“Preston loves this one,” Cecily held up my battered copy of Wuthering Heights, turning it over with reverence.
A strange burst of protectiveness bloomed in my chest, but I stopped myself from snatching the book back. Instead, I offered a small nod and turned back to the bed.
“We should let Elodie unpack,” Myra said, her tone soft, yet firm.
Yes.Please do. I was aching to finally breathe and take it all in properly.
“But—” Cecily started, but the argument died on her lips. “See you at dinner, Dee,” she said instead, making me pause with a stack of clothes in my hand. My brow twitched at the nickname, but I didn’t comment.
In a few seconds, the door clicked shut behind them, and I exhaled like I’d been underwater. My body ached from the long drive. I set the clothes down and sat on the edge of the bed, laying back. The mattress was hard beneath me, as my eyes followed the painted stars stretched wide across the ceiling above.
Why did Mum hide this from me? Why did she leave it all behind? Did she have a fall out with Lilian? Or was it something else? And if Lilian was her mother, whose funeral do I remember?
I had so many questions and no one to ask them to. I tapped my fingers together as I rested my hands on my chest. Lilian seemed okay. Sharp, measured, cold, but not evil. Nothing like the kind of person you would run from.
But people had layers, masks.Wounds.
A person can have a lot of faces, bug. Don’t let them fool you.
My mother’s voice echoed in my mind, soft but steady.
I pushed myself upright.
This wasn’t a family reunion, I reminded myself. This was a transaction. I was here for only a year. Then I would leave, move into a simple dorm room, study, breathe. I crossed to the bathroom.
Swan-headed taps, burnished silver fixtures, and a mirror that seemed deeper than its glass. It was like if I touched it, I might fall into another word.
My ghostly reflection stared back at me from the other side, my gaze unreadable, even for me. The tap groaned when I turned it, and water spilled into the basin with a coppered scent. I wet my hands, then pressed them to my face, blocking out the dim light spilling from the sconce.
Thump. Thump.
I froze at the sound of approaching footsteps, water trickling into my eyes and dripping down from my elbows back into the sink. I looked up quickly, but the room was empty. I was alone. The sound had come from somewhere just beyond the bathroom. I listened, still holding my breath. Nothing. I breathed out. Probably the pipes, or floorboards. Both looked old and in need of replacement.
I grabbed a nicely folded towel and dried off, leaving the bathroom. I wasn’t used to homes with souls, where you could hear other people over the walls. I brushed my fingers over the small swans and moths carved into the fireplace, then stepped to the wardrobe to start unpacking.
I moved methodically, placing a framed photo of me and my mum on the nightstand last. It was the last picture we ever took. Only days before she got taken into the hospital. We were at Anhe Fei’s, and if I squinted really hard I could see her teacup collection in the background. My mum was sitting behind me, trying to force a smile on my face by pushing up the corners of my mouth. I swallowed the big lump in my throat then glanced at my watch; I still had plenty of time until what Lilian said would be the beginning of dinner.
I took one last look around the room, taking it in like fresh air. From the dark purple flowers sewed onto the drapes, to the swan head candlesticks on top of the dresser, and the gaping mouth of the fireplace. I twisted the cold crystals on my bracelet. It was hard to believe it was all mine.
I stepped out onto the dimly lit hallway, closing the bedroom door behind me and hiding the little moth-key into my pocket. The walls around me were papered with old forest scenes at dusk. The carpet beneath my feet was patterned with vines and thorns, their silvery threads still desperately holding onto a shine they must have lost long ago.
I walked past the staircase, passing portraits of dark-haired people with pale skin and deep-set eyes, and weird, colourful paintings of humans and animals. Some dancing, some crying. Like stolen pages of a folklore book dressed in ornate frames.
I moved from door to door, each holding a story on its surface—a bear in slumber surrounded by dancing fairies, wolves beneath snow-heavy trees, deer rutting in the meadows. And then, I stopped, my eyes landing on a nameplate.
Esmée
I touched the cold letters engraved into the silver. My throat closed, the weight of her presence sitting on my chest like fog settling over grass. Carved into the door was a lake. Swans glided over the water, the scenery peaceful. I trailed the lines, my fingertips halting on two sharp ears. A fox, half-hidden in a bush, watched its prey, ready to hunt.
My fingers trembled, and my hand slid around the cold doorknob, only to find it locked. I slipped a pin out of my hair and slid it into the keyhole, when the floor creaked behind me.
I whirled around, pushing the hairpin into my pocket. Preston Davenport was leaning against the opposite wall like he’d grown from it.
“Breaking and entering, are we?” he said lazily. When I didn’t react, he added, “Don’t stop on my behalf.”
I narrowed my eyes at him but kept my lips sealed. How long has he been standing there? I sucked the inside of my cheek.
“Such a rotten apple.”
