The dining hall lay unused, the library heavy with mildew and leather. Lydia read titles aloud, amused by the mix of histories and banned philosophies. “A collector,” Maximilian said.
“A thief,” Lydia corrected. “But with taste.”
The house seemed to warm as they explored, light breaking through the clouds. Upstairs, dust thickened, and the air was dense. Lydia paused at a window. The carriage below glimmered with dew. Beyond, the woods pressed close.
Maximilian lingered by the balustrade. She asked, “Are you afraid?”
“Yes,” he admitted. “But only for you.”
Her smile remained as she took his hand. Together, they advanced down the hall. At its end, double doors barred their way. Lydia shoved them open, splintering the lock with the full force of her weight.
Inside lay her aunt’s study. The desk was strewn with papers, scales balanced with coins and weights. Notes and maps covered the walls. Lady Eugenia’s portrait dominated, her eyes bright with intelligence yet edged with severity.
Lydia touched everything: the desk, the books, the portrait frame. “She was here until the end.”
Maximilian lingered in the doorway, uncertainty on his face. “She would have approved of who you are now,” he said quietly. “You are both impossible.”
Lydia laughed, bright as morning. “Then I have a legacy.”
They stood together in the study, the house creaking around them, the future waiting beyond. For the first time, Lydia felt she belonged not to a place or a name, but to a moment that was entirely hers.
“Shall we?” she asked.
He offered his arm. She took it.
The doors swung shut behind them, hinting at more to come.
The grand entrance hall echoed with the symmetry of a cathedral—and the chill that came with it. The door closed quietly, sealing Lydia and Maximilian in a silence so complete it felt suffocating.
Lydia stepped forward into a pool of light spilling from the high windows. Her boots rang on the marble, the sounds bouncing like an unfinished musical. For a moment, she hesitated, then tilted her headas if listening for a cue before climbing the central staircase, gloved hands gliding along the banister, leaving streaks in the dust. She took satisfaction in the record of her passage, proof of her existence here.
Maximilian followed carefully, a sentinel shadowing her every step. More observer than companion, he guarded against danger and the tremor in her resolve.
At the landing, the hallway branched. Lydia chose left, following a faded scarlet runner through a gallery of mirrors and portraits. The mirrors, clouded with age, reflected her in a dozen variations—heiress, orphan, trespasser. She paused, traced her outline in the glass, then swept her palm across it, leaving a mark that vanished as the dust resettled.
The first door opened onto the dining room. A long table bore candlesticks melted with age, surrounded by ornate chairs. Indigo porcelain vases stood at the center, their flowers long since crumbled to dust. The air carried a hint of old blooms, with something wild beneath.
Lydia circled, pausing at the head of the table where a single chair stood askew. She imagined her aunt there, eyebrow arched in judgment or approval. Impulsively, she sank into the chair, which sighed under her weight.
Maximilian strode closer, surveying the table. He hefted a candlestick, tested its weight, and replaced it with care.
“You could host a parliament in here,” he said.
“Or a trial,” Lydia shot back. “They are not so different.”
He studied her, noting the curve of her shoulders and the set of her jaw. “You would enjoy the jury.”
“I would prefer the defense,” she replied, a grin breaking through. “Or the prosecution, if I had cause.”
Their banter loosened the tension. Maximilian leaned against the mantel, content to watch her claim the room.
Lydia moved on to the music room, where a faint draft stirred the heavy curtains. A pianoforte lay under a dust cloth. She pulled it back, coughing as dust swirled, then pressed a single key. The note rang out, true yet fleeting, as if the walls had forgotten the sound of music. A violin case opened to reveal an intact instrument, one string curled loose. She cradled it for a moment before laying it gently down.
“She played?” Maximilian asked.
“Obscenely well,” Lydia said. “But only when drunk or furious.”
He smiled, surprised. “A woman after your own heart.”
