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This part of the house was rarely used, anyway. If there is anyone left—a housekeeper, perhaps—they would likely reside in the staff wing.
Quickly I head in that direction, passing through the narrow corridor that connects the central block to the southwest wing. Here the neglect begins to show. Cobwebs lurk in the corners. Dust blankets every surface. My feet are filthy with it, but the thought of putting on my heels—imagining the empty clapping echo of every step—seems more dreadful to me than dirty feet ever could be.
But there is another noise. A faint, metallic slithering. Trying to detect the source of the sound, I slow as I enter the kitchen, where every Saturday morning Mrs. Collins used to chase Gideon and me away from her freshly baked scones.
Then I pass a window and my heart plummets straight to the ground, two stories below, where the south garden should have been.
The garden is still there. But it’s dead. Not overgrown with weeds. Not untended with wildflowers running rampant through the carefully planted beds. Simply…dead. Nothing but withered stumps remain of the shrubs and roses, nothing but broken twigs littering the bare earth.
Hot tears burn at the back of my throat. That garden was mine. Not that it belonged to me—everything here always belonged to the Blakes. Yet it was mine to tend, mine to care for, and had been since I was old enough to plant seedlings at my father’s side.
And if ever there was a sign that the hope I’d clung to was a fool’s hope, that garden must be it. I held on to the memories of this house for so long, spent ten years awaiting the moment I would return. Yet nothing here held on to me. The soil itself had taken what I’d left behind and destroyed it.
There’s nothing for me here. And instead of sweet nostalgia, every memory is bringing nothing but pain.
Feral dogs or not, it’s time to go.
Blinded by tears, I turn back the way I came—and feel a faint sliding touch at the back of my neck. Immediately I shudder and flinch, thinking of those cobwebs, trying to bat away whatever just crawled across my skin.
But it’s only my necklace. The pendant must have gotten turned around. Except…
I can’t twist it back into place. The fine chain is snug around the front of my throat—and snug around the back of my neck—but my fingers can’t locate the diamond pendant at the end of the chain.
Forget the pendant, though. I can’t locate the end of the chain. Instead I turn and stare in stunned incomprehension at the glittering line of gold that trails behind me—starting at my nape and continuing the length of the corridor, where it disappears from sight.
What the…?
Shaking my head in confusion and disbelief, I slide my fingertips over the fine links around my neck, searching for the clasp.
There’s no clasp. Instead the seamless chain circles my throat like a collar, with a golden leash that leads back toward the grand hall.
I follow it, uneasily aware that there’s no slack forming in the chain as I go. It should be trailing behind me in an ever-increasing loop, but instead all of the loose length is simply…disappearing. Or shrinking. It’s not being taken up from the other end, because the chain ahead of me isn’t being pulled in that direction. As if the chain is only as long as it needs to be, and that length is the distance between my neck and wherever the chain ends.
Which isn’t in the great hall. The chain leads across the domed chamber, past the long gallery still decorated with marble statuary and great paintings, and into the corridor connecting to the southeast wing.
The family wing.
Heart thundering, I pass through the main parlor—and here, finally here, there is not just abandonment and neglect. Though the wing clearly has been neglected. But the dust has not lain undisturbed. Instead it’s as if someone has lived here and cleaned the rooms haphazardly, though not with the dedication of a household staff.
Cleaned the rooms…and destroyed some of them. Stuffing spills out of slashed upholstery. Silk wallpaper hangs in ragged strips. Shattered mirrors reflect shards of my face—the broken glass cleaned from the floor but the frames still hanging on the walls.
And there’s blood. None of it fresh, but in faint handprints along the walls, and faded splotches in the rugs. I don’t immediately recognize what those rusted stains are, but as soon as I do, it seems that I can’t stop seeing it. There’s blood everywhere.
Yet it’s all smudged, indistinct. As if someone tried to clean it.
The level of destruction increases the deeper into the wing I go. And unless the chain is anchored outside somewhere, there’s not much farther to go. The only rooms remaining in this direction are the solarium…and Gideon’s bedchamber.
His room is the least ravaged, but only because nothing remains except for his big four-poster bed—as if every other piece of furniture and the rugs had been utterly destroyed or discarded.
This is where the chain ends, wrapped around the leg at the head of Gideon’s bed. White linen sheets cover the mattress—and they’re clean, though rumpled and unmade, but I can’t mistake the faint, rusted stains for anything except more blood that didn’t come out in the wash.
Hands shaking, I fall to my knees and attempt to pull the chain free. But it’s not wrapped around the thick wooden leg, I realize. Instead the fine links seem to pierce through the solid oak, the diamond teardrop hanging from the opposite side as if it had been pinned there. Desperately I p
ull, thinking that if I pull hard enough the diamond will pop off and the chain will slide free, yet there’s no give at all, and the pressure of the thin gold links against my palm and fingers threatens to cut into my skin.
I need a glove—or something else to protect my hand.
With frantic purpose, I strip off my jacket and wrap the fabric around my palm before gripping the chain again and hauling back with all of my strength, bracing my feet against the wall and throwing my weight into it.
Nothing happens…though the chain should have snapped. It’s a fine piece of jewelry but a gold necklace isn’t that strong.
It also usually doesn’t stretch the length of a manor house, then shrink to less than three feet long. Right now it extends from the bed frame to my neck with no slack in between.
This isn’t real. This can’t be real.
The realization is a reassuring one, easing my panic and calming the racing beat of my heart.
This can’t be real.
So I’m dreaming. I must have fallen asleep in the car and now I’m dreaming.
Okay. My ragged breathing slows. Okay.
I’m okay. Just having a dream filled with some really disturbing symbolism.
But it’ll end when I wake up. Letting go of the chain, I rise to my feet and look around the room. Gideon’s bedchamber has its own access to the solarium—which, when we were young, was his favorite room in the entire house. The door leading to that glass-walled chamber has been torn away; nothing remains but the twisted, broken hinges. Gray daylight spills through the doorway.
And I know this is only a dream—a nightmare—yet still my heart freezes when I hear the soft growl coming from that room. Still my body begins trembling when I see the hulking shadow of…something prowling toward Gideon’s bedchamber.
Something. Or someone.
Pulse thudding in my throat, I drop into a crouch beside the big bed, caught in an agony of indecision. If I run for it, surely the noise of my pounding feet and the slithering chain would alert them. If I stay right here, remain very quiet, maybe whatever is in the solarium won’t realize I’m hiding. Silence seems like my best option.
