant clarity that carried across the silent room.
"Once she's insane or wed, it's ours."
The blood drained from Julia's face. The room seemed to tilt, the shelves of books swaying before her eyes. She. He meant her. The clause in the will was real. This was their plan. To have her married off to Alistair, or to have her declared mad. Either way, they won. They would get her inheritance. They would get it all.
A wave of nausea and terror washed over her. She stumbled back, away from the shelf, her hand flying to her mouth to stifle a gasp.
She had to get out.
She turned to flee, and her eyes caught her own reflection in the dark, wavy glass of one of the library's tall windows.
But it wasn't her face looking back.
For a single, heart-stopping second, the reflection was of a woman with lighter hair, her face pale, her eyes wide with a silent, pleading terror. A fine lace collar, not her own, was visible at her throat.
Marian.
Julia cried out, a small, choked sound, and staggered backward, tripping over a rug. She fell to the floor, her gaze still locked on the window. The reflection was hers again now—her own dark hair, her own white, terrified face.
From the table, Howard looked up, startled by the noise. "What in God's name?" he grumbled, getting to his feet.
As he moved toward her, his heavy footsteps echoing on the floorboards, Julia realized with a jolt of ice-cold clarity that the apparition had vanished the very instant he had risen. The timing was too perfect. Too precise.
Was she going mad? Or was something in this house—Marian's ghost itself—desperately trying to warn her?