It sat there, as unremarkable as the inheritance it supposedly held. I hadn’t the energy to care about it earlier, but now, with sleep nowhere in sight, it seemed a better distraction than pacing the room like a restless ghost.
I padded over to the box, the floor creaking beneath me as I bent to lift the lid. It gave way easily, revealing a collection of old items, each more underwhelming than the last.
I sighed, rubbing my temples, and started picking through the contents.
First, a few yellowed papers—receipts for some sort of… bread? Stew? Old letters, none of which seemed remotely interesting. I skimmed over the dates. Nothing out of the ordinary. Some were written in the faded hand of a person long dead. Others looked like deeds or records of some minor transaction, no more intriguing than a pile of estate ledgers.
Next, a small portrait. It was cracked along the edges, the face of a woman barely visible under the wear and grime. I stared at it for a moment, wondering vaguely if this was Isobel McLean herself or some other forgotten soul in the McLean family. There was no name, no inscription.
I set it aside, leaning back and rubbing the tight knot of muscle at my shoulder. The night was eerily quiet, the faint ticking of the clock the only sound.
I reached back into the box, almost wishing I hadn’t bothered. There was nothing remarkable here, nothing that explained why I had been summoned to London. It was simply the debris of a life long ended, and none of it had anything to do with me.
Finally, I spotted the brooch, sitting at the very bottom of the box. It was small, barely the size of my palm, and almost seemed to glow faintly in the low fire light. The white rose symbol was unmistakable, delicate, and intricate despite its age. I picked it up, turning it over in my fingers. It felt oddly cold.
As I examined it, I felt a sharp sting.
I cursed under my breath, dropping the brooch. A small bead of blood welled up on my finger where I’d pricked myself on the point of one of the rose’s metal thorns. How ridiculous—an old piece of jewelry, sharp enough to draw blood.
I moved to wipe the blood away, but then something strange happened. A chill swept through the room, sudden and biting, despite the fire still burning low in the hearth. My vision blurred, the room tilting slightly as if the very air had shifted around me.
The brooch on the floor seemed to pulse, as though it were alive.
What the devil had Bingley put in that brandy? I shook my head to clear my vision, but when that did not work, I stumbled backward, my body heavy and sluggish. The room had grown darker, the shadows pressing in on me, but before I could make sense of it, a figure appeared. It was sudden—there, in the blink of an eye.
A man, tall and wild-eyed, rushed at me with outstretched arms. His face, twisted with fury or madness, locked onto mine.
“A bloody sassenach!” he bellowed.
The cold hit me like a wall. My heart lurched in terror, my legs buckled beneath me, and then—nothing.
Icame to withmy face pressed against the cold wooden floor. My heart was pounding in my ears, and for a moment, I wasn’t entirely sure where I was. The memories were hazy—flashes of cold, a voice shouting, and… a man?
I pushed myself up, wincing at the stiffness in my body, and glanced around the room. The brooch was lying a few feet away from me, perfectly still and completely unremarkable.
For a brief moment, I just stared at it. Then I looked down at my hand. There it was—a small, red mark where the thing had pricked my finger. I ran my thumb over it, half-expecting some other sign of what I had seen. But there was nothing. No cuts, no bruises, no indication that I had just… fainted?
I pushed myself upright, still breathing heavily. The room felt colder than it had been before, but my head was clearer. The brandy. Thathadto be it. Probably a bad lot—I would speak to Bingley about improving the quality of his cellars. I had been half-asleep, over-tired, and muddled from bad drink. It was preposterous, really. I never faint.
Feeling slightly ridiculous, I rubbed my face, trying to shake off the lingering disorientation. Was I feverish? My skin felt like the sticky residue of perspiration, but that was it. No warmth, no obvious sign of illness.
“Get a hold of yourself,” I muttered, glancing around the room as though the shadows themselves were listening.
I moved to pick up the brooch, the papers I’d scattered across the floor, and tried to convince myself that nothing had happened. Because nothingdidhappen. The cold air in the room was simply my imagination—a draft from the chimney, perhaps. The strange figure I had seen—well, that had to be the brandy playing tricks on me. It was nothing.
But just as I stooped to gather the rest of the scattered papers, the door swung open, and in walked… well, I’d no idea who, precisely.
A man, just as I’d seen before—tall, broad-shouldered, and every bit as out of place as I had feared. But this time, he was carrying a bottle of something amber-colored, and before I could so much as process what was happening, he sniffed the bottle with a look of disdain.
“It’s no’ verra good, this stuff,” he said, his voice thick with a Scottish accent. “But I s’pose it’ll do.”
I froze, my hands still halfway to the floor, staring at the man. My breath caught in my throat. This wasnotthe brandy.
He stood there, completely at ease, glancing around my room as though he had just stumbled into it for a friendly chat. He looked like something from a bad theatre production—hisclothes worn and faded, his hair wild and untamed, and his face… Well, his face was almost bored.
“Who the devil are you?” I demanded, my voice sharp, though I wasn’t entirely sure it wasn’t shaking too.
He raised an eyebrow, as if my question had been unworthy of his attention. “Who the devil areye?Ye’ve got a lot of nerve, askin’ me that inmyroom!”
