Better for all of them.
Cal pushed off from the window and poured himself a shot of rum, which he carried with him through the dark halls. Moonlight caused the paint strokes of the old portraits to flare in passing, highlighting an eye, a cheek, the tip of a nose.
The original Caledon Cullraven had been fond of hostile architecture: harsh points and sharp edges, rooms like wide and gaping mouths, halls that felt like they were closing in. Havinggrown up here, he was used to the constricting feel of the tight, tunneling corridors with their dark, hand-painted wallpaper, but to a stranger, he imagined the effect might make one feel . . . hunted.
While the library was no less austere than the rest of the house, it was Caledon’s one concession to comfort. The flocked wallpaper was a slightly warmer hue of blue that could not be found elsewhere in the house and the furniture was extravagantly plush and upholstered.
He seated himself on the jacquard settee with its muted paisley pattern, picking up the book he had been working his way through. Movement in the corner of his eye made his head jerk up.
Noelle was standing in the doorway, wrapped in a costly brocaded robe. The color drained from her face, turning it an ashen grey that could not be warmed by the light of her candle.
“Oh.” The word came out as an exhalation, high and breathy, as the golden light caught him in its wavering halo. Her eyes widened—she was already turning to flee. “I’m so sorry, I really didn’t think anyone else would be down here this late.”
“You don’t have to leave.”
Her hesitation was palpable. She looked over her shoulder before shutting the door behind her. As she pulled her robe closed, Cal caught a glimpse of a purpling bruise at her throat.
“I didn’t want to disturb Ben.”
Cal allowed himself the privilege of a sneer. “My dear sister, your husband has the constitution of a granite cliff. You could batter yourself to death on his edges before he could be bothered to rouse himself from slumber.”
“You talk so strangely, Cal.” She eyed him warily. “Do you come here often at night?”
“When I can’t sleep, yes. I’m afraid Ben is made of far sterner stuff than I.” Cal closed the book, leaving his fingers between the pages. He’d observed enough trials to recognize the shiftless hesitation that was a hallmark of someone who wanted to confess. “Did you need something?”
Her eyes flicked to his bare chest and then away. “I’d actually like to speak to you about your brother.”
“All right.” He crossed his legs and leaned back, setting the book aside. The brass backing of the settee was like ice against his nape. “What about him? You said you didn’t want him disturbed. Did you mean that you don’t want to upset him?”
“I think he already is. Upset, I mean. He’s been acting strange, having nightmares.”
Something Ben would never admit to, even if wild horses were trying to drag it from him, and very telling if true. “That’s not a question, Noelle,” he pointed out softly, even as he filed the information away for later.
Noelle shook her head. Her wispy blonde hair seemed to float. “Did something happen to him as a child? Something I should know about? Was he hurt?”
“No.”
“I just . . .” Her eyes bounced off the dark papered walls with an energy that was familiar and compelling. “It feels like there’s something wrong with this place. That it’s doing something to him. He’s been a different person since we came back from Mexico. But that sounds silly, right?”
“I’ve been told some people believe that old houses absorb the energy that’s fed to them. That they become more and more like their occupants as time goes on.”
“Is that what you believe?”
“I believe we are as nature makes us, be that man, beast, or house.”
Her mouth flattened. “You’re speaking in riddles. He does that, too. He copies you.”
“Then maybe he’ll give you the answers you crave. Or not. Lawyers lie, darling.” Cal propped his arm over the back of the settee, suddenly exhausted. “Have you asked him about any of this?”
“Ben isn’t exactly an open book,” she said, which sounded like a yes. “He’s like the buildings he designs—polished, but imposing. You can see through them, or you think you can, but then you realize that the glass is just reflecting what’s around them. I used to think that was mysterious. I used to—” she laughed sadly “—I used to like that about him.”
But not anymorefloated in the air, unspoken. Dangerous.
“It sounds like you have your answer then.”
“Not even close!” she snapped. “I’mdonewith mysteries. What the fuck is wrong with this house, Cal? What’s it doing to Ben? Is it his father? Something else? Please. Tell me. He dragged me back from our vacation like he couldn’t wait to be home, but all he does is storm around, talking to no one. And at night—”
Cal stopped her before she could elaborate. “Ben can take care of himself. I’m not sure I can say the same for you.”
