The following Saturday, Larkspur House awoke for the first charity event. Jolene threw herself into the work, her hands and mind busied with linens, food, invitations, and a choir of neighborhood children who rehearsed in the old chapel. The house seemed to glow, its long-dormant halls brightening with the sounds of laughter and music.
Guests arrived in a swirl of umbrellas and bright scarves, their shoes clicking across marble floors. Jolene greeted each one with practiced warmth, feeling the eyes of the mansion on her. The event was a success—children giggled as they chased one another past ancestral portraits, neighbors toasted one another beneath golden sconces, and the kitchen sent out mountains of honey cakes and cinnamon tea.
Amid the festivities, Jolene felt a pulse of something electric—like a heartbeat thrumming beneath the floorboards. At times, she glimpsed a tall, dark figure on the edge of her vision, only to turn and find no one there.
When the last guest departed and the echoes faded, Jolene wandered the halls, adrenaline making her bold. She paused by the portrait gallery and studied the master's painted face. Edward's eyes, impossibly vivid, seemed to follow her, knowing and enigmatic.
She whispered, "Why do you haunt me?"
The silence that followed felt expectant, as if the house itself was holding its breath.