(Ruby's POV)
I don't sleep.
The bed is a cloud, the sheets softer than anything I've ever touched, but I lie rigid in the center of it, staring at the canopy. The black orchid sits on the nightstand, a dark pupil watching me in the dim glow from the fireplace embers.
For your safety.
The words loop in my head, twisting into a dozen horrible meanings. What's in the west wing that's so dangerous? A monster? His true face? Or something worse—something that would make me understand this place, and him, and I'd never be able to unsee it?
The wind never stops. It's a constant, low moan around the stones of the manor, a sound that seeps into the bones. Between its cries, the house is silent. A dead, rich silence.
When the first gray light of dawn finally bleeds around the heavy drapes, I give up on sleep. I get up, my body stiff. I explore the room they've given me. The bathroom is all marble and polished chrome, with a tub deep enough to drown in. The wardrobe is empty, waiting. The bookshelf holds classic novels, leather-bound and untouched. Everything is perfect. Everything is sterile.
I am a guest in a museum no one visits.
A soft knock at the door makes me jump. It unlocks, and a young maid I haven't seen before enters, her eyes firmly on the floor. She carries a tray with a pot of tea, toast, and a small bowl of berries.
"Good morning, miss," she murmurs, placing it on the desk. She won't look at me.
"Good morning," I say, my voice raspy from disuse. "What's your name?"
She freezes, as if I've spoken in a forbidden language. "It's just Sarah, miss." She curtseys, a quick, nervous bob, and is gone, the key turning again.
The isolation is a physical weight. They're not just keeping me in; they're keeping everything out. Including basic human connection.
After I pick at the food, I dress in the same navy dress. It feels like a costume now. I stand before the window and, with a deep breath, pull back the heavy velvet drapes.
The view steals the air from my lungs.
It's terrifyingly beautiful. My room looks out over the cliff's edge. Far below, the North Atlantic rages, white-capped and furious, smashing against black rocks with a violence I can feel through the glass. The sky is a bruised tapestry of gray and purple, promising more storm. The land is raw, untamed, all heather and rock and wind-bent trees. There's not another house in sight. Not a road. Not a soul.
It's the end of the world.
And I am trapped at its very edge.
A strange, defiant energy crackles in my veins. He told me to be invisible. To be quiet. He gave me this pretty room with a pretty view to pacify me. He thinks I'll just sit and look at the sea and accept my fate.
He doesn't know me. Not really.
I have the run of the house, she said. Well then, I'll run it.
I go to the door and try the handle, half-expecting it to still be locked. It turns. He's given me a longer leash. I open the door and step into the silent corridor.
The manor by daylight is no less imposing, but the scale of it is breathtaking. I wander, my footsteps hushed by thick runners. I pass closed door after closed door. I find a formal drawing room with gilded furniture no one has ever sat on. A morning room with a harp gathering dust. A billiard room with cues racked like soldiers, untouched.
It's a tomb of luxury. A life preserved but not lived.
The only signs of life are the occasional maids, who always seem to be dusting already spotless surfaces. They see me and instantly find a reason to turn away, to disappear through a service door. The message is clear: I am an anomaly here. A ghost they're instructed to ignore.
I find the library last. It's two stories tall, with a wrought-iron gallery running around the second level. The scent hits me first—old paper, leather, and beeswax. It's a good smell, a real smell. Shelves stretch to the ceiling, crammed with thousands of books. Ladders on rails stand ready to climb. It's the first room that feels like it has a soul, however dusty.
My heart lifts a little. If I have to be a prisoner, at least there are books.
I walk slowly down the central aisle, my fingers trailing over leather spines. History, philosophy, poetry in Greek and Latin, volumes on botany and architecture. It's a scholar's collection. Not what I'd expect from a beast.
Then, tucked in a corner by a tall, narrow window, I see it.
A painting.
It's a landscape. Not of these brutal cliffs, but of a gentle, sun-drenched meadow filled with wildflowers. The light is captured so perfectly it seems to glow from within the canvas. The brushstrokes are loose, impressionistic, full of joy.
I know that style. I'd know it anywhere.
My breath catches. I step closer, my heart hammering against my ribs.
In the bottom right corner, the signature is a flowing, artistic script: E. Banks.
Elara. My mother.
A wave of dizziness hits me. I reach out to steady myself on a reading table. What is her painting doing here? In this house, at the edge of nowhere? She disappeared years ago. Her work was celebrated, then she was just… gone. We assumed she was dead. We had to.
And here she is, smiling from a sunlit field on the wall of a monster's castle.
The world tilts. None of this makes sense. My family's debt, my sale, this isolated manor, and now my missing mother's art? The threads tangle in my head, forming a web I can't see the edges of.
I move closer, devouring the painting. It's like seeing her ghost. Her love of light, her ability to find beauty in a simple patch of grass… it's all here. It feels like a message. But for whom?
Driven by a sudden, desperate impulse, I gently lift the painting from the wall. The back is dusty. And there, tucked into the space between the canvas and the frame, is a piece of paper.
My hands tremble as I pull it out. It's a sketch, done in hurried charcoal. Not a meadow. It's a detailed, architectural drawing of this manor. Specifically, the west wing facade. The artist—my mother—has drawn arrows to certain windows, noted the stonework. And on one high window, she's drawn a circle. A thick, dark, deliberate circle.
Beneath it, two words are scribbled, barely legible, as if written in haste or fear:
See truth.
A cold that has nothing to do with the drafty library seeps into my core. The forbidden wing. My mother's hidden clue. A circle around a window.
The door to the library opens silently.
I jump, shoving the sketch behind my back, pressing it against the cool canvas. I turn, expecting Mrs. MacLeod, or him.
It's a young man. Not Nicholas. This man is maybe a few years older than me, with sandy hair and an open, pleasant face. He's dressed in casual trousers and a sweater, looking completely out of place in the funereal grandeur.
He smiles, a warm, easy smile that disarms me completely. "Hello there. You must be the new… guest."
He has a soft Scottish lilt. He seems normal. Human. The first person in this place who hasn't looked at me like I'm a piece of furniture or a threat.
"I… I'm Ruby," I say, my voice shaky.
"A pleasure, Ruby. I'm Liam." He steps into the room, his hands in his pockets. "I'm the groundskeeper. Well, the assistant groundskeeper. My uncle manages the gardens, such as they are." He nods toward the window. "Bleak out there, isn't it? Not much grows but stubborn things."
A groundskeeper. A normal job. A friendly face. The relief is so sudden it makes my eyes prick with tears. I have to fight them back.
"It's… very isolated," I manage.
"That it is." His smile turns a little sympathetic. "Can be hard for someone not used to it. The silence gets inside your head." He glances at the painting in my hands. "Ah, you found one of Elara's pieces. She was brilliant, wasn't she?"
The sound of her name on his lips is another shock. "You knew her?"
"Oh, not really. Before my time. But I've heard the stories. The great artist who visited years ago. Left a few beauties behind." He leans in conspiratorially. "They say the Master was quite taken with her work. Bought every piece she did of the manor."
The Master. Nicholas.
My mother was here. He knew her. He collected her art.
The web pulls tighter.
Liam's friendly eyes drift over my shoulder, to the shelf behind me. "You know, if you like plants, there's the conservatory. It's a sorry state, but it's got more life in it than these old books. Even if most of it is dying." He gives a little shrug. "Just a thought. It's through the south corridor, past the kitchen. Hard to miss."
He gives me one last, kind smile. "Nice to meet you, Ruby. Don't let the ghosts bother you." And with a wink, he's gone, leaving the library door ajar.
I stand there, clutching my mother's painting and the hidden sketch, my mind reeling. A friendly ally? A glimpse of my mother's past here? A clue pointing to the west wing?
And a conservatory of dying plants.
It feels like a sign. A direction. In a house of dead, beautiful things, a place where something is trying to live, however feebly.
I carefully rehang the painting, my mother's serene meadow hiding its desperate secret once more. I fold the sketch and tuck it deep into the pocket of my dress.
The fear is still there, a constant hum. But underneath it, something new is sparking. Purpose. Curiosity.
He thinks he's bought a quiet, broken girl.
But I am my mother's daughter. And she left me a map.
I leave the library and head south, following Liam's directions. I pass the kitchen, where the staff falls silent as I walk by. I find a plain, wooden door.
I open it, and the smell of damp earth and green, rotting things washes over me.
I step into the conservatory. It's a cathedral of glass and neglect. Frost etches beautiful, deadly patterns on the panes. And everywhere, on wrought-iron tables and benches, are orchids. Dozens of them. The most exotic, intricate flowers I've ever seen, with blooms like painted porcelain and spidery roots.
And they are all, every single one of them, dying.
Their leaves are yellowed, drooping. Their brilliant flowers are browned at the edges, hanging limply. It's a graveyard of beauty.
My artist's eye, my sister's gentle heart, aches at the sight. Without thinking, I go to the nearest plant, a magnificent specimen with cascading purple blooms. I touch the potting medium. It's dust-dry.
I look around. There's a watering can. There's a sink.
He said to be quiet. To be invisible.
But as I pick up the watering can, feeling its cool, solid weight in my hand, I make a silent vow.
I will not just survive in this gilded cage.
I will find the things that are dying here.
And I will try to make them live.