Breakfast ended swiftly, Julian followed Mrs. Dalloway closely. I excused myself, pretending I needed to handle paperwork, but really, I wanted some time alone in the house to listen for the little things that loud noises wouldn't reveal.
Hallways hold memories. Hartwell had quiet secrets, especially in the west wing where my father kept forbidden books. I walked quietly, my heels making hardly any sound, glancing at the portraits that seemed to frown more than usual. The servants behind me walked quietly too, they belonged to a world where nothing surprising happened.
I reached the dressing room door and hesitated. Mrs. Dalloway said it was off-limits because of moths and danger. Officially, it was forbidden, but unofficially, doors marked off-limits often hide the most interesting things. My thumb reach over the brass knob. Breaking rules feels exciting.
A noise to my left made me turn around, Sebastian was closing a drawer in the library with quiet, careful movements. He looked up, his face neutral until he recognized me.
"Miss Hartwell," he said, without any flair. Just calm, which was irritating because it worked well. "I didn't mean to startle you, what are you doing in here?, didn't Mrs. Dalloway said not to go near in dressing room?."
"Do you now lurk in libraries?" I asked, trying to sound playful but feeling suspicious. "Are you cataloging secrets on your days off?"
He managed a smile that didn't reach his eyes. "Only the interesting ones." He closed the drawer with finality. "Your father kept many important papers here." He nodded toward the shelf. "If you need anything, I can help."
"Help." The word felt like a trap.
I crossed my arms. "What exactly are you helping with? My tea preferences or my existential crises?"
"Both," he replied. "But mostly practical matters, meetings, correspondence, and making sure you don't sign anything that will end up in the tabloids." He leaned against the bookcase, creating a moment of quiet between us. "There's also the matter of your father's final instructions."
My heart skipped a beat. "You know about those?"
He shrugged. "Only that they were worded very clearly. A gentleman left a list, and I'm good at following lists." His tone remained casual, but the implication was serious.
"Who put you in charge of this list?" I asked, curious.
"For now?" Sebastian's steady gaze met mine. "You could say the estate's executors suggested someone familiar with Hartwell logistics. I accepted because it involved my presence, and presence can be useful." He paused, then continued, "And because I owe a favor."
To whom did he owe this favor? I pushed that thought aside for later. "A favor to whom?" I asked.
He folded his hands. "That's a story for another cup of tea. Or maybe for when you stop looking at off-limits doors." He nodded toward the dressing room, challenging me to act on my curiosity.
Of course, I would act. Hadn't I always struggled to resist temptation? The knob turned easily. The dressing room smelled of cedar and old silk. Robes hung over a chair. On the dressing table was an envelope with the Hartwell crest, heavy paper with my father's unmistakable handwriting. For Aurelia, when you return.
I carefully opened the flap.
Inside was a single page, a sentence in my father's familiar, firm handwriting.
Auri — If you are reading this, do not take anything at face value. Some gifts wear suits. Some favors wear smiles. Trust the ledger, not the lips. F.
No explanation. Just an initial that brought back old memories. My mouth felt dry.
"He left notes?" I said aloud, more to the room than to Sebastian.
"He left instructions and conditions," he answered. "Some were practical, some… strange." He look at the page closely. "He insisted on certain oversight and listed specific names." He paused, then added, "I know one of those names."
I thought about who could be named, who had motives, and who benefitted from my distraction. Having Sebastian in my house felt less like a coincidence and more like part of a plan.
"Why did he name you?" I asked directly. "If he wanted oversight, many lawyers could have done it. Why an actor in a suit?"
Sebastian's expression softened, as if he had answered this question many times before.
"Because your father valued usefulness more than status," he said softly. "And sometimes, favors come due in unexpected ways." He paused, then pulled out an envelope from his jacket. "He once helped my family. I accepted his help because I promised to repay him with my presence."
"Presence." The word felt intentional. "A favor," I repeated. "To him. To your family. That explains the feelings and the promises, but not why he would want you at my table."
Sebastian's mouth twisted into what looked like regret. "Maybe he thought a familiar face would keep you honest. Or he wanted someone who could see what numbers couldn't. Men who focus on ledgers often overlook the small details."
I wanted to ask more who did he owe, what had been paid, but a small, hard object shifted under the folded page in his hand. Before I could reach for it, he laid it on the table in front of me, so it rested at my fingertips.
It was a single photograph. Two figures stood under a gaslight, my father, young and unguarded, and a man I never expected to see in my family albums. Sebastian, not as a butler or with a smirk, but as something else entirely. The date on the back was five years before Sebastian first spoke my name.
My throat tightened. The paper felt warm, as if it had waited to reveal a new truth to me.
"What is this?" I asked, though I suspected I already knew.
Sebastian held my gaze. "The start of a story you never heard," he said. "And the reason this house will not let you go easily."
Outside, the hedges rustled, as if someone, or something, had moved through the darkness.