thirty-seven
The road out of Sussex stretched ahead, narrowing as it cut through ancient woodlands and sleepy villages. The sky was overcast, the kind of gray that promised rain but held back just enough to keep the air sharp and cool. Gentry drove in silence, his eyes fixed on the road, but I could feel the quiet weight of what lay ahead pressing between us.
“It’s about two and a half hours from here,” he said finally, breaking the silence. “Not exactly a tourist spot anymore.”
I glanced at him from the passenger seat, noting the way his fingers drummed nervously on the steering wheel.
“Why are you bringing me here?” I asked, though part of me already knew the answer. We weren’t hunting ghosts or folklore. We were hunting the truth, the dark roots of my curse.
Gentry hesitated, then exhaled slowly. “Because I think you deserve to know everything. And I think it’s here.” He tapped the glove compartment where he’d kept a worn folder since the night before.
The manor came into view just as the last of the afternoon light began to dim, a sprawling stone fortress nestled on the edgeof a ridge, its walls tangled with creeping ivy and moss. It looked abandoned, forgotten by time and the world around it.
We parked on a gravel drive choked with weeds, the crunch of our footsteps sounding unnervingly loud in the stillness. The heavy wooden door groaned as Gentry pushed it open, the hinges protesting with decades of disuse.
Inside, the air was thick with dust and the faint scent of damp wood. The vast entryway was dim, lit only by the weak afternoon sun sneaking through tall, grimy windows. Shadows pooled in the corners, hiding secrets long buried.
“Are we supposed to be here?” I whispered, cowering beneath a canopy of glistening spiderwebs.
Gentry grinned down at me, tugging me close by the waist. “I’ve secured special permission. Good thing too, because it was set to be torn down. This place hasn’t been lived in for years,” he murmured as he led the way up a creaking staircase. “But Lord Stanton kept meticulous records. We might find something that’s been overlooked.”
I nodded, a knot of nerves tightening in my stomach, but I followed him down the narrow hall regardless.
In the library, rows of faded leather-bound books lined the walls, their titles worn and illegible. Gentry’s fingers traced the spines reverently before he moved to a dusty cabinet near the hearth.
“Why would anyone leave all this history?”
He shrugged, casting a grin over his shoulder. “I don’t know, but I’m tempted to call Dudley and see if we can’t pull some texts before they demolish this place.”
Rolling my eyes, I set to blowing the dust off spines, unsure what I was even looking for. Would I know it if I saw it? Would it reveal itself with only wishful thinking?
None of the archives at Oxford had proven useful. Even with unlimited access to Alice’s diary, most of it was illegible. She’dclearly grown suspicious before her disappearance—based on the strange symbols and false words scattered through it. Some passages were deeply gouged by pen, tearing the paper as if to hide secrets from the world.
After a fruitless search, I found myself walking an overgrown path up the hill toward a statue of an angel. Its wings stretched protectively over a family burial plot. Gentry teetered behind, a dust-riddled book open between his gloved hands. He’d already called his colleague Dudley to ask the estate’s owner if they might donate what was left of the library to the university.
The grassy knoll was weighed down beneath the first layer of winter’s frost. My birthday was next week, and I struggled not to relive the moments of my last birthday over and over again—Death’s betrayal.
It was difficult not to think of him. And I had planned on spending the day at the cemetery, firstly for my father, but secondly... because I wasn’t sure how to let him go.
I paused beside the angel statue, its weathered stone face worn smooth by decades of rain and sorrow. The wings curved protectively over crumbling headstones beneath, as if guarding the secrets of a fractured family.
Gentry stepped up beside me, his breath fogging the cold air. “It’s heavy,” he murmured, eyes never leaving the ground. “History like this... it clings.”
I nodded, brushing my fingers along the frost-hardened grass. “Sometimes I think grief is the one curse I can’t outrun. Not even with a hundred years behind me.”
He closed the book gently and tucked it under one arm. “You don’t have to carry it alone, you know.”
His words lingered between us, soft as falling snow. For a moment, I let myself imagine a life unburdened by Death’s relentless chase. A life where I could mourn my father withoutfear, where I could lay the past to rest. I meant what I said last night, about Scythe Manor being a place of healing.
But it was still difficult.
“I’m not sure how to let him go,” I admitted, voice barely more than a whisper.
Gentry’s eyes met mine, steady and unwavering. “Maybe you don’t have to.”
The angel’s stone wings stretched protectively over a cluster of weathered headstones, but just off to the side, half-hidden beneath tangled ivy and overgrowth, Gentry paused. He crouched low, brushing aside moss and leaves to reveal a narrow iron gate embedded into the hillside.
“Looks like a family vault,” he murmured, eyes bright in the dim afternoon light.
