Usher House stands with centuries of stubborn pride overlooking the tremulous waves of the Pacific. A collection of good intentions layered together with precarious intentions. The grand estate sits cliffside on miles of fog drenched lands and uneven forest.
As children, Usher House was a goldmine of possibilities. Our imaginations were the limit. As an adult, it’s a battle to keep the foliage from swallowing the manor whole. Random drafts. Leaky ceilings. The manor is much too large for regular maintenance. It’s a labyrinth of slick stones and endless corridors. There are sections so old, they’ve been lost for generations. I doubt even Mrs. Pym knows about them or the times Ames, Eliah and I set off to find hidden treasure through the catacombs and only to scare ourselves badly enough that we never tried again.
“Linny?”
I draw in a breath and focus on the man seated behind a wide, wooden desk littered with papers and a tray laden with fruits and tiny sandwiches. Soft, white steam rises from the kettle sprout, filling the room with the hint of chamomile.
“Come have breakfast,” Marcus urges as Mrs. Pym pours two cups of the brew.
I rise from my place, right arm chilled from being cradled against the window too long. I rub it as I cross to them.
It’s a rare event when I’ve found myself in Marcus’s office. The spacious chamber with the walls of shelves, generations of knowledge displayed in a single room, isn’t as comfortable as my greenhouse, but it has no mirrors. Beyond my reflection in the windows, there seems to be no need for any, and … the incessant scratching…
It was in my dreams.
Restless. A maddening persistence that I swear is etched into the cavity of my mind. Even in the bathroom with Marcus’s hands lovingly running over me, the creaks echoed.
Faint. Never enough for anyone else to hear. The most subtle little nudges like a boot creeping across thin ice. That brittle creak right before a splinter.
Marcus doesn’t seem to hear it.
But I’m not crazy.
I know it’s there … watching me.
Waiting.
Always waiting.
“Lin.”
I suck in a breath and focus on the two watching me. I force a smile.
“Thank you, Mrs. Pym.”
The older woman who was essentially a third parent to us, inclines her head. Her gray strands are in their usual knot at the back of her head, swept from her thinly lined features. She’s in her black attire. Simple cotton that covers from wrist to throat and falls to her ankles.
It amazes me some days how little she’s changed since my first visit to Usher House. Back when my parents were still alive. I barely came to her knees, but she cared for me the same way she looked after the boys. She never complained at having yet another child to manage. I don’t wholly believe we were her responsibility, but she was the one who chased away the monsters under the bed and wrapped up injured knees. Growing up, I think she was the only consistent adult we had.
Until Marcus returned that sweltering afternoon, a truly welcome sight even though I hadn’t believed he would stay. Like my parents, he had an empire to manage. Moreover, given he is a blood Usher.
We were raised understanding that the Family comes first. The Usher name. Our parents were doing what needed to be done so that our futures were secure.
But it was fine. We had each other and we had Mrs. Pym. Occasionally, our moms when they weren’t at a dinner or luncheon. We would catch fleeting glimpses of them in their beautiful gowns, faces perfectly set as they made us swear to be good for Mrs. Pym. When they were all gone, with the exception of Marcus, it was Mrs. Pym and us.
“You should eat, Miss,” she tells me, actively gathering up the plate of sandwiches — tuna. My favorite — and holding it up for me.
Not at all a breakfast meal, but I believe this is her way of making sure I eat.
I offer her a smile. The best one I can muster.
“Thank you, Mrs. Pym. I will.”
To prove it, especially when she remains firmly in place, plate aloft, I nip one from the top … and take a tentative bite. It’s the only way she’ll stop scrutinizing my face. The tiny gesture seems to satisfy her as she sets the plate down, dusts her hands and faces Marcus.
Marcus.
No matter how many times I work the name around in my head, it feels indecent. Ironic given my behavior the previous night in his bed. Actions I don’t regret, but still my cheeks warm at the memory of his fingers, his mouth. I nearly choke on the bit of fish meat on my tongue.
