Page 36 of Darkest at Dusk
Isabella sat on the edge of the bed, her dark hair tumbling in loose waves over her shoulders, her nightgown pooling around her legs. She had tossed and turned after returning to her room, falling asleep only in the early hours.
The events of the night before clung to her still.
The girl. A wraith unlike any she had previously encountered, too solid, too real.
The man. Rhys Caradoc. Barefoot. Half-dressed. His voice like brandy poured over gravel. His eyes, gray as a winter sky, fringed in black curling lashes, lingering on her face, making her pulse race.
Her body remembered the press of his fingers against her wrist, the graze of his knuckles below her ear, the heat of his touch before he had released her. He had stood so close she had breathed in the scent of his skin, a clean bite of citrus over linen.
Her reaction disarmed her, confused her. The racing of her pulse. The unfamiliar dryness in her mouth. The yearning ache that had unfurled deep in her belly. Dark. Thrilling.
She did not know what she might become beneath his gaze, beneath his touch, and that not knowing was its own peril.
With a sharp breath, she pushed herself to her feet. Enough of this. She was not some schoolgirl mooning over a beau.
The faint ache in her legs told her she had been tense even in sleep, every muscle drawn tight like a piano wire. She exhaled then drew a deep, slow breath, forcing her lungs to expand, using the moment to remind herself that she was still here, still herself, still in control of her own body and choices despite the man who made her feel unmoored. She held her breath, counting to four as she had when Papa’s hands had shaken and she had needed to be the steady one.
Her gaze flicked toward the heavy velvet curtains, and she crossed the room to pull them open. Daylight spilled in, revealing a room that now seemed so ordinary, stripped of last night’s shadows and secrets. The walls were paneled in dark oak, carved with intricate designs of vines, flowers, and leaves. The heavy armoire loomed in one corner, its polished surface reflecting her pale face back at her, warped at the edges. For a heartbeat, the reflection appeared to double, like two versions of herself occupying the same place, before merging into a single image once more.
Her gaze drifted across the large four-poster bed with its thick canopy and heavy drapes. A dark blue and gold rug stretched beneath her feet, its pattern faded and threadbare in places, worn away by countless footsteps.
And there, against the farthest wall, stood her father’s trunk, its brass fittings glinting. The keyhole was a dark mystery, waiting…waiting.
Not today. The thought clanged like a gong.
The weight of the key against her chest was like an anchor, heavy and unyielding, cold as frost. But she was not ready to know. Not yet. Maybe she never would be. She thought of Papa, kneeling by the trunk, books and manuscripts scattered all around him, desperation a thick cloud sitting on his shoulders. There was nothing good to be found in that trunk.
Shaking off the seedlings of a sour mood, she went to the window and pressed her palm against the glass, her breath fogging the cold surface.
In the distance, the gentle rise and fall of hills rolled out toward the horizon, their edges swathed in morning mist. Below her was the garden. Once, it must have been a marvel, an ordered labyrinth of beauty. Now, it lay in disarray, vines creeping like dark veins, rose bushes grown wild and untamed, symmetrical green grass paths stretching between squared hedges and shrubs, their shapes undone by years of neglect. Stone statues leaned at odd angles, features softened by moss, eyes watching.
Isabella lingered for a moment longer, her fingertips against the cold glass, then she drew away and turned back to the room.
There was no going back. Not to her father’s study, not to the life she had known.
She dressed, her gown of black wool warm against her skin, then she rolled her hair into a loose knot at her nape. A glance in the looking glass revealed pale cheeks and purple shadows beneath her brown eyes, but nothing more. No wraiths with burning pits for eyes, no translucent hands reaching for her.
Still there was something about the reflection that did not feel like her own. For the briefest moment, she thought the glass rippled, as though it were a deep, dark pond and something had shifted below the surface. She blinked, and the illusion was gone. Gone…or hiding.
Isabella turned away from the mirror, wrapping her arms around herself before squaring her shoulders, resolute. She would carve out a place for herself here. She would build a life.
But first, breakfast.
She opened the door with confidence, but as she stepped into the hallway, doubt began to creep in. The manor’s hallways were an unforgiving maze, their corners sharp, their lengths shadowed even in daylight, the air smelling of beeswax and old smoke.
Isabella hesitated at the first junction. Left, or right? Each direction seemed equally unfamiliar, equally uninviting. The paneled walls and faded tapestries gave no hints, no guidance. The echoes of her own soft footsteps followed her as she chose the left corridor.
She paused again at a fork in the hall, pressing the tip of her tongue against the backs of her teeth. She should have paid more attention when Mrs. Abernathy led her upstairs last night. A pang of irritation flared within her, at herself, at the manor, at the way these halls seemed to still and listen, leaning toward her as though cupping an ear.
Determined to find her way, she was relieved to find the servants’ stairs, surely the same ones she had ascended the previous night. She followed them down and then the clink of porcelain and the low murmur of voices reached her ears proving she had chosen the correct path after all.
She turned toward the sound, her skirts brushing against her boots with every step. The scent of eggs and toasted bread grew stronger as she rounded another corner. Her stomach answered with a mortifying growl.
At last, she saw the wide doorway to the kitchen, the warm glow of firelight spilling out like a golden beacon into the dim hallway.
Peg stood by the entryway, wiping her hands on her apron. The maid’s head snapped up when she saw Isabella, her round face brightening.
“Oh, miss! I was just about to come fetch you,” Peg said, bobbing an awkward curtsey. “Mrs. Abernathy said you might not remember the way.”
