Chapter 7: The Locked Wing
Ashvale Manor had always seemed vast to Eleanor, but until that morning, she hadn't realized how much of it had been sealed away.
It began with a map.
She discovered it rolled into a forgotten scroll tube beneath the desk in the study — the old one Lady Catherine rarely entered. It was yellowed, fragile, labeled ASHVALE MANOR – Original Floor Plan, 1822.
She spread it across her desk, smoothing out the creases.
Three main wings.
The east wing, where her bedroom and the library were located. The west wing, used for guests and formal rooms. And then… the north wing.
Sealed.
There was no mention of it in Lady Catherine's words, and none of the servants had spoken of it. But on the map, the north wing stood out like a scar — a hallway lined with bedrooms, a sitting room, a winter parlor, and at the very end, a solarium overlooking the orchard.
And scrawled in faded ink beside one door: "Catherine's Room."
Her room?
Eleanor stared at the note.
Lady Catherine had always occupied the master suite on the second floor. Why, then, had she once lived in a different part of the manor?
And more importantly — what had driven her from it?
---
"Nathaniel," Eleanor said, spreading the map across his writing desk. "Have you ever seen this wing?"
He leaned over the blueprint, brows furrowing. "No. I didn't even know it existed."
"It's not just closed," she said. "It's completely sealed off."
He ran his fingers along the drawn hallway. "But this room… the solarium. I remember it. Faintly. I was very small, but I think… I played there once. There was light. A glass ceiling. My mother took me there before—" He paused. "Before my father died."
Eleanor's pulse quickened. "Then why did she shut it away?"
Nathaniel's voice darkened. "Maybe it was the last place she saw him."
"Or the last place he saw her."
They exchanged a glance.
Then Eleanor pointed. "We need to find a way in."
---
That night, they waited until the manor fell silent.
The servants had gone to bed. Lady Catherine had retired to her suite. The fire in the great hall burned low, and the wind pressed gently against the windows like a breath trying to be heard.
They carried a single lantern and a brass ring of keys Nathaniel had borrowed from the butler's drawer.
It took them ten minutes to reach the north corridor. The door leading into it was tall and thick, its wood warped with age. A rusted iron latch held it in place.
Nathaniel tried three keys before one turned with a heavy click.
The door creaked open.
A wave of stale air met them, cool and undisturbed. Dust motes danced in the lantern light as they stepped through.
It was like entering a forgotten tomb.
White sheets draped over furniture. Mirrors covered in black cloth. The wallpaper curled from the edges, faded into soft lilac and blue.
Eleanor's boots echoed as they walked.
The hallway bent slightly, opening into a small sitting room. There were armchairs, a fireplace, a rocking horse, and a shattered teacup on the floor.
Nathaniel stooped to pick it up, turning the porcelain over in his hand.
"I remember this," he whispered. "My mother's favorite."
Eleanor knelt beside a cabinet and opened the doors.
Inside were photo albums.
She pulled one out, careful not to disturb the brittle leather.
Inside were black-and-white portraits—Lady Catherine in her youth, Nathaniel as a baby, and another man.
Jonathan Ashvale.
He was striking — tall, fair-haired, eyes solemn. But beside him, in one image, stood a woman Eleanor did not recognize.
She was younger, darker in coloring, and wore no jewelry, no signs of status.
Yet Jonathan's hand hovered near hers, almost touching.
There was no label beneath her photo.
Eleanor tapped the glass. "Do you know who she is?"
Nathaniel stared at the picture. "No. But I think that's her."
"The one he wrote about?"
He nodded slowly. "She's the only one who looks alive."
Eleanor carefully slipped the photo into her coat pocket.
They moved farther down the corridor.
At the end stood a white-painted door. The solarium.
Nathaniel reached for the handle.
It was locked.
Eleanor tried several keys. None fit.
Nathaniel frowned. "Stand back."
He braced himself and kicked near the handle.
The wood groaned, splintered, then gave way with a snap.
They stepped inside.
The air smelled of roses and glass. Dust lay thick on the floor, but moonlight poured through the arched windows and slanted ceiling, casting the entire room in a surreal glow.
Dead vines clung to the windows. Petal fragments littered the floor.
And in the center of the room, on a wrought iron chair, sat a journal.
Eleanor froze.
Nathaniel moved slowly, lifting it from the seat.
It was smaller than Jonathan's journal. Bound in blue velvet.
He opened the cover.
A name written in faded ink: "Margaret Elwood."
Eleanor's breath caught. "She had a journal too."
Nathaniel turned the first page. Then the next.
Each one filled with elegant script.
> "He kissed my hand in the solarium. I know he shouldn't have. He has a wife, a child. But when he touches me, the world quiets. I forget my place."
> "Catherine saw us. I felt her watching through the glass. She hasn't spoken to me since."
> "I fear I won't be allowed to stay. I have no name, no coin. Only my heart."
> "Jonathan says he'll speak to her. That he loves me. That we could leave."
> "But I know Catherine. I know what she is capable of."
Eleanor's hands trembled. "She was a servant. Or maybe a companion."
"And my father fell in love with her," Nathaniel murmured. "They planned to leave."
"But she vanished," Eleanor said. "And he died."
Nathaniel flipped to the final entry.
> "If you're reading this, it means the manor still stands. It means I didn't escape. But let someone know: I loved him. And he loved me. And that should have been enough."
A tear slipped down Eleanor's cheek.
"She was real," she whispered. "And she died in this house."
Nathaniel's hand closed over hers.
"No," he said. "She was killed."
---
They didn't hear the footsteps until it was too late.
Lady Catherine stood in the broken doorway, eyes like ice.
"Put it down," she said.
Eleanor rose to her feet, journal in hand. "Why did you hide her?"
Lady Catherine didn't blink. "Because she didn't belong here."
"She loved him."
"She ruined him," Catherine snapped. "She made him forget who he was. This manor, our family—it was all supposed to be his legacy. But she… she pulled him away. He became soft. Obsessed."
Eleanor stared at her in horror. "So you locked her away?"
"I gave her a chance to leave. She refused." Catherine's voice grew colder. "She thought she could win. That love was enough. But it isn't. Not in this world."
Nathaniel stepped forward, voice trembling. "You killed her."
"I preserved this family," Lady Catherine whispered. "You would have been a bastard in rags, Nathaniel. I did what I had to do."
Eleanor's voice broke. "You buried your husband's heart and called it tradition."
Lady Catherine's eyes glistened, but no tears fell. "I buried a mistake."
She turned and walked away.
Nathaniel didn't follow.
Neither did Eleanor.
The room felt suddenly hollow.
But in her hand, the journal still breathed.
And now, they had the truth.
---