Find the Tome of Fates.The words hummed through my mind. What kind of book bore a name like that? A dark fairytale? A forgotten folklore? I’d tried to find it with the little data I had left, but the internet returned nothing. No books. No answers. I sat on the window seat, watching as morning sunlight stretched like bone-white fingers through the trees. The floral pillow, sewed with soft silver treads, rested behind my back.
The countryside had a ghostly stillness. No cars. No sirens. No lights flickering from distant windows. Just the breath of morning on the glass and the occasional sigh of the wind.The city was far away—I was far away. After almost nineteen years, I’d left London behind. And now I was surrounded by sleeping gardens, and cold stone walls that whispered stories of centuries.
I pinched my arm, then hissed. I wasn’t dreaming. I closed the book in my lap and, and, for a split second, I could’ve sworn I saw the sculpture in the centre of the maze move. The maze itself stretched wide under my window and I leaned closer to the glass, pressing my nose against it. The sculpture’s long limbs seemed to swirl slightly, like it was trying to retreat into the soil. Except the longer I looked, the more still its form seemed.
I blinked, suppressing a yawn. I was clearly sleep deprived, seeing things that weren’t there. A moth landed on the glass, right in front of my eye, hiding the other half of the garden. Its pale ivory wings, lined with snow-like edges, buzzed but it didn’t fly away. Just watched.
I studied it for a moment, then retreated to the bed, wrapping the warm blankets around me. It was still early, a few more hours of sleep couldn’t hurt, especially if I was tired enough to see a sculpture move. I turned onto my back and stared at the faded curtain hanging above me, until my eyelids grew heavy, and the dreams gathered me under.
“Good morning, Miss Thornbury.”
I jolted upright, my eyes flying open. A woman stood at the side of the bed, her silhouette hiding the daylight that managed to break through the late November weather. Not a single strand of her rust-coloured hair had dared stray from the twisted knot at the back of her head. She balanced a silver tray in hergloved hands, her expression unreadable. Not cold. Not kind. Just...there. She placed the tray down onto the nightstand, then moved to the window.
“Shall I open it?” Her tone was monotone, like an old cassette, and she moved before I could even answer. A surprisingly gentle, almost warm breeze caressed my cheeks. Did I hibernate over winter?
I looked at the tray, my eyes narrowing. “I locked the door,” I said, eyeing the moth-key that lay beside the teapot.
“Us maids each have a skeleton key,” she answered with a tone that suggested I should know better, while I took a sip from the steaming brew.
It tasted like stone and rain; a little bitter, a little harsh, but grounding. My eyes flicked closed as the warmth flooded my body.
“Your grandmother would like you to know, everyone’s in the garden,” she said, making her way back to the open door. “It’s a beautiful day.” With that, the door closed behind her with a soft click.
I lifted the toast with jam off the porcelain plate and took a bite as I moved to the window. Raspberry. The sweet taste perfectly balanced the tea’s bitterness. I leaned my forehead against the cool glass. The garden below had woken since I’d last seen it. Far off in the centre of the maze stood the dark marble-like sculpture I imagined had moved just a few hours ago. Its form twisted like vines, strange and tangled. Closer to the manor, Lilian stood beneath a wide-brimmed hat, inspecting a flower bed with her gloved hands.
The twins sat on top of a picnic table, their heads pressed together. Not far from them, under an old and sprawling oak tree, was Preston. His long legs were stretched out in front of him, a book open in his lap. He looked perfectly undisturbed, like the world didn’t dare touch him.
Annoyance crawled in my gut like acid, leaving a bitter taste in my mouth. My palm heated at the memory of it colliding with his cheek. I stiffened, taking a step back.
It wasn’t like we were all living in one room, the house was big enough that, if we didn’t want to, we would never meet again. I turned away from the window, the curtain brushing against my skin.
Putting on clean clothes, I slipped into the hall with an idea blooming in my head. There was a strange scent lingering in the corridor—faint but sharp, like dried lavender left too long in a drawer. I passed old portraits, their sharp eyes following me as I paused outside my mum’s old room. Everyone was outside. This seemed like the perfect time to sneak inside without anyone disturbing me. I traced the lonely swan carved beside the lake, the wood cool under my touch before tucking some loose curls out of my eyes. Pulling the hairpin from my pocket. I slid it into the keyhole, when the shadows behind me shifted.
I twisted—half-expecting to see my mum again. Instead, a woman stood at the end of the hallway. Silver hair coiled tightly atop her head. Her eyes caught the dim light, cold and unmoving, as if watching from somewhere beyond her own gaze. I recognized her from last night. She was one of the maids who served dinner.
“Are you lost, Miss?” Her voice drifted without echo, and the hallways suddenly felt narrower, like even the dark walls were listening.
I stepped back from the door.
“I am,” I said. “I was looking for the way to the garden.”
It was obvious we both knew I was lying, but she only nodded.
“Come this way then.”
I glanced at the hardwood door once more, then followed her. She led me down the stairs, through Thornhill’s veined part.The house pulsed faintly with light, like it was breathing beneath the walls. We passed old stairwells, yawning fireplaces, and windows blinded by ivy. At the far end of the hallway, sunlight glowed beyond the open door. I could already see the garden stretching on the other side of it. I turned to thank the woman for her help, but she was already gone as if she had never been there.
Cold brushed my nape like a distant breath, and I pulled my sweater tighter before stepping out under the caring touch of the sun. The warmth sank into my skin, the air alive, bringing the scent of spring instead of yesterday’s wintry breath. My lungs loosened.
“Dee,” an excited voice called, whisking away the idyll.
Cecily and Myra were still at the picnic table, their brother stretched out on the sprawling old tree’s roots. Preston’s round reading glasses gleamed in the sunlight. He looked almost angelic with the sun gilding his dark blonde waves. A wolf dressed in sheep’s skin.
“We heard you found the library last night,” Cecily said as I reached them. “The old one,” she added, and I arched my brow. Were they following me? “The pipes are old,” she offered smoothly with a mischievous smile. “You can hear everything if you know how to listen.”
Myra shook her head and glanced up from her papers, her fingers blue with ink. “We saw you pass,” she added. “Our room’s just nearby.”
“Killjoy.” Cecily sighed, and I settled onto the bench.
