The night refused to yield its grip on the manor. Even with the faint blush of dawn struggling against the windows, Blackthorn seemed carved out of shadow, as though the sun itself had no true dominion here.
Evelyn woke to the low groan of timbers shifting above her. The room smelled of damp stone and old roses, the cloying sweetness of decay lurking beneath their faded perfume. For a moment, she couldn't tell if she had dreamt the sound of whispers, or if they had indeed lingered at the edge of her sleep.
Her hand drifted to the candle on the bedside table, its wax having collapsed in upon itself during the night. She struck a match, and the flame flared, timid against the weight of gloom pressing in on her.
Then came a knock.
Three sharp raps upon her chamber door.
Her heart clenched. "Yes?" Her voice wavered more than she wished.
The door creaked open, revealing a maid she had not seen before—a girl with a pale, pinched face and eyes too large for their sockets. She carried a silver tray with tea and bread.
"Compliments of Lord Dorian," the maid whispered. Her voice rasped like dry leaves.
Evelyn frowned. "You're new here."
The girl's lips twitched but never formed a smile. "I came only last week." Her gaze flicked to the corners of the room as though something unseen might emerge from them at any moment. Then, leaning closer, she lowered her voice further. "Be careful when the bells toll, miss. That's when the house remembers."
Evelyn blinked, the words chilling her spine. "What do you mean by that?"
But the maid only bowed quickly, set down the tray, and slipped out without another word.
---
Later that morning, Evelyn wandered the east wing again, drawn against her better judgment. The corridor stretched endlessly, its wallpaper peeling like old parchment, its windows fogged with condensation though the air outside was crisp and dry.
She paused at a door half-hidden by heavy drapes. Unlike the others, it was bolted with iron latches. Dust clung thickly to the floor before it, yet the hinges gleamed faintly, as though recently touched.
A pull deep within her chest urged her forward, but before she could reach for the lock, a presence startled her.
"Miss Hartwell."
She spun. Lord Dorian Blackthorn stood a few paces away, his dark suit immaculate despite the gloom, his eyes unreadable pools of gray.
"You should not wander so far alone," he said, his voice low but commanding.
Evelyn drew her shawl tighter around her shoulders. "Forgive me. The house seems… to call me."
His gaze flicked, ever so briefly, toward the bolted door. Something flickered there—fear, anger, perhaps longing—but it vanished in an instant.
"That room is forbidden," he said, each word sharp as a blade.
Evelyn's breath caught. "Why? What lies beyond it?"
Dorian stepped closer, the faintest scent of smoke and cedar clinging to him. "There are things in Blackthorn that thrive on curiosity. Do not awaken them." His voice softened, almost tender, as he added: "I would not see you harmed."
The heat of his nearness warred with the cold terror his words instilled. Her heart thrummed in confusion, part dread, part something else—something reckless.
Before she could reply, the distant toll of the chapel bell resounded through the manor. Deep, sonorous, unearthly.
Dorian stiffened, his expression shuttering. "Go to your chamber. Now."
Evelyn hesitated. "Why?"
The air seemed to grow heavier, thick with an unseen weight. A faint echo whispered along the corridor walls, like voices rising in chorus, too faint to decipher.
Dorian's hand brushed her arm—urgent, burning through her sleeve. "Do not ask questions. Just obey."
Then, without another word, he strode away, his footsteps swallowed by the house's endless silence.
Evelyn stood trembling, the tolling bell still reverberating in her bones. She looked once more at the bolted door.
The iron latches seemed to hum faintly now, as though something within had heard her.
Something waiting.