“Thanks.” I tug them onto my feet, then rake my fingers through my hair as I give the room one last glance.
“I have something for you.” Valdemar moves over to the bookcase and scans the shelves before selecting a small red book that he hands to me.
It looks old, with no title on the plain front cover. “What is it?” I ask, turning the book over to reveal the title embossed in gold on the spine.
The Ravenby Edgar Allan Poe.
“It was Ed’s.”
I glance up at Valdemar. “I don’t recognise it.”
“He found it after I met him, when he was about nineteen,” he explains. “It was one of the only possessions of his that I kept. He took it everywhere. For some reason, it was important to him.”
That was the time when Ed had already closed himself off to the world and I had begun to feel like we were two different people rather than the one I’d always been used to. It breaks me to think he treasured something I didn’t even know existed. And also to think that he kept it from me. What else had he been keeping from me?
The spine cracks as I flip open the book, the yellowing pages smelling musty, like they’ve just been shaved from the oldest tree.
“Do you know the poem?” Valdemar asks, breaking my train of thought.
“Only what I can remember from being at school. I don’t understand why….” My words trail off as I land on the title page, the letters resembling an old typewriter font. Underneath the title, there’s a handwritten dedication, the copperplate-style lettering fancy and ornate.
To my own darling Lenore, for whom my love shall burn forever more. ER
“My mother’s name was Lenore.” My eyes shoot up to meet Valdemar’s. “This book was given to my mother.”
“That would explain why Ed cherished it,” he says.
“I don’t understand, though. The inscription suggests it was given to her by my father, but the initials don’t match.” I thrust the book towards him.
“ER,” he reads.
“My father’s name is William. William Bransby. So, who the hell is ER, and why was he sending my mother a book?”
“You’re the journalist. Maybe you need to do some digging,” he suggests.
I clutch the book to my chest as Valdemar continues, “Just be careful how far you dig. Some things are better left buried.”
His warning should send a chill down my spine, but the sadness on his face indicates pain and suffering rather than fear.
A weariness drapes itself over my shoulders as I head for the door leading to the Great Hall. Unsure of what to say, I opt for silence as Valdemar follows, opening the door for me.
It’s strange, stepping into the empty hall, the darkness that shrouds it during the day signifying that this isn’t a room to be used in daylight. Gone are the disdainful stares, the wide eyes that tracked my every move. Only Valdemar and I—and the ghosts—the remain.
“I’ll get Abel to run you home,” he says.
“There’s no need. I can get a taxi.”
“I insist.”
There’s no point in arguing with him, and I’d rather leave now than have to wait for a taxi anyway.
“You have my number,” he says as we reach the main entrance.
I hadn’t appreciated how heavy the doors were last night or the intricate detail of the woodwork.
“Yes.” I hesitate, wondering if my next words will make things easier or harder. “I wish things could be different.” And I mean it. I wish, more than anything, that my brother’s blood wasn’t on his hands and that those hands were now holding me.
“So do I.” His eyes dim, the darkness mixing with regret.
