Thornhill.
A shadow sewn from stone. A relic of a century long gone. Dark ivy snaked across its facade, clinging like veins to flesh. Dozens of tall windows reflected the cloud-heavy sky, unlit and watchful. Gargoyles hunched on the corners of the roof, their open mouths frozen mid-snarl, and I could’ve sworn their empty eyes followed us as we passed through the wrought-iron gate. The air thickened, and even the engine seemed to quiet in reverence. The small hairs stood on my arms.
So this was where my mum grew up? It felt wrong trying to picture her here. Like I was trying to force a puzzle piece into the wrong hole. She was so colourful, so simple in taste, and full of life. Thornhill was everything but that. Tall, proud, and brooding, yet magnificent. It held my gaze with force.
The car pulled to a stop beside a grand circular drive. A dried-up fountain sat in the centre like a hollowed-out heart, its stone basin veined with cracks. My eyes lingered on the manor. Not imagined. Not a hoax. It was real. Coldly, achingly real. From the sharp steeples of its roof to the towering chimney stacks, it loomed like a castle from some cursed storybook.
The chauffeur stepped out and opened my door with a small, formal bow. I scrambled from the leather seat, my fingers tightening around the strap of my backpack, which looked as out of place as I did. I murmured a thank you, but when I turned to look at him, he was gone, swallowed by the cold and the creeping mist curling around the trees.
I might’ve moved to look for him if not for the woman at the top of the steps. She stood beneath the towering arch of the entrance, still as a statue carved from dusk. A dark purple skirt suit hugged her frame, her night-like hair gathered high atop her head like a crown streaked with silver. She descended slowly, her steps smooth, almost gliding.
I knew who she was before she spoke.
Lilian Thornbury.
There was something in the way she held herself that stirred a half-buried memory. A gesture. A look. Something that reminded me of my mum and made my stomach twist. It was undeniable now that they were related.
“My granddaughter,” she said, her voice a low clang of iron and silk. Sharp, yet warm.
She smiled, a thin, graceful curve playing on her lips as she stepped forward, her arms outstretched.
Before I could react, she embraced me. Her bones pressed against mine, brittle as winter branches. Her perfume was faint and strange, like fading roses laced with dust. I stiffened beneath the weight of her arms, my own glued to my sides as I clenched the handle of my backpack.
“I was waiting for you. We all were.” She let go of me, and I took a step backwards.
We? The word danced around in my mind. Sterling hadn’t mentioned anyone else, not that I could remember. I glanced over her shoulder, toward the gaping dark behind the doors, but no one else appeared.
Lilian’s eyes glinted like obsidian. “Come,” she said, slipping her arm through mine. “Let me introduce you.”
I looked over my shoulder, but the car was gone, the driveway empty. There was no turning back. She guided me up the long stairs, where seven figures waited in a perfectly aligned line and similar black uniforms.
“The servants,” Lilian said, and I winced, the word biting into my skin. It didn’t quite belong to this century. It shouldn’t have belonged anywhere at all. “They’re here to assist you, whenever you need.”
I nodded to them in greeting, but they stood motionless. Their expressions were neutral, stone-like. Except for one. An older man with a grey handlebar moustache, he had a softer look about him. His shoulders were stooped, but there was aquiet dignity in his posture. He met my gaze and offered a small, patient smile, the kind that felt like it belonged in a warmer world.
I smiled back, not quite ready to open my mouth yet.
The entrance door groaned, the sound low and deep, as if something old was awakening, and it robbed my attention away from the old man. Shadows spilled across the threshold, curling along the stone floor just beyond. I swallowed the tightness rising in my throat as Lilian gently pulled me into the manor.
CHAPTER FIVE
ELODIE
The door closed behind us with a heavy thump, echoing through the cavernous halls like an earth-shaking roar. The air inside was almost as cold as it was outside; it pressed down on my skin like mist, creeping beneath my sleeves. The hall we stepped into was long and shadowed, its carved stone walls partially papered in strange floral motifs, faded by centuries, while panels of dark wood lined the lower walls, etched with curling ivy.
Two girls around my age—maybe a little younger—stood at the base of the stairway, haloed by the faint flicker of a single sconce blooming from the wall as silver thorns crawled up its forged leaves. They seemed too wrapped in their conversation to hear the door’s heavy groan or our footsteps on the worn stone floor. Their laughter rang, light and melodic, until one of them broke into a cough. The sound splintered the moment, and their expressions dimmed. I looked away, my throat tightening with unwanted memories.
My eyes drifted up, trailing the curling stone of the grand staircase, a question prickling my mind. Were they relatives of my mum, too? My gaze reached the second floor, resting indarkness, before sliding higher. That’s when I saw it. A figure leaned on the balustrade of the third floor, hidden behind the lights. I couldn’t make out his face, but the way his head cocked, I could tell he was watching. Gooseflesh spread over my arms. I squeezed the penknife in my pocket.
“Girls,” Lilian Thornbury’s voice rang clear, polished like old silver, and I blinked myself back into the moment.
The girls turned toward us at once, their movements almost synchronized.
“Elodie,” they chimed in eerie unison, making their way to us, their shoes barely audible on the stone floor. The closer they came the more alike they looked, except for their obvious differences.
The one with pale, almost white curls, grinned, her silver braces catching the light. “We’ve heard so much about you!” Her voice was soft and easy like honey melting in the sun. “I’m Cecily and this is my sister?—”
“Myra Davenport.” Warm brown eyes met mine as she extended her hand. “Her twin.”
