Page 4 of Holly & Hemlock
I almost laugh at the paranoia, but her face tells me she’s not joking.
The hallway doglegs into a gallery. The ceilings vault overhead like the insides of cathedrals. Here, instead of portraits, there are display cases set into the wall: daggers, pocket watches, a set of baby shoes bronzed to a dull shine, and, in the last alcove, a delicate little music box. I reach for it; Mrs. Whitby’s hand closes over mine before I even realize she’s moved.
“Please,” she says. Not angry—almost pleading. “Some things are not to be touched.”
I slide my hand away and wipe it on my slacks. “You’re serious about the rules.”
She withdraws, face composed. “Rules are what keep the house standing, Miss Vale.”
Downstairs, the house transforms. Despite the age, the stairs feel sturdy under my feet. The landing opens to a foyer bigger than my entire apartment. This isn’t the same one I entered through yesterday. How big is this damn house?
Here the cold bites. There’s no radiator, only a grate where a fire used to be.
“Now that you’re here, we can open these rooms up. Set fires each day. At least for the time being.”
I want to say that’s not necessary, but I also don’t know what I will want to explore when I have time to do it on my own—without Mrs. Whitby watching like a hawk. I simply nod.
The floor is flagstone, slick as ice, and every step stirs little cyclones of dust. To the left is the library, so overstuffed with books that several have escaped onto the floor and are stacked in teetering columns. I want to linger. Mrs. Whitby does not.
To the right, the salon, curtains drawn, every piece offurniture entombed in a cocoon of white sheet. A few have gone gray at the corners, and in the faint light I imagine bodies lurking beneath, ready to pounce. The grand piano is a monstrous thing, its keys exposed like the teeth of a corpse.
“Who played?” I ask, waving at the keys.
“Many people. Your aunt, sometimes, when she was young.”
“Before she cut everyone out?”
A pause, longer than usual. “Maeve was never suited to company.”
She leads me onward. The dining room is a mortuary for chairs. There must be eighteen of them, all high-backed and identical, marching down the table’s length. The table itself is covered in a velvet runner so faded it’s more pink than red. Above, a chandelier droops with the weight of its own crystals. I imagine them crashing down in a rain of glass and blood. The fireplace here is actually lit, though the flames barely compete with the shadow.
Mrs. Whitby gestures at the table. “This is where dinner will be starting tonight. Eight sharp.”
I lean over a chair and glance at her sidelong. “Will there be a quiz?”
She pretends not to hear.
She shows me the kitchen. It’s less of a kitchen and more of a Victorian war room—everything iron, enamel, and scarred wood. There’s a rack of knives longer than my forearm, and copper pots so polished they reflect the ceiling. Mrs. Whitby points out the larder, the servant’s staircase, and a small bell set into the wall.
“If you need me,” she says, “ring three times. For the kitchen, two.”
“I remember.”
She only makes a little “hmm” sound and keeps walking.
We pass through a series of side corridors, each narrower, gloomier, and more labyrinthine than the last. The walls press in. There are more portraits, these painted with a less skilled hand: blurred, smudged, their eyes always following. Some are children, their faces pinched and old, their hands holding objects—rosaries, dead birds, a single, severed lock of hair.
I get goosebumps. Not metaphorical, either—my skin prickles, every follicle standing at attention. “You know, if you wanted to murder me, you’re doing an excellent job setting the scene.”
Mrs. Whitby stops, turns, and for the first time she almost smiles. “If I wanted to murder you, Miss Vale, you would not have reached the Blue Room.”
I snort. It echoes.
We pause in front of a door with an inset glass panel. On the other side: total darkness.
“What’s in there?” I ask.
“Cellar.”
