“I love you,” he said.
Just that. Three words in a rough voice at two in the morning, standing in a doorway he wasn't crossing. I thought about saying ‘thank you.’
I didn't say anything.
I don't know how long he stood there. Long enough that my eyes adjusted further and I could see the exhaustion in him clearly — the set of his shoulders, the way his weight was against the frame rather than held away from it. A man at the end of a very long day that had started before the day.
Then he pulled his hand back.
“Goodnight, Mercy,” he said.
The door closed.
I heard it for the third time before I decided to do anything about it.
A thud. Then scraping. Then nothing for a while, long enough that I'd talk myself back into leaving it alone, and then — thud again. Something heavy. Something being moved with no particular care for whether it made noise or not.
The clock on the nightstand said 7:14.
He must’ve gone mad, I thought. Like legitimatelymad.
AndIwas mad, because this had been the first time in days since I’d slept through the night without having to run to the bathroom every other hour.
Days had passed since his whiskey-fueledI-love-you. We ate. We talked about things that weren't the things. He made coffee the way I liked it and I didn't thank him and he didn't expect me to, and somewhere in the corners of all that careful nothing, something was trying to decide whether to live or die.
The thud came again.
“Oh, I’m gonna kill him—”
I got up.
The hall was empty. The morning light came in at the east window — sheer and innocent, catching the dust we never quite got ahead of. He had told me he used to have a housekeeper, and she’d died, as humans do, and he hadn’t gone around to finding a replacement for her.
Weneededa replacement for her. And maybe a couple more besides to keep the manor from falling into complete disrepair. I had never asked Judah about his finances — I didn’t know how much exactly sat in his bank account — but I didn’t think money was the issue. The man, simply, was sentimental.
His bedroom door — the one he'd started sleeping in since I kicked him out — was open. Empty.
I followed the sound down.
It was coming from that ominous hallway that I always was giving a wide berth. I didn’t necessarily believe in ghosts or possessions, but I didn’tnotbelieve them either.
So I avoided it.
No avoiding it today because that was where the sound was coming from.
The cellar door was open at the end of it.
I stood in front of it for a moment. Just stood there, looking at the top of the stairs going down, the stone walls catching the single bulb light from somewhere below. It smelled like I remembered from that first time, months ago — lime-wash, dust, something old and mineral that had no name I knew. But not copper. Or maybe I'd made up the copper. Maybe I'd built this place into something in my head that it was prepared to disappoint me about.
“Judah,” I called.
Nothing. Just the sound of something being dragged across stone.
“Beaumont,” I tried.
Still nothing. Either he couldn't hear me or he'd decided not to.
I put my hand on the door frame and looked down the stairs.
