Jolene wandered the halls of Larkspur House the next morning, still haunted by dreams and their darkly handsome protagonist. She found herself drawn to the ballroom, where sunlight fell in lazy columns through the high windows. The floors bore no scuff marks, no signs of last night's impossible revels, but the air was thick with memory. Her fingers drifted along the grand piano, dustless, as if it had been played only moments before.
Mr. Harrington appeared beside her with the quiet suddenness of a cat. "I see you've discovered the heart of the house. They say if you listen at midnight, you can hear the waltz begin again." His gaze was knowing, almost sad.
"Did you ever meet the master of the house?" Jolene asked, half expecting him to dodge the question.
Harrington's smile faded. "Once, I think. Or perhaps I dreamed it, like you. But you, my dear, are the only guest to receive a rose."
Jolene's cheeks burned. She tried to shrug it off, but the air between them pulsed with unspoken things.
Later, Jolene unpacked her things in the bathroom—a room so vast her voice echoed back at her. She leaned out over the balcony, the city glittering beneath her, the wind tugging her hair like a playful child. The edge of the world felt close enough to touch.
That night, Jolene wrote in her journal until sleep claimed her. The dreams returned: laughter echoing through endless corridors, doors that led to gardens under starlight, a shadowed figure always waiting just out of reach.
She awoke with the taste of his name on her tongue:
Edward.