by Keri Lake
I stumble toward the door and press my ear to the wood. The cool panels and solid surface I lean against offer some relief, and I close my eyes, listening to her speak. Rand’s voice follows, as he prattles off the history of Blackthorne Manor. Another woman’s voice chimes in, deep and raspy, like a smoker’s, but then it’s the first voice again. The sound is so soothing, and at a melodic vibrato of laughter, I can no longer hear the painful ringing.
I open the door a crack, only catching their backs as they continue down the hallway.
Raven black hair dances around her slim shoulders, as she scans the walls of my home. An older woman moves beside her, perhaps her mother, judging by the hardened lines in her face. The raven-haired girl turns just enough to reveal her profile, and God help me, she’s beautiful, with her golden skin, high cheekbones, and the perfect slope of her nose. A kind of radiant beauty that’ll soon be snuffed by the vapid gloom of this place.
But young. Far too young.
My mother will eat her alive before week’s end.
What a shame that will be.
Chapter 4
Isadora
It takes over an hour to give us a brief tour, which only covered the west wing of the castle. The single theme in every room we passed was opulence. The Blackthornes evidently have more money than any of the locals can probably fathom. Even Aunt Midge, who tends to consider elegance a frivolous waste, stood wide-eyed a few times.
One would never guess, given the abandoned appearance outside the walls, that such wealth and luxury still pulses through its veins.
In spite of my subtle protest, Rand insisted that she come along, because it didn’t take a psychoanalyst to see my aunt’s panties hadn’t unbunched with the small meeting we had an hour ago. I admire her commitment to look after me, particularly after the hell I went through months ago, but her overbearing nature has become one of the many reasons I can’t wait to leave this town. It reminds me of the time I watched two baby squirrels trapped in a cage, when one of the boys down the street swiped them up after they’d crawled up his pant leg. The boys laughed cruelly as the tiny animals ran in circles over the thin bars. Over and over again. Never eating. Never resting. They climbed their barriers as if they didn’t realize something held them inside that cramped space, and eventually, they both died.
That won’t be me. Not in this town.
“Should you get hungry, the kitchen staff is at your disposal while you’re here. We have a gourmet chef on staff, who is happy to prepare whatever you like.” Rand breaks my thoughts with even more of the amenities of this place.
Gourmet chef? What the hell would I ask of a gourmet chef? I don’t even know what gourmet chefs cook.
“Fancy,” Aunt Midge whispers as we follow Rand down a dark corridor. “Still don’t like this place. Makes the hairs on my neck stand up.”
I trail my gaze over the high ceilings and dark walls, the elaborate portraits either side of us. Relatives, I’d bet. A richness in the history of a family like nothing I’ve ever seen before. “I like it. And I’ll be home on weekends.”
“What happens on the weekends here? ‘Sat when they hold their séances?” Aunt Midge chuckles at herself, and I silently groan, taking in another sweep of the walls.
“It’s when the Master enjoys a bit of privacy,” Rand says, coming to a stop at the top of the staircase overlooking the foyer where we first came in. “He finds himself surrounded by others far more than he cares to be, and weekends give him a break from social interactions. However, you may be called on to attend a party, or the occasional dinner as added help.”
“What? Like serving the other richies?” The derision in Aunt Midge’s voice makes me regret letting her accompany me. How childish it must seem to have my aunt along for a job interview.
“I’m happy to assist. However I’m needed.” Even with my gaze cast away from her, I can feel Aunt Midge’s eyes burning into me as I seal my decision to take this job.
“Very good.” Continuing on down the staircase, Rand takes the lead once again, toward the front entrance, where we gather over the Blackthorne crest. “I trust you’re satisfied with the arrangement?”
The question is directed toward Aunt Midge, and a flare of irritation blazes beneath my skin when she tips her chin, as if she’s got any place being haughty and demanding. As if this man owes her an explanation for all the nosy gossip she’s been instrumental in perpetrating about this family. At the same time, the gesture makes me nervous. I know my aunt well enough that this is the point when she makes a bold and wildly inappropriate inquiry, like Is it true Lucian Blackthorne murdered his wife and son?
Say something, my head goads, but the words fail to breach my frozen lips.
“I guess, yeah. She have to hand out any medications, or anything?” Her response leaves me dumbfounded for a moment. So much so, I almost don’t appreciate the importance of her question--one I hadn’t bothered to ask myself. Jesus.
“Mrs. Blackthorne has a nurse who attends to her medical needs, as well as an occasional visiting physician. The role of the companion is strictly to spend time with her, in whatever capacity Mrs. Blackthorne finds comfortable, whether it be walks in the garden, or reading a book. She’s quite the bibliophile.”
“Sounds like the two of you will get along swimmingly.” Rolling her eyes, she crosses her arms in her usual defensive stance. “So do I … come pick her up on the weekends? How does that work?”
“Master Blackthorne has a personal driver who will be at the disposal of Miss Quinn, should she need to venture into town for anything.”
“His personal driver? Doesn’t he need him?” I’m clueless when it comes to the affairs of rich people and whether, or not, they commute to work like everyone else.
“Much of his business dealings are handled remotely, over the computer. Those that are held in person take place here, in his personal office. The Master rarely leaves his home for anything. He has occasional business trips on the mainland, or out of state, but those are fairly limited.”
The visual of the squirrels climbing the cage comes to mind again, and I catch myself frowning. “I don’t expect I’ll need to venture into town much, either, then.”
“Except to visit your aunt.” Aunt Midge adds.
“Of course.”
“If you’re satisfied with the amenities for your niece, I’d like to get Miss Quinn acquainted with her routine, so that she can begin her day with Mrs. Blackthorne.”
“Yeah. Sure.” Hiking a thumb over her shoulder, Aunt Midge tips her head. “I’ll just grab her bags and bring them inside.”
“Makaio is waiting at your car to gather Miss Quinn’s personal effects. There’s no need to come back inside. You’re free to go from there.”
“Oh. Uh. I guess this is … goodbye, then?” The uncertainty hasn’t faded from my aunt’s eyes when she steps toward me and wraps her arms around me in a hug. “You got your cell. Call me if you need anything. Or if anything seems shady,” she whispers.
With a nod, I grasp her elbows, breaking the embrace, and smile like I’m not nervous as all hell to meet the lady of the house. “I’ll be fine. Call you tonight, okay?”
“You better.” She turns her attention toward Rand and offers him a handshake, which turns into an awkward exchange between them when Rand only rests his palm in her hand for a moment, before nabbing a handkerchief to wipe away what I’m guessing he deems is germs on his skin.
“Yeah, so. I’ll go, then.” She slides her hands into her pockets, as if she doesn’t know what else to do with them. “See you …. See you this weekend.”
“Drive careful.” I don’t bother to follow her toward the door, for fear she’ll make a last ditch effort to sway me.
Nothing can sway me now that I’ve actually set foot inside the castle. There is a haunting ambience, but it’s not the emptiness and desolation I was expecting. Probably not quite what Aunt Midge was expecting, either, otherwise I doubt she’d concede so quickly. There�
��s a heartbeat inside this place, however faint, hidden beneath its bones.
Rand opens the door for her, and I watch from the foyer as she stands in the doorway, looking small and almost cartoonish within the enormous threshold, grasping the hem of her shirt. One more glance back, and she makes her way down the stone staircase, where a large man, perhaps six-foot-five, with darker skin, and black hair pulled back in a bun, waits for her. I’d guess him to be Polynesian, based on his looks.
The moment Rand closes the door behind her is the moment I realize, for the first time, I’m truly on my own.
“Do you like tea?”
The question breaks my thoughts, and I clear my throat. “No, not really. More of a coffee drinker.”
“Shame. Mrs. Blackthorne loves her tea. It’s perhaps when she’s most cordial.”
The woman sounds like her patience for people is thinner than my savings account. Can’t be any worse than Aunt Midge when she attempted to quit smoking a year ago, though. Moody as a bat sunbathing on the beach.
“Come, let’s go meet her, shall we?”
“Sure.” The uncertainty creeps back down my spine again.
When I was fifteen years old, I was asked to stay one night with my great-aunt and -uncle, my grandfather’s only brother, who had advance stage muscular sclerosis. Great-Aunt Sophie had wanted a night out with some old friends, and needed a break from the daily care she administered to her husband. My job? To make sure he didn’t drown in his own saliva. So, every so often, when I heard uncle Conlan gagging, I was tasked with shoving a tube down into his throat and clearing the fluids. The mere thought of it was enough to give me hives, but it wasn’t until I had to perform the act, panicking when I couldn’t get the tube properly placed down his throat, and shaking when he looked at me like I was some kind of imbecile, that I vowed never to place myself in such a position again.
Yet, here I am, jumping at the opportunity to entertain an elderly recluse.
In the interview, though, Rand assured me Mrs. Blackthorne was mostly mobile and capable, requiring only the slightest assistance getting around.
Instead of taking the staircase, as before, we venture down a hallway on the first level, past a room on the right that has me slowing my steps. Every inch of the walls is covered in mirrors. Big elaborate mirrors. Small mirrors. Oddly shaped mirrors. An entire room devoted to reflection. So strange. I can’t imagine having so much space for something so useless. Aunt Midge and I are always running into one another at home, it seems.
A chime breaks my stare, and Rand comes to a stop in the middle of the hallway. “Excuse me a moment.” Setting the phone to his ear, he walks three paces ahead. “Yes?” In his profile, I catch the lowering of his brows. “You can’t be serious. The girl left abruptly with no communication, never once said a word to our in-house doctor, or nurse. She left the door to the balcony unlocked, placing Mrs. Blackthorne at grave risk.” The intensity in his voice fades as he continues down the hallway. “Whatever hallucinations she claims she’s suffered since leaving, it’s likely her own conscience biting her in the ass.”
Hallucinations? Pretending not to listen to the conversation, I look back at the room with the mirrors, but feel the light tap on my shoulder. On instinct, I flinch, and turn to find Rand holding up a finger, phone still pressed to his ear, before he walks off.
“She’s lucky the Master isn’t privy to all of this, or we’d have a far less equitable day in court.” His voice echoes down the hallway, and I keep on in the opposite direction, past the elevator toward more rooms ahead.
My wandering brings me to a doorway halfway down the corridor, and I halt mid-step, my heart leaping into my throat when I peer through the French doors.
Completely encased in windows and iron that converge into an arched, translucent ceiling, it reminds me of a cross between a greenhouse and a birdcage. An atrium with hardwood flooring and enough early morning light to illuminate the gossamer cobwebs clinging to the room. Dying plants lie about in what must’ve been a room brimming with life at one time, given the number of pots scattered throughout. In the center of it, sits the most beautiful black piano I’ve ever seen. Like the one from my dreams, where I sit and play my own compositions for a room of people who listen. Before I even realize it, my feet carry me across the room, until I’m standing in front of the beastly thing. Giving one furtive glance toward the doorway, I glide my fingertips over the ivory and ebony keys. Off to the side, on a pedestal table, is a snifter glass with an amber fluid and mostly melted ice cubes.
Swinging around, I search for another presence, but find nothing aside from scattered bits of furniture, stacked books, and what look like outdoor streetlights, the kind of Victorian era decor unfound in a town like Tempest Cove. The vines crawling over the windows outside remind me of an old London alleyway.
Mesmerizing.
I can only imagine what this room must look like in winter.
I settle my attention back on the keys and press a note, one I couldn’t recognize if someone paid me, but a common sound, found in many of the pieces I’ve played. Unlike on the old piano at school, broken down from age and overuse, these keys are even and smooth, yet slightly stiffer than what I’m used to. Heavier and crisp, as I play a simple scale. Sometimes, my music teacher would have me play at concerts when his usual pianist wasn’t available. I only have to listen to a piece once before I know the entire song, note for note. I’ve always appreciated consistent rhythms and the tick tick tick of the metronome.
A strange sensation winds down my spine, and I pause my playing, turning my attention toward the door in time to catch a flickering shadow of movement outside the room. “Rand?”
A cold sensation sweeps over my skin, springing goosebumps. I step around the piano to get a better look at what I’m certain is someone beyond the doorway. “Rand, is that you?”
Fine tendrils tickle the back of my neck, and I rub a hand across my nape over the creeping prickle.
It’s broad daylight, Isa. Relax.
The feeling of being watched has my eyes scanning the room. “Hello?”
“Miss Quinn!”
A scream flies out of my throat, and I stumble backward, setting a hand to my chest.
Rand peers in from the doorway. “I didn’t mean to startle you. And my apologies for the delay. Shall we?”
Eyes fluttering shut, I exhale a breath, and nodding, I follow him out of the room and down the hallway toward a set of silver doors, which appear to be an elevator. Of course, the place has an elevator. Why wouldn’t it?
“Only two rooms can be accessed from this elevator. Mrs. Blackthorne’s chambers, and the Master’s personal office. I’d caution you against snooping around the third level, as Master Blackthorne is very particular.”
“About his privacy,” I finish for him. “I understand.”
“Good.” He presses the button on the wall, and the panel overhead shows the third floor lit up, then the second. “You’re free to roam all other rooms, aside from the Master’s bedroom and the catacombs, of course.” At a ding, the silver doors slide open, and with a wave of his hand, Rand ushers me inside.
“Catacombs?” I ask.
“The bottommost level in the castle. It’s where the Blackthorne mausoleum, or ossuary, rather, is located.”
That cold sensation sweeps over me again. “Mausoleum? As in … human remains? In this house?”
“Yes. The Blackthornes have obtained special documentation that has permitted them to bury their ancestors right here on the property. However, the catacombs are off limits to you.”
“Of course.” Why the hell would I care to go snooping around for dead bodies, anyway?
“You’d be surprised what lengths some will go to, to see what’s off limits. I’d advise you don’t. One other small thing I want to mention. Should, by chance, you run into Master Blackthorne, I’d advise you not to make eye contact for long. Makes him a little … edgy.”
Guy must be sensitive about his
scars. I get it. “Sure. He doesn’t wander about much, I take it.”
“Aside from his office and the gym, not much, no.”
“There’s a gym here?”
“And a pool, as well as an indoor track. The Master was quite an athlete in his youth. You’re welcome to use them, if you wish.”
Jesus, it must take a crew just to keep up the daily cleaning here. I’d’ve hated getting assigned this place back when I worked for the cleaning company.
The elevator comes to a stop on floor number two and opens directly into what appears to be a parlor, with an antique-looking settee upholstered in a black satiny material that has my palms itching to touch. The entire wall to the left is one giant glass curio cabinet filled with what I’m guessing are porcelain dolls. Hundreds of them. In the light through the window ahead, I can see their beady eyes staring forward through the glass, where each appears to be propped on some kind of stand.
Creepy.
As I step into the room, another cold rush of air dances over my skin, and the abandonment of this place becomes palpable.
“Mrs. Blackthorne has one of the most expensive and coveted porcelain and bisque doll collections in the world.”
“She’s been collecting them for a while, then?”
“Since she was a little girl. Please have a seat on the couch. I’ll fetch her.” With his parting words, he wanders off through a doorway, and I don’t yet bother to sit. I’ll do nothing but fidget, which will only bring my wracked-out nerves to my attention.
Eyes scanning over the lifeless faces, I take in the variety of dolls in her collection--some I bet came from different countries. Some with cracked faces, others smooth and flawless. I never grew up with dolls to appreciate them much. My mother always called them pointless, and by the time I went to live with my aunt, I was too old for them.