The morning came soft and gray, with mist coiling at the edges of the windowpanes like smoke from a dying fire.
Arabella sat up slowly, eyes dragging toward the floor.
But alas! It looks dry.
The wooden boards beneath her bed were perfectly dry. No trace of the wet trail she'd seen the night before. No muddy footprints. No chill in the air. Even the balcony dooris now closed and its latch drawn, though she distinctly remembered never touching it.
She swung her legs over the side, let her feet rest on the rug, surprisingly it's still dry.
For a moment she remained there, bare toes flexing against the fabric, as if testing whether the house would react. Whether it was still watching.
But It didn't.
She rose, dressing herself in a plum silk gown that cinched tight at the waist and left her arms bare. She coiled her dark hair into a loose knot, pinned with silver combs. Her reflection in the vanity mirror looked back blankly, the skin beneath her eyes looks bruised from lack of sleep.
She stepped into the hallway and called down: "Lisette."
Immediately the clatter of a tray, followed by hurried footsteps could be heard.
Lisette appeared from the servants' passage, brow furrowed, apron already dusted with flour and ash. "You're up late, madam." She complained.
Arabella's eyes narrowed. "Did you come into my room last night?"
Lisette stopped two steps from her and answered.
"No, ma'am."
"Nothing was cleaned?" "No."
"The floor was wet Lisette."
She paused slightly and said. "Rain plays tricks, sometimes. Especially through windows."
"My window was shut."
Lisette's lips pressed tight, but she said nothing more. She adjusted the tray in her arms and turned for the stairs.
Arabella followed her down to the Blue Room where Jonah was.
The parlor was already lit when she entered, though the shutters were still drawn. The storm had passed, leaving only fog and a soft drizzle on the garden stones outside. The room smelled faintly of scorched ash and rosewater.
Jonah was there. He stood barefoot near the hearth, facing the fireplace though there was no fire lit. Dressed now in one of Elias's old linen shirts and a pair of black trousers that hung too loose on his hips, he looked almost like a proper servant if not for the eerie stillness in him.
Arabella stopped in the doorway.
She knew he heard her coming but he didn't turn or bother to acknowledge her at all.
Only when she stepped closer did he glance up, slowly, like a statue returning to life. His eyes settled on hers, not questioning her but expecting her to speak.
"Did you sleep?" she asked.
Nothing he just kept staring at her eeringly.
"Do you… sleep, Jonah?"
He paused.Then he replied with a whisper, barely audible: "No."
She walked past him, poured herself coffee from the silver urn Lisette had left.
"Well then," she said, turning back, cup in hand. "You'll serve breakfast. Then begin cleaning the east wing. Don't touch the doors that are locked. Don't speak to anyone but me. And if anyone asks who you are…"
She sipped.
"Tell them you belong to me."
Jonah didn't move or respond.
But she could swear she saw saw his lips faintly curled into the ghost of something like a smile, or a warning, Arabella wasn't sure .