“There are parts of the house you shouldn’t explore alone. Some are quite dangerous. The floors are weak, the corridors are half-collapsed. They’re in desperate need of restoration.”
I nodded, my expression pleasant, though inside my mind raced. “Of course. I wouldn’t want to fall through the floorboards.”
He gave a thin smile and reached for his tea, the tension bleeding from his posture, or perhaps being buried beneath it.
“So why were you awake so late?” I pressed, feigning idle curiosity.
He didn’t look at me as he lifted his cup. “I went to bed soon after you,” he said lightly. “It must have been the servants.” Then, leaning closer with a conspiratorial glimmer in his eye, he whispered, “there’s gossip, you know, that one of the stable boys is madly in love with a maid. It was probably just them.”
I laughed politely, but something cold coiled in my stomach. The servants, he said. But I had heardhisvoice. Clear as any waking sound.
I glanced toward the solarium windows. Outside, the wind moved through the gardens, bending the wisteria that clung to the stone walls. For a heartbeat, I could almost hear a low murmur again—not words this time, just the rhythm of it, like two shadows conspiring behind glass.
When I looked back, Sylum was smiling at me, his expression open and gentle. And yet, somewhere deep within that smile, I thought I saw the faintest trace of fear as he searched my eyes.
The silence stretched between us as we ate in a comfortable quiet.
At last he set his teacup aside, leaned back, and looked at me in a way that made my pulse quicken. “How about that tour?” he asked softly. “Mrs. Ashby will be furious with me for neglecting it.”
I smiled faintly. “She doesn’t seem the sort to forgive easily.”
He chuckled, standing. “No, she is not. But she’s loyal. She’s been with this house longer than I’ve been alive.”
He offered his hand to help me up. The warmth of his palm lingered when our fingers parted.
“Come,” he urged, his tone gentler now. “We’ll find her together.”
We left the solarium side by side, our footsteps echoing in the long marble corridor. Outside, the afternoon light filtered through the stained-glass transoms, painting the floor in dancing colors of amber, crimson, and gold. For awhile neither of us spoke. The quiet felt companionable, almost peaceful, yet there was something restrained in him, as if his thoughts roamed elsewhere.
“You seem miles away,” I said at last.
He glanced at me, the ghost of a smile tugging at his perfect lips. “Do I? Perhaps I am. Blackthorn has a way of stirring old memories.”
“Good ones?”
“Some,” he said with a shrug. “Not all.”
His hand brushed mine as we turned the corner, and though the touch seemed accidental, neither of us moved away. For a heartbeat we walked like that, his fingers trailing just against mine. It was the faintest, most human reminder that I wasn’t entirely alone.
Mrs. Ashby appeared before we could speak again, as though the house itself had conjured her. She stood at the far end of the hall, her black gown severe against the light from a tall window.
“Your Grace,” she greeted, her tone respectful, but clipped.
Sylum’s hand fell away. “Ah, Mrs. Ashby. My wife has not yet been properly acquainted with the house. I would have her shown the main halls and guest rooms. Also, where she shouldn’t wander.”
Mrs. Ashby’s cool gray eyes flicked to me. “Of course, Your Grace. I shall see to it personally.”
Sylum nodded, then turned back to me. For an instant his expression softened again, and I could almost forget the stiffness in his manner.
“I must ride into the village for a few hours,” he said. “Business with the steward. I’ll return before supper.”
“So soon?” I asked, hating the note of disappointment in my voice.
He smiled, real this time, small but genuine. “You’ll hardly have time to miss me, I think. Mrs. Ashby is very thorough.”
“I can imagine,” I frowned, glancing toward the housekeeper, who stood as rigid as stonework.
He leaned closer, his voice low enough that only I could hear. “You’ll be safe here, Lucy. I promise you that.”
