Moorland stretched outward in a sullen sweep, its long grasses bent low beneath the steady fingers of the wind. Rain travelled across the heather in fine, silver threads that blurred ground and sky into a single grey breadth of evening. The road narrowed as it climbed, winding between dark humps of peat until the very shape of the land felt half-forgotten and ancient.
Out of that shifting greyness rose the manor.
Rowanmere Vale gathered itself from the mist with the sternness of an old reproach, its walls appearing in brief strips before being swallowed again. A chimney surfaced like the lifted spine of some great creature, only to fade back into vapour. Even the roof, steep and sharp-angled, softened beneath the fog until it seemed grown from the moor rather than constructed upon it.
A pale circle glimmered above the roof's shadowed crown.
At first glance it resembled a weak and drowning moon. As the carriage strained up the final incline, the light steadied, revealing the lantern of a clock tower. Its glow pressed faintly through the fog, as though the tower breathed behind a veil that refused to let its illumination fully open. A moment later, the mist reclaimed it.
The horses slowed to a halt. Hooves splashed through shallow water along the gravel, and the driver descended without a word. He opened the carriage door for me with careful politeness, keeping his gaze lowered as if Rowanmere discouraged direct looks at anything or anyone.
Cold pressed upward from the stones when my boots touched the ground. Rain needled my cheeks and gathered in my hair. The great front doors stood ahead, tall and unadorned, as though the manor refused ornament on principle.
Before my hand reached the iron handle, the doors opened.
A small man stood within, framed by lamplight. His posture was attentive, his expression composed, and something in his manner suggested he rarely permitted himself to be startled.
"Good evening, miss," he said. "I am Pell. Your arrival has been expected."
The wet weight of my cloak left my shoulders as he took it from me. Water darkened the stones where it fell. A hush replaced the storm as soon as I stepped inside. Stone, tallow, and the faintest remnant of lilac shaped the air. The scent felt like a memory the manor had kept too long.
Footsteps approached from the corridor.
A tall woman in a severe black gown advanced toward us. Keys chimed at her waist with each step. Her face held the practiced composure of someone who had carried the burden of stillness for many years.
"I am Mrs. Harlow," she said. "Rowanmere observes its own order. You will follow it as the master does. Your room is prepared."
Without waiting for acknowledgment, she turned down the corridor, certain I would follow.
The portraits along the hall gazed down from their dark frames. Candlelight coaxed movement from varnished faces, lending an uneasy sense that each figure adjusted its expression at our passing. Heavy curtains shivered faintly in a draft that had no visible source.
Mrs. Harlow opened a door to the drawing room. A modest fire breathed upon the hearth, casting a wash of amber across the carpet. A grand piano rested near the far wall, its lacquer catching the fire's flicker as though warming itself on the glow.
"You will meet the master and the children in the morning," she said. "Your responsibilities in the east library will be given after breakfast."
I offered a small nod. The work mattered. So did the distance from the life I had left behind.
We ascended the staircase. The runner over the steps muffled our ascent, though the old wood beneath it spoke faintly with each movement. Shadows stretched along the wall at our side, rising with us as though they too wished to see where I would be placed.
My chamber waited at the end of the hallway. A small fire glowed within the grate, its warmth reaching the corners only in modest threads. Rain tapped steadily against the window. A candle flickered upon the writing table, its flame leaning into every passing draft.
"The bell pull is here," Mrs. Harlow said, touching the braided cord beside the bed. "A single tug will bring assistance."
"I appreciate it," I replied.
She left quietly, the keys at her waist fading into the hush until the house seemed to absorb the last trace of her presence.
My small case rested near the bed. I crossed to the washstand. A mercury-tin mirror hung above it, its surface warped by age. Candlelight glided across the mottled glass in uneven bands, revealing and concealing in the same breath.
My reflection assembled itself in fragments. One cheek softened, the other sharpened. My eyes appeared darker than usual, as though the mirror borrowed some truth from within me and pressed it outward. A stray piece of hair had fallen from its pin.
The surface quivered.
For a shallow breath, my reflection tilted its chin in a way that did not match my movement. A softness at the mouth appeared that did not belong to me, not tonight. Something knowing passed through the eyes in the glass.
A whisper of unease swept down my spine.
The candle wavered. The strange expression dissolved as quickly as it had formed. Only my own tired face remained.
Weariness, I told myself. Or the tricks of old glass. Or the mind's habit of inventing what it fears to remember.
My fingers rose to the pins in my hair. They slid free, and the dark length tumbled past my shoulders with a warm heaviness. The act loosened something in my chest. The hooks at the back of my dress came undone with practiced ease, and the fabric fell in a silent column around my feet.
Cool air found my skin. My chemise rested lightly against my ribs, carrying a faint scent of lavender from the drawer. I lifted my left hand.
A pale band marked the place where my wedding ring had lived.
John's face rose through memory, gentle and familiar. I recalled the warmth of his hand over mine, the soft cadence of his laughter, the way he bent over his writing with an expression of earnest concentration. His cough began as a whisper of winter, then deepened into a sound that rearranged our days, until it shaped the last week entirely.
Grief builds its own rooms in the heart. Some remain locked no matter how many seasons pass.
I lay across the coverlet. Rain continued its delicate whisper upon the window. The fire shifted, offering its warmth in small, steady breaths. My hair pooled along the pillow. My left hand rested on my chest, the ringless finger cold against my skin.
Sleep would not come.
The hush of the manor thickened. Silence felt intentional, as though each hallway and beam held its own breath, listening.
A floorboard whispered outside my door.
Another responded faintly.
Then a single note rose through the quiet.
Low, deliberate, placed with the caution of someone unsure whether sound belonged in the hour.
Another note followed.
Then a third.
A melody began to rise.
I pushed aside the coverlet and lifted the candle. The flame tilted toward me, feathering its light across my wrist and the loose fall of hair along my shoulder.
The corridor extended ahead, dim and narrow. Shadows receded only under the insistence of my candle. The air grew cooler with each step, carrying the scent of old timber and distant fires.
At the landing, a soft chill passed over my bare toes. The staircase dropped into darkness. My hand closed upon the rail, and candlelight streamed down the banister like a pale ribbon.
Music deepened.
The drawing-room door stood ajar. A thin spill of firelight seeped into the hall. I eased the door wider and entered.
A man sat at the piano.
His back faced me. Shoulders rose and fell with the breath of the melody. Fingers moved with a slow, contemplative grace, shaping each note as though retrieving a memory from the keys.
The music faltered at my arrival.
He lifted his head slightly. After a moment, he turned.
Candlelight revealed him by increments. His eyes met mine first—deep green, shadowed and stirring like a forest floor after rain. His hair, the colour of wet sand, fell in an uneven line over his brow. The rest of his face emerged gradually: a straight, thoughtful nose; a mouth held in quiet control; a faint roughness at the jaw that lent him an austerity not unkind.
"I did not expect anyone awake," I said softly.
He rose. His movements were measured, as though he valued precision in even the smallest gesture. "You must be Miss Lorne."
"You know me."
"Yes. Pell informed me."
"I hope I am not disturbing you."
"You are not," he said, though something unsettled flickered in the depth of his gaze.
"I could not sleep," I told him.
"No," he answered quietly. "I imagined you would not."
The certainty stirred a ripple of unease. "What made you imagine such a thing?"
His eyes moved briefly to the candle, then to the line of my collarbone where the chemise revealed more than daylight would have permitted. He redirected his gaze with deliberate restraint.
"You should not wander the manor dressed so lightly," he said.
The tone carried effort, not reproach.
"Do you speak as caution?"
My voice was steady, though my pulse rose with a slow insistence.
"No," he replied. "I speak as a man trying very hard not to look."
Heat crept along my throat. A strand of hair brushed my shoulder, and I saw the faint pull of his attention before he mastered himself again.
He resumed his seat but did not play. His hands hovered above the keys, trembling so slightly one might mistake it for the piano's reflection rather than his own struggle.
"I am Vale," he said. "Master of Rowanmere."
The name settled into the room with the weight of something long endured.
"Good night, sir," I said.
He inclined his head. "Good night, Miss Lorne."
The corridor swallowed me in its stillness. Music resumed behind the door almost at once, softer, more fractured, shaped by thought he had not wished anyone to overhear.
At the landing, my reflection appeared in the tall window. For a fleeting moment, the figure in the glass tilted her chin in a manner that felt unfamiliar. The illusion dissolved as soon as I focused upon it.
Fog pressed thickly against the pane, erasing the world beyond.
I returned to my chamber. Candlelight shivered across the narrow walls. The embers glowed faintly. My hand drifted again to the bare ring finger as I lay on the bed.
Night gathered around me.
Music thinned into silence.
Sleep closed over my thoughts at last, dark and unsteady, drawing me toward a depth I did not yet understand.