Chapter Two
The first night in the new house stretched long and sleepless. Rebecca unpacked only the essentials sheets, a laptop, a battered kettle and a new book about love she picked up at a gas station on the way into town, and left the rest in boxes. No amount of chamomile tea could settle the nervous energy thrumming through her veins. But she filled the kettle and set it on the stove to heat after a peak in the bathroom.
Rebecca decided she needed to shake off the unease clinging to her like a second skin. A bath would help, she told herself. Something ordinary. Something grounding.
The upstairs bathroom looked as though it had stepped out of another century. A clawfoot tub stood in the center, its porcelain still gleaming beneath the yellow glow of a frosted glass sconce. The tiles were white, patterned with tiny blue flowers faded by age. On the shelf above the pedestal sink sat a glass jar of cotton balls, perfectly white, untouched. A bar of lavender soap rested in a dish by the tub, softened with use, but not crumbled as though someone had set it down only yesterday.
Rebecca turned the brass knobs, wincing as the pipes groaned, and hot water spilled into the tub, sending curls of steam into the air. She slipped out of her clothes and lowered herself slowly into the warmth.
For the first time all day, her muscles loosened. She leaned back, closing her eyes, letting the heat soak away the tension. The scent of lavender rose from the soap dish, familiar but unsettling.
The mirror above the sink caught the steam, clouding over. Yet in the haze, she thought she saw movement a darker shadow crossing behind her reflection. Her pulse quickened. She turned her head sharply. Nothing. Just the lace curtain stirring faintly at the open window.
She forced herself to lie back again, heart thudding. You're tired. It's nerves. Nothing more.
Every creak of the old floorboards, every whisper of wind against the shutters kept her on edge. New house and every shadow seemed to be watching her.
The front bedroom was larger than she expected, its ceiling high enough that the shadows seemed to linger in the corners. A heavy four-poster bed dominated the room, its dark wood polished to a muted sheen. Each post rose like a sentinel, carved with twisting vines that coiled upward, ending in ornate finials that caught the moonlight seeping through lace curtains.
The bed itself was neatly made, the quilt folded with military precision at the foot. Rebecca hesitated before touching it; the sheets were crisp and smelled faintly of lavender and cedar, scents that belonged to someone else's life. The pillows were plump, waiting, as though expecting a familiar weight to return.
Rebecca woke with a start, heart pounding, though she couldn't remember why. The room was drenched in moonlight, silver spilling through the lace curtains and stretching shadows across the floor. The four poster bed loomed above her, its carved vines twisting like silhouettes of reaching hands.
But as her eyes drifted shut again, she couldn't shake the feeling that she wasn't lying in the bed alone. That somewhere in the hush of the room, someone was sitting patiently, waiting for her to fall back asleep.
By late morning, Rebecca needed to escape the silence of the house. The untouched rooms pressed in on her, every polished surface reflecting not her presence but the absence of the woman who had left them behind.
The town's friendliness returned with startling insistence. A basket of muffins waited on her porch, wrapped in red cloth. No note. Just the faint scent of cinnamon. Rebecca should have been touched, but instead she left the basket untouched on the counter.
She needed air.
The town square was a curious mixture of timeless charm and lingering shadows. Cobblestone streets wound around an ancient fountain, its angelic statue weathered smooth by decades of rain. The shops all bore welcoming signs "Millie's Antiques," "Hollow's Edge Books," "Rose & Thorn Café" but as Rebecca walked past, she noticed the way conversations hushed, eyes tracking her as though she were a newcomer in a village that rarely saw outsiders.
She pushed open the door to the bookstore, grateful for an excuse to disappear among shelves. The air smelled of dust, ink, and something faintly metallic again, that taste she couldn't
She trailed her fingers across cracked leather bindings, grateful for the simple comfort of words and silence. Her pulse was beginning to steady when a voice, smooth and low, cut through the quiet.
Her fingers skimmed over cracked leather bindings until a voice broke the silence.
"You're not from here."
Rebecca startled, turning.
He stood at the far end of the aisle, tall and impossibly composed. His suit was dark, perfectly cut, though not modern, as if he'd stepped out of another century. His eyes, sharp and gray as storm clouds, fixed on her with a calm intensity that made her breath catch. His skin was pale, but not sicklyrather, luminous, like marble touched by moonlight.
"I just moved in," she managed, clutching the spine of a book like an anchor. "Rebecca Earl."
His lips curved into the faintest smile. "Nathaniel Edgeworth."
He didn't offer a hand. Instead, he studied her as though her name carried a weight he had long anticipated.
Something about him unsettled her. It wasn't just his stillness, or the way the dim light seemed to bend toward him. It was the way the air grew charged in his presence, as though a storm were gathering behind those eyes.
"You chose an unusual place to begin again," Nathaniel said softly, stepping closer. His voice was smooth, cultured, with an old-world cadence that made the hair rise on the back of her neck. "Hollow's Edge doesn't often welcome change."
Rebecca swallowed hard. "Well, change didn't exactly give me a choice."
Nathaniel tilted his head, studying her in a way that made her feel seen and exposed. "Perhaps. But understand this Hollow's Edge remembers who belongs here. And who doesn't."
Nathaniel tilted his head, and in that moment, she felt exposed, as though he saw more than she was saying. Perhaps more than she even knew herself.
"You'll find," he murmured, "that this town is full of secrets."
His gaze lingered a heartbeat too long before he turned, slipping into the next aisle with a grace too fluid, too silent, to be entirely human.
Rebecca let out the breath she hadn't realized she was holding.
When she moved to follow, he was gone.
Only the faintest trace of cold air remained, curling through the stacks like a whisper.