“Forbidden?” I echoed. “Why?”
Her gaze met mine then, calm, steady, unreadable. “Because not all knowledge is kind, Your Grace. And not all rooms in this house wish to be opened.”
The words hung between us, heavy as the air itself.
I looked again at the locked door, its handle gleaming faintly in the dimness. An icy chill seemed to leak from its seams.
“I see,” I murmured.
Mrs. Ashby inclined her head and turned away. “If you’ll follow me, we’ll continue to the upper floor.”
We ascended the grand staircase, our reflections multiplying in the gilt-framed mirrors along the landing. The higher we climbed, the colder the air grew. Somewhere beneath us, the manor creaked and sighed, as if resettling its bones.
At the top, the housekeeper paused before a corridor shrouded in half-dark. A tall door stood at the end, the brass handle dull with age.
“That wing is under repair,” she said curtly. “You’ll find it locked. Best to keep away from it for now.”
Something in her tone made me glance twice. “What is it?”
“The east wing,” she replied. “It’s unsafe and off limits.”
I felt my breath hitch. The east wing. Elizabeth had died there. And, if I was not mad, it was where I’d heard voices the night before. Where someone had spoken in low, urgent tones.
But how? The door to theeast wing was locked securely.
I glanced at Mrs. Ashby, my gaze drifting to the ring of gold keys looped through her apron ties.
I swallowed. “Mrs. Ashby… may I ask you something?”
Her posture stiffened, though she nodded.
“It’s about Elizabeth,” I said quietly. “His former fiancée.”
The air seemed to still. Even the manor’s restless creaks quieted.
“What about her?” Mrs. Ashby asked, her voice flat.
“I… I know she died here,” I continued carefully. “Sylum told me she fell from the balcony. Broke her neck.” I hesitated. “Is that… truly what happened?”
Her eyes, that were cool moments ago, sharpened into something harder. “Yes,” she said with crisp finality. “She fell. A tragic accident.”
No elaboration. No emotion. Just a wall slammed shut.
“I only ask,” I persisted gently, “because the manor… well, last night I thought I heard…” Shame flushed through me. “I heard crying.”
Her expression did not change, but something cold flickered beneath it.
“Old houses weep in their own ways,” she assured firmly. “You mustn’t let your imagination lead you astray. There is no crying here, Your Grace.”
The dismissal was so abrupt it felt like a slap.
“I see,” I murmured.
“Good.” Her tone brooked no further discussion. “We shall continue.”
Mrs. Ashby moved on, leaving me to linger at the threshold a moment longer. I could have sworn I heard something faint and hollow behind the door. A scrape, a breath, perhaps only the sigh of wind through old stone.
When she noticed my hesitation, she turned back. “Is something the matter, Your Grace?”
