Page 31 of The Beast's Heart

He nods.

Maybe I was too quick to judge him. I am scrawny, there’s no denying that.

“I’ll think about it.”

Geoff shrugs. “Well, you know where to findme. Because I’m not a tortured recluse.”

With that, he returns to his punching bag.

I check the kitchen, the laundry, and all the rooms we checked when looking for Mal. I pause in the little study with the Tiffany lamp. The shelves are packed with reference books and a large vinyl collection.

Intrigued, I sift through the records. Lots of Beethoven, some Brahms. And…a record with a blue cover, featuring a white baby grand piano. The album name scrawled across the top reads: Lloyd Du Villeneuve in Concert. I didn’t even know they still pressed records of concerts. He must have had this made as a special edition. For Patreon or something.

“Was this your place?” I ask the empty air. “They probably haven’t touched it since you… well, since you left.”

I feel immediately silly and also a bit like a snoop. I close the door to that study behind me and continue back along the passage to the foyer.

Opposite the entrance is another set of double doors. These are intricately carved in flowing floral scrollwork with big brass handles. To my surprise, the doors open with a light nudge.

I know immediately that I won’t find Adam here, but I step in regardless. This is a ballroom. Like something out of a movie. Parquet floors stretch out the entire length of the room. On the far end, huge floor-to-ceiling arched windows, bordered by heavy velvet drapes, let in the weak light. They’re in needof a clean, but there’s something ethereal about the watery light pouring into this abandoned space. High overhead, a glass chandelier dangles from a pressed ceiling and around the room, painted panels display pastoral scenery.

“Wow,” I whisper, moving closer to examine them. There are rooms in this manor that are beautiful beyond anything I thought I’d see with my own eyes, but this is by far the mystery decorator’s best work. Every panel was chosen with care, gilded in places and varnished for preservation. I’m leaning close to appreciate some fine brushwork on one of the murals when I hear a noise behind me.

I turn guiltily, but there’s no one there.

No one living, at any rate.

Ghosts do not exist.

But oh, if there was ever a room more likely to be haunted.

I turn to admire the artwork again, heart drumming in my ears. I move slowly and deliberately from piece to piece. And if I sense a presence behind me, it ispurelymy imagination.

“You’re the designer, aren’t you?” I whisper, to absolutely nothing. “You loved this manor. Maybe that’s why they think a part of you still lingers here. This home was a dream, and this room was at its center. But you never got to enjoy it, did you?” The thought makes my chest tight.

A breeze rustles the drapes and my own soul just about leaves my body. Thank god no one’s around because I’m pretty sure I squeak in a completely undignified manner. Where did that breeze even come from? The door I just opened? On the opposite side of the room?

Pulse racing, I leave the ballroom and shut the door securely behind me.

The only place left to check is the grounds. The rain is no more than a damp mist as I head out. I poke around the front garden and check in the potting shed around the back, but findonly Angus taking advantage of the break in the bad weather to transplant some seedlings into a bed along the wall.

“Sorry to bother. Have you seen Adam?”

“Aye, heading intae th' wids.”

Finally.I head into the forest, following the path up towards the lake. What possible business could Adam have out here?Unless…My stomach muscles tighten. What if he’s gone to the lake to mourn? I don’t want to intrude. I turn around and hear… whistling?

I pause. Definitely not bird song. A human. It could be Angus, except he seemed quite settled at his task. I step into the woods, following the sound.

My nostrils fill with the scent of damp earth as I carefully move between mossy trunks and over thick roots until I catch a glimpse of a building—it’s a dazzling domed conservatory of wrought iron and glass, almost entirely hidden away. A thick curtain of scarlet climbing roses covers the one side, but through the branches, I can make out a bulky figure moving around within. Whistling.

Is that… it can’t be?

It’s Adam. The greenhouse is filled with lush leafy things. Ferns and lilies and philodendron and numerous other plants I can’t name spill from every surface. He’s trimming some dead leaves off a delicate, spindly seedling. The tiny scissors look almost comical in his giant hands.

Who is this man?

He checks another plant and stops whistling to whisper something to it.I recall how gentle he was with Mal when we found him under the desk.

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