CHAPTER 10
The carriage jolted over the rough lane, its lacquer catching weak sunlight in flashes. Lydia pressed her face to the glass, watching the forest pass by. Beside her, Maximilian sat with composure, though the muscle in his jaw tensed with every bump of the wheels. The countess had chosen not to accompany them, proclaiming a headache even as she requested music. Lydia would expect nothing less and admired the dowager for her fortitude in ignoring the rules.
She sighed as the lane narrowed, then turned into a muddy track, bordered by bramble and the remnants of better roads. At last, the trees fell away, revealing a glen with the estate at its center. It wasstone, slate, and shuttered windows turned against the morning. And it was hers.
The carriage slowed. The wrought-iron gates stood ajar, not wide enough to welcome, not closed enough to deny. One post leaned, its stone undermined by moss and dandelions. Rust and lichen mottled the ironwork, the crest at the top nearly erased by time.
Lydia shivered with anticipation. “We are here,” she whispered.
Maximilian leaned forward, his gaze scanning the drive. “It is not what I expected. Not what it once was.”
She studied him, searching for any hint of derision but found only surprise. His eyes were clear in the pale light.
“What did you expect?” she asked.
He offered no answer, only gestured for the driver to continue. Gravel shifted under the wheels until the path collapsed, exposing a tangle of roots. The carriage halted.
Maximilian stepped out, boots sinking into moss, and offered his hand. Lydia took it, feeling warmth and restraint in equal measure. His hand lingered at her waist longer than usual, and her breath hitched.Whether from the cold or proximity, she could not tell.
They stood side by side, surveying the manor.
It loomed larger than her childhood memory allowed. Its wings stretched wide, as though trying to embrace them. High windows caught the light. The stone was pitted, ivy rampant, the roof patched and covered in lichen. Gargoyles crowded the gutters, some leering, others blending into the stone.
No smoke. No sound. No sign of life.
Lydia’s crimson cloak flared as she advanced, bright against the gray. Her gloved fingers traced the cold iron gate, pausing over the half-buried crest and motto dulled by time. Maximilian followed, his shoulders squared as if entering hostile ground.
The courtyard lay in ruin, flagstones upturned and a fountain choked with leaves and dirty water. Lydia turned slowly, her boots sinking into thick mud. “It is beautiful,” she said.
Maximilian raised an eyebrow but remained silent.
“You do not see it?”
“I see something,” he replied.
She laughed, startling magpies from the gutter. “You lack imagination.”
“On the contrary. I have too much.”
Thirteen moss-slick steps led them to the double doors. They were iron-banded and slightly ajar. Lydia pressed her palm against the wood—cold and almost humming. She glanced back.
Maximilian scanned the windows, his brow furrowed and eyes peering.
“Expecting an ambush?” she teased.
“I have learned to expect nothing and fear everything.”
“Then you will be splendid company in a haunted house.”
She nudged the door, which creaked open to a breath of ancient cold. Dust motes danced in a shaft of light from above.
Lydia stepped inside first.
The hall soared, its ceiling lost in shadow. Marble floors cracked like a broken map. A cobwebbed chandelier sagged over a threadbare rug. Portraits lined the walls—Montagues rendered in oils faded to a single shade of disapproval.
Lydia studied one. A young woman in family crimson, the pigment leached to a dull red. “Better this,” she said, “than oblivion.”
They moved on, their steps echoing. Furniture loomed beneath sheets, and fireplaces stood fossilized with ash. Lydia uncovered a piano andstruck a key. She grinned. Maximilian only watched, an unguarded expression on his face.
