The morning after the storm carried an unnatural stillness, as though the world itself were holding its breath. From the high windows of her chamber, Isabella watched the fog drift low over the moors, thick and restless, a pale sea rolling against the stone foundations of Thornfield. The house seemed to float above it, an island caught between earth and sky. She could not shake the feeling that something—or someone—was watching from within that mist.
The night had left her uneasy. Dreams plagued her sleep, though whether they were dreams or half-waking visions, she could not tell. Shadows stretched long across the walls, twisting into figures that beckoned with skeletal fingers. A voice—low, urgent, and utterly unfamiliar—had whispered her name in the dark. When she startled awake, the room had been silent, save for the pounding of her heart.
At breakfast, Lord Blackthorne was absent. His chair stood at the head of the long table like a throne abandoned. Isabella had hoped for his company, not merely to ease the gnawing tension of solitude, but to ask questions that haunted her thoughts—about the locked west wing, the torn fragment of lace, the portrait that stared so accusingly from the gallery. Instead, she was left with Eleanor's stiff silences and the old butler's heavy tread as he served her a plate she could barely touch.
It was Eleanor who broke the quiet at last.
"You should not wander alone, Miss Sinclair," she said sharply, eyes fixed on her teacup. "The house… it is not kind to strangers."
"Not kind?" Isabella pressed, her voice sharper than she intended.
But Eleanor only rose, smoothed her skirts, and excused herself without further explanation.
The warning clung to Isabella long after the woman's departure. Not kind to strangers. The phrase gnawed at her thoughts as she left the dining hall, drawn not toward safety, but toward mystery. Perhaps it was folly. Perhaps she should obey, remain in her chambers like a good guest. But curiosity burned brighter than caution, and so her steps carried her down the north corridor, where tapestries of ancient battles lined the walls.
She paused before one in particular: a sprawling scene of knights clashing on horseback, lances lowered, banners streaming. The colors had faded with age, yet the detail was exquisite. One knight bore the crest of a raven, black wings spread wide across his shield. Isabella leaned closer, fingers grazing the frayed threads. It was then she noticed it—an irregularity. The tapestry hung just loose enough at one corner that a darker seam was visible behind it.
Her pulse quickened. She pulled gently, and the fabric gave way, revealing not cold stone but a narrow wooden door, half-hidden, as if meant to vanish into the wall. The latch was small, nearly invisible, yet it yielded under her touch with a reluctant creak.
Beyond lay a stairwell spiraling into darkness. The air that drifted up was cool, tinged with the faint scent of earth and something sharper, metallic, like rust—or blood.
Isabella hesitated. Every instinct warned her to retreat, to let the secret remain buried. But her hand clung to the latch, her breath caught in her throat. Before she could decide, a sound reached her ears: the faintest shuffle, as though someone—or something—moved below.
"Who's there?" she whispered.
The silence that followed was deafening. Then, a single knock echoed up the stairwell—slow, deliberate, and impossibly close.
Her courage faltered. She released the latch, letting the tapestry fall back into place, smothering the sound. Heart racing, she pressed her palm to the rough threads, as though she could bar the unseen presence from following.
A voice startled her.
"Miss Sinclair?"
She turned sharply. Lord Blackthorne stood at the far end of the corridor, half in shadow, his expression unreadable.
"I—I lost my way," she lied, her cheeks flushing.
His gaze lingered on her, searching, perhaps, for the truth she withheld. Then he closed the distance between them, his presence filling the corridor, heavy and magnetic.
"There are places in Thornfield where you should not tread," he said softly, almost gently. Yet beneath the words lay an edge of warning, like steel beneath velvet.
Isabella forced herself to meet his eyes. "Then tell me why. Tell me what you hide from me."
For a moment, silence reigned. His jaw tightened, and a storm flickered behind his dark gaze. When he finally spoke, his voice was low, hoarse with something she could not name.
"Some truths are more dangerous than lies, Isabella." He paused, and his tone shifted, quieter still. "But I would keep you safe from both."
Her heart twisted at the contradiction—the man who shielded her, yet barred her from answers. She longed to press him, to demand what secrets rotted within these walls. Yet the intensity of his stare silenced her, left her trembling not with fear, but with something perilously close to desire.
Before she could respond, a sudden crash echoed from the west wing—a violent shattering of glass. Isabella gasped, her gaze darting toward the sound.
Lord Blackthorne's expression hardened. Without a word, he strode past her, his long coat flaring behind him, vanishing into the forbidden corridor.
And though dread coiled in her chest, Isabella found her feet carrying her after him, into the very heart of Thornfield's secrets.