Chapter One: The House That Waits
The carriage wheels groaned as they rolled through the blackened moor, cutting through mist that clung like breath to glass. Elena Moreau pressed her gloved fingers to the windowpane, staring at the silhouette that rose ahead—a manor so old it looked grown from the very bones of the earth.
Blackthorn Manor.
They said it was cursed. That servants who stayed too long went mad. That the master never aged. Elena had not believed in ghost stories.
Until she arrived.
The carriage came to a slow stop before the great iron gates, which creaked open of their own accord. No coachman moved to open them, and no hands pulled the chain. The horses whinnied nervously, their breath fogging the air as though even they feared what lay beyond.
A woman in gray waited at the door. Thin, severe, and expressionless, she looked Elena over as though measuring her for a coffin.
"You're the new girl," the woman said. "Come. It's almost dark."
Elena gathered her bag and stepped out into the cold. Her boots sank slightly into damp earth. She followed the woman silently across the gravel drive and up the marble steps, each one etched with strange runes worn by weather and time.
Inside, the air smelled of old paper, beeswax, and something faintly metallic—like blood polished clean.
"Your name?" the woman asked.
"Elena Moreau."
"I'm Mrs. Harrow, the housekeeper. You will speak only when spoken to, follow your assignments exactly, and never ask questions about the West Wing. Do you understand?"
"Yes, ma'am."
Mrs. Harrow handed her a brass candlestick with a thin white taper.
"You'll sleep in the servant quarters. Your morning duties begin at five sharp. But tonight… you'll assist me in the East Library."
Elena nodded, clutching the candle as though it might protect her.
As they walked, the hallways twisted unnaturally, stretching longer than seemed possible, each turn unfamiliar. Heavy portraits lined the walls—women with blank expressions, and men with eyes too sharp, too knowing. A fire crackled somewhere distant, but no warmth touched the stone floor beneath her feet.
She saw no other servants.
"Are there many others working here?" Elena asked quietly.
Mrs. Harrow paused. "Fewer than yesterday."
Before Elena could reply, a low sound rumbled through the manor—like a growl masked beneath groaning timber. Her candle flickered, and for a moment, every shadow seemed to stretch toward her.
"You'll find the East Library behind the hall of mirrors," Mrs. Harrow said briskly, motioning down a corridor to the left. "I expect it cleaned before dawn. Do not open the red door."
And with that, the woman turned and vanished into the dark.
---
The hall of mirrors was worse than she imagined.
The glass wasn't clean and smooth like the mirrors in noble homes. These were old—stained, spotted, and warped. Her reflection didn't follow her exactly. It lagged behind. And once—just once—she saw it smile when she did not.
The East Library was vast, filled with dust-choked bookshelves and a thousand clocks that had all stopped at different times.
Elena set down her candle and got to work, dusting slowly, careful not to disturb the strange books with no titles, or the massive globe that turned on its own.
She heard footsteps once, and turned, but saw no one.
A whisper slithered through the air: "You came…"
She dropped her feather duster. "Who's there?"
No answer came, but when she turned back toward the desk, a rose lay on the floor. Crimson. Fresh. Unwilted.
Elena bent to pick it up—and froze.
A tall figure stood in the doorway, silhouetted by candlelight. Not a servant. Not a man. His presence filled the room like smoke. Shadowed horns crowned his head, faint and flickering like illusions in firelight. His eyes—red as embers—glowed softly in the dark.
"Elena," he said.
She had never told him her name.