And beyond it, only a room.
Why could he not then bring himself to enter? He had faced the rest of the house, returned here and survived even though he’d been certain it would be the end of him. The nightmares had lessened. He slept somewhat peacefully for the first time in years. There had been no incidents since...well, since he had nearly killed Mrs Hardwicke.
Liam shuddered at the thought. But he’d faced that and come out the other side, alive.
Revived. Restored.
Facing the demons, exorcising them, had helped. This was it, the final demon.
The final ghost. Dammit, man, open the door!
He had faced barren, desolate, unforgiving wilds. Faced men whose hearts were black and who knew nothing but violence. He had faced death a hundred times over. Why not this? Why did his hand tremble as he lifted it towards the handle? Why did his heart beat so quickly and his breathing become so shallow he doubted he could draw breath?
Hal is not in there.
There were no such things as ghosts, only those of his own making. His own wraiths of guilt and shame. Mrs Hardwicke had spoken but the truth. It had helped, fuelled his determination to return here. But if there were no ghosts, then why could he feel Hal’s presence? Feel her in every whisper of wind as it howled around the lonely tower? Feel her in every stone, every creak of wood?
Liam made to flee again, but stopped himself. He needed to be free. To see, to know. To ask forgiveness. To face his past so he could finally draw the poison of it from his veins.
This is why you returned.
Turning back would only prolong the torture. The sooner he faced it, the sooner he could leave and never return.
With a deep, steadying breath, Liam drew the key from his pocket and slid it into the lock. A twist of the wrist, a click. His hand was steady and sure now as it swung open the door. Determined, he rushed in, and took the stairs two at a time. He didn’t pause at the first door—he would go back there, but first he needed to go to her room. He needed to face the worst first. He needed to—
What in the name of...?
There was no darkness. No cobwebs. Not a speck of dust. Only...
Light. Order. Cleanliness.
Liam was stunned, his eyes taking everything in, an indescribable anger rising within him. His instructions could not have been clearer.
How could she have dared come here? How could she have robbed him of his purpose thus? Where had she even got a key? Nothing was to be touched. It was to be left as Hal had. His father had closed this room, and Liam had sworn to keep it thus.
Untouched.
Until he was ready.
But nothing remained. It had all been carelessly swept away by his new insolent, impudent, disrespectful housekeeper.
Liam howled, in pain, in anger, in regret. His eyes desperately sought a trace, any trace, of what he’d come to find. All they found was a tiny vase filled with dog violets on the mantel, beneath Hal’s favourite creation she insisted be hung there, the painting which now mocked him. He remembered the day she had painted it, her fingers and cheeks covered in the full spectrum of colours. He should have known that day, should have seen it.
But all I saw was innocent romanticism...
He grabbed the vase and sent it flying across the room. How could she? Did the woman have no brain, no heart at all? What had she sought to do here? He stared at the mess of crystal and petals on the floor. Such a cruel jest to lay flowers beneath...
Liam screamed again. But this time it was a name.
‘Mrs Hardwicke,’ Liam bellowed at the top of his lungs. ‘Mrs Hardwicke!’
Not even the multitude of thick stone walls, and three floors which separated them, could prevent Rebecca from hearing him. Indeed, the whole house seemed to reverberate, and Rebecca winced as her quill went scraping across the neat and tidy numbers she had just been entering into the ledger.
With a sigh, she set it back in its inkstand, and rose. Just as she did, Gregory burst in, flushed and frightened.
‘I heard, Gregory,’ she said calmly, smoothing her skirts. ‘The East Tower?’
‘Aye, m-ma’am,’ he stammered.
