The morning arrived at Hamilton House with the subtlety of a brass band.
Outside on the cobblestones, a horse neighed loudly, protesting the early hour. The heavy thud of a carriage door closing echoed against the stone walls of the estate.
Inside the grand foyer, Mr. Simmons, the steward, smoothed his impeccable coat. He walked to the front door and pulled it open just as the brass knocker was lifted.
Aunt Margery stood on the doorstep. She looked like a ship in full sail, dressed in a morning gown of bright yellow silk that seemed to challenge the sun itself. She was beaming.
"Good morning, Simmons!" she chirped, sweeping past him into the hall.
She began peeling off her gloves with quick, energetic movements. She shook her hands out as if preparing for a boxing match. Her eyes darted around the grand hall, looking left, looking right, looking up the stairs. She was clearly hunting for something. Or someone.
"Simmons?" she asked, not stopping her visual search.
Mr. Simmons bowed low. "Yes, my lady?"
She turned to him, her yellow bonnet ribbons bouncing. "Where is my nephew?"
Simmons paused. He had served the Hamilton family for decades. He knew how to deliver bad news with a straight face.
"His Grace is in the drawing room," Simmons replied. He lowered his voice slightly. "He spent the entire day at the club yesterday. And the evening. And... well, he came home very late this morning."
The bright smile vanished from Aunt Margery's face instantly. It was replaced by a frown of deep concern.
"Oh, dear," she whispered.
She tapped her chin with her gloves. "That is not good. That is not good at all."
She checked the grandfather clock in the hall. It was nearly noon. The "guest"—Miss Delaney Kingsley—would be arriving soon.
"He needs to make a good impression today," she murmured to herself. "He cannot look like a rumpled bedsheet when she arrives. Not for sixty thousand pounds."
"My lady?" Simmons asked politely.
"Nothing, Simmons!" Margery said brightly. "Fetch some coffee. A pot. No, a gallon. And perhaps a raw egg."
"Very good, my lady." Simmons bowed and retreated toward the kitchens.
Margery took a deep breath. She squared her shoulders. She marched across the marble floor toward the double doors of the drawing room.
She grabbed the brass handle and pushed the door open.
She stopped dead.
The hallway behind her was filled with bright, cheerful sunlight. But the drawing room was a cave. It was pitch black. Every single heavy velvet curtain had been drawn tight. Not a sliver of light was allowed inside. It was dark enough to summon the dead.
Margery blinked. She turned her head back to look at the sunny hallway, then looked back into the black void of the room.
"That is odd," she said.
She peered into the darkness. The air inside smelled faintly of stale brandy and regret.
"He is supposed to be in here," she whispered. "Simmons said he was."
She took a tentative step inside. Her boots tapped on the wooden floor.
"Rowan?" she called out softly.
There was no answer. Just the silence of a very large, very dark room.
"Well," Margery said to herself, putting her hands on her hips. "I am not going to stumble around in the dark like a blind mouse. I will just wait for him right here."
She stood there for a moment. Then, her practical nature took over. She couldn't just stand in the dark. It was ridiculous. It was the middle of the day!
"Let's allow some light to pass on, shall we?" she murmured.
She navigated the room by memory, avoiding the ottoman and the tea table. she reached the far wall. She felt the heavy velvet of the drapes.
"Where are those curtains?" she spoke out.
With a mighty heave, she drew the velvet curtains wide open.
Whoosh.
The sunlight flooded in. It was a harsh, brilliant, blinding beam of white light. It cut across the room like a laser.
"ARGH!"
A guttural groan of pure agony erupted from the sofa directly behind her.
"MY EYES! IT BURNS!"
Aunt Margery screamed.
"AHHH!"
She spun around. In the sudden glare, she saw a large, dark shape rising from the sofa like a monster from the deep. The figure had wild hair and was making terrifying noises.
Panic seized her. She didn't think. She reacted.
She reached for the nearest weapon. On the side table, there was a heavy, leather-bound book—The History of the Roman Empire, Volume I.
She grabbed it.
"Back! Stay back, you beast!" Margery yelled.
She swung the book with surprising strength.
THWACK.
The heavy book connected solidly with the side of the figure's head.
"OW!" the figure shouted. "What the devil?!"
The figure collapsed back onto the sofa, clutching his head.
"Aunt Margery?" a familiar, pained voice groaned. "Why? Why did you do that?"
Margery froze. She clutched the book to her chest. She squinted.
The "monster" was wearing a wrinkled white shirt and breeches. He had golden hair that was sticking up in three different directions. He was holding a hand to his temple.
It was Rowan.
"Oh!" Margery gasped. She dropped the book. It landed on the floor with a loud thud. "Oh, my heavens! Rowan!"