Page 37 of Darkest at Dusk
Isabella offered a faint smile. “I managed, eventually. With only one or two wrong turns,” she said, lighter than she felt.
Peg gestured for Isabella to enter.
The warmth hit her immediately, along with the thick scent of bread, the crackle of the fire, the faint sweetness of boiled eggs. Isabella felt her shoulders relax.
Mrs. Abernathy stood by the hearth, speaking softly with Cook, who stirred something in a copper pot. The housekeeper glanced over her shoulder as Isabella entered, her expression softening into a smile.
“Good morning, Miss Barrett. You must be chilled half to the bone wandering those halls. You’ve surprised us all by finding your way. Took me a week when I first arrived before I stopped feeling lost at every turn. Come and sit, lamb. I’m fair certain you’re famished.”
Breakfast was a quiet meal of tea, bread, and boiled eggs taken in the company of Mrs. Abernathy, Cook, and the three maids. Tom Grange and the boy, Matty, had already breakfasted. As conversation flowed around her, Isabella listened more than she spoke, the small jokes and easy rhythm of the women’s interactions setting her at ease.
Peg and Mary teased Emma about lingering too long at the scullery door when the butcher’s boy made his delivery. Cheeks red, Emma sputtered denials until Cook rapped the table with her spoon to restore order. Mrs. Abernathy shook her head and rolled her eyes at Isabella, drawing her into the moment.
Isabella had never been part of such easy warmth. Papa’s tiny staff had always been unfailingly kind to her, but kindness was not the same as inclusion. She had always been solitary by nature and circumstance. Here, the rhythm of voices overlapped, teasing and familiar, the sound of women who trusted and liked each other. A fragile sense of belonging brushed against her.
As they finished their meal, Mrs. Abernathy turned to Peg. “Run up to the press and fetch clean kitchen cloths.” She glanced at Isabella. “And take Miss Barrett along. She ought to know every way through the house.”
Isabella blinked at being included, but she was glad of it. The house’s passageways tangled like knotted threads, and the chance to learn another staircase felt like seizing a strand to follow.
Peg rose and smoothed her apron, then led the way to a set of stairs Isabella had not seen before. They climbed, the way narrow and steep.
Halfway up, a hollow knock reverberated from inside the wall. Peg stopped short, clutching the banister. The air grew heavy and damp, the walls leaning and shadows swelling until it felt like the entire staircase was collapsing in on them.
Again, came the knock, louder, nearer.
Peg squared her shoulders and whispered under her breath, “Iron to bind. Hearth to keep. Shadows hush. Spirits sleep.”
She repeated the words, her voice steadier the second time.
“What is that?” Isabella asked.
Peg glanced back at her over her shoulder. “A charm my mam taught me when I was little more than a babe.” She gave a small nod. “It works, too,” she said.
Then she drew a long breath and resumed climbing.
Isabella followed, silent but thoughtful. She had never before seen someone else meet fear in the same fashion she did, not by pretending it was nothing but by pushing back against it with whatever tools she possessed. Peg had her rhyme. Perhaps that was enough.
After they returned with the folded cloths, Mrs. Abernathy gave Isabella a brief tour of the house, or rather, the parts of it that were “safe” for her to see. Drawing rooms and parlors, the dining room, corridors lined with faded portraits and sconces. But not the north wing.
The tour ended before a tall, arched double door at the far end of a dimly lit hallway. Heavy curtains veiled a narrow window nearby, muting the daylight and casting elongated shadows across the carpet. Cobwebs hung in the corners, testament to her suspicion that the small staff could not possibly maintain a house this size at its best.
“The library, Miss Barrett,” Mrs. Abernathy said with a faint smile. “Mr. Caradoc instructed me to leave you to your work here. He trusts you’ll know where to begin.”
The doors were grand, but the corridor leading to them felt oddly neglected, as though the library had been pushed away from the heart of the house, exiled to this forgotten corner where the chill seemed sharper, the silence deeper.
“The north wing lies just beyond this wall,” Mrs. Abernathy said. “Sometimes I imagine I can smell the smoke through stone and mortar.”
“I have read that smoke binds to the resin in wood,” Isabella said. “It can be trapped there for decades, released anew with every change of weather.”
Mrs. Abernathy glanced at her. “So not my imagination, after all.”
She reached down to her chatelaine where a collection of keys hung heavily from one of the chains. The faint jingle of metal against metal cut sharply through the quiet corridor as her fingers selected a key from the crowded cluster, her movements careful and deliberate.
For a moment, she simply held it, turning it between her fingers, her expression contemplative.
“Here we are,” she murmured at last, holding up a long, blackened key with an ornate bow shaped like a serpent eating its own tail.
“Ouroboros,” Isabella said.
