The weeping swelled and receded, as though pacing just beyond the walls. It came from everywhere—below the floorboards, behind the plaster and insidethe bones of the manor itself.
Elizabeth?
The thought slid cold and unwelcome into my mind.
Elizabeth, who had fallen from the east balcony. Elizabeth, who had died alone in this house.
I pressed a hand over my heart, straining to listen over the intense pounding in my ears.
The sobbing ebbed and flowed once more, fading to a whisper, then returning louder as if growing closer.
My lips parted, my breath shallowing.
This was an old house, I told myself. Old houses breathe. They shift and settle. They sigh when the wind moves through their stones.
But this sound, this horrible crying, was too human. Too alive.
“It’s nothing,” I assured myself. “It’s just the wind.”
And yet, as I spoke the words, I thought again of Elizabeth.
Was it her, crying through the walls?
No. It couldn’t be.
I pulled the blanket closer, willing the sound to fade. Slowly, it did. The sobs quieted, dissolving into the hush of the manor.
I exhaled. Foolish. I was being foolish.
Until the floorboards creaked.
The noise came from just beside the bed. I turned toward it, slowly, carefully, but there was only darkness. I closed my eyes and counted until sleep came to claim me, thick and heavy.
And just as I slipped beneath it, the sobbing returned and twisted itself into a scream.
The gold canopy dissolved into writhing black vines, and the floor melted away beneath me like sinking mud. I was no longer in my bed at all, but suddenly falling. Falling into a sea of darkness that smelled faintly of roses and blood.
Chapter 7
When I opened my eyes, the sunlight stung and I blinked against it.
It poured through the curtains in soft, golden arcs, warming the coverlet and the floorboards alike. For a moment, I forgot I wasn’t in my tiny flat, then the scent of roses and woodsmoke drew me back.
Blackthorn Manor, my new home.
The fire had been rekindled, the hearth crackling invitingly. On the small table beside the bed sat a tray with tea, toast, a bit of fruit, and atop the folded linen napkin, a single red rose weighted down a small note. The petals gleamed in the light, dewy and impossibly fresh.
“Good morning, Your Grace.”
Nelly stood near the window as though she had materialized from the sunbeams themselves, hands clasped neatly before her apron. She smiled politely, but there was ahint of apology in her eyes, as though she bore some gentle wrongdoing.
“Forgive me for letting you sleep so late,” she said. “His Grace instructed us not to disturb you.”
“How late is it?” My voice sounded strange, thick from sleep.
“Nearly noon, ma’am.”
“Noon?” I pushed myself upright, the coverlet falling to my lap. My limbs felt heavy, unused, as though I had slept not hours but lifetimes.
