My hand shifted closer despite my resistance. It was cool beneath my palm when I finally touched it. My heart pounded so hard I could feel it in my throat, in my temples, in my fingertips where they gripped the rose. Before I committed to the decision, my hand was already turning the handle, controlled by a force beyond my own will.
It gave without effort, the mechanism sliding from its place.
It was unlocked.
I held my breath as the door swung inward with a soft creak.
Yes, the voice breathed with satisfaction.Finally.
I hesitated on the threshold, blinking against the darkness. The room beyond was lit only by a dying fire in the hearth, its flickering glow barely illuminating the furniture. The air smelled of roses, sweet and cloying, but beneath it, I scented the first sour note of rot waiting patiently for its cue.
I should have turned around and fled back to my room as any sensible woman would, but my feet were already carrying me forward across the threshold.
It was clearly a bedchamber, that much I could make out—a four-poster bed with heavy curtains, a vanity with its mirror reflecting firelight, a wardrobe standing open to reveal articles of clothing in various shades that seemed to shift in the unsteady light.
I spun around the room, a strange sense of familiarity winding through me, though I could not account for the reason.
Then I froze.
Near the far window, silhouetted against the glass, stood a woman.
My breath caught in my throat, and I stumbled back, bumping into the door behind me.
She had her back to me, her posture elegant as she arranged flowers in a crystal vase on a small table. Her movements were smooth, suggesting she had completed the act so many times that it was thoughtless. Her hair fell in waves down her back, and she wore a cream colorednightgown that seemed to absorb the firelight rather than reflect it.
I stood, anchored to the spot near the doorway, my mind reeling with confusion. Surely it could not be Dr. Ambrose’s wife… Agnes had said she had died and spoken of her in the past tense with such finality.
But who else could it be?
“I am so sorry,” I muttered, “I did not mean to intrude. I thought—I was looking for Hawthorne. I will just—”
The woman continued arranging flowers as if I had not spoken. Her hands drifted among the stems, adjusting them delicately, creating a composition that was somehow both beautiful and unsettling.
“Mrs. Ambrose?” I tried again, taking a hesitant step closer. “I am terribly sorry for disturbing you. I am Camellia Reed, your husband’s new assistant. I was told—”
I snapped my mouth closed, frowning. What was I going to say?Oh apologies, I was told you were dead?
She still said nothing, gave no acknowledgment whatsoever of my presence or my words. Perhaps she had not heard me, too absorbed in her task. Surely she had, though. The door had creaked when I opened it. The floorboards had groaned beneath my feet. She should have turned—startled or offended or at the very least curious about who had entered her private chambers uninvited.
How could Agnes have lied about something so fundamental, claiming Dr. Ambrose to be a widower when his wife stood here, clearly alive?
I took another step closer, drawn forward by my own foolish curiosity. “Excuse me,” I said, projecting my voice across the small space between us.
The woman’s hands continued their work, unconcerned by my increasingly desperate attempts at communication.
Touch her, the voice urged.
I hesitated, every instinct screaming that this was wrong, that I should leave and never speak of what I had seen, but I could not bring myself to turn away. I closed the remaining distance between us, close enough now to see the flowers she arranged were dry and wilted, the blooms that remained intact had withered and rotted at the edges.
“Can you hear me?” I asked, my voice unsteady.
I reached out, my hand trembling as it hovered over her shoulder. I stretched my fingers toward the fabric of her nightgown—and passed straight through her. I jerked back so swiftly that I nearly tumbled over my own feet.
The woman spun around, her movement sudden and violent after such stillness. My eyes ran the length of her, pausing on her face.
My throat closed, my lungs refusing to draw breath, rendering me speechless.
Where her eyes should have been, pools of ink filled the sockets, hollow and sunken, like staring into a fleshless skull. Her skin was ashen and sickly, dark veins running beneath it as though she were a corpse that had been preserved but not quite properly. Her lips were blue-tinged, and I watched, unable to look away, as her mouth openedslowly. Blood oozed from the corners, thick and dark, trickling down her chin in rivulets. The flow increased, spilling over her lips, dripping onto her nightgown and turning the fabric a deep crimson. Her jaw came unhinged with a distinct cracking sound, her mouth opening impossibly wide as something emerged from within.
