Page 8 of Blackwicket (Dark Hall #1)

Blackwicket House was anything but demure.

It stood resolutely on a square foundation, three stories high, crowned with sloped mansard roofs and gray stone chimneys that reminded me of horns.

A covered porch spanned the length of the house, once conveying welcome, but the elements had rendered its railings and carved arches splintered, baring sharp edges to visitors.

Ornately trimmed windows, set beneath slate gray dormers, glared at us as we approached, their murky panes filled with judgment, and at the heart of it all rose a central tower, dark and forlorn as a forsaken lighthouse the world had forgotten it needed.

The trek was dismal, spent battling blasts of frosty wind cresting the cliffside and sweeping across the dormant meadowland, crashing into us as ferociously as waves seeking sailors to savage against rocks.

Every step invited my history to fold me in an embrace I’d shunned, and the baleful energy of Blackwicket House grew stronger, vibrating in the marrow of my bones.

It urged magic users to draw closer, to give a little, or even all of themselves, for the promise of nothing in return.

I ascended the porch, my gaze steady on the weathered oak door, its curved transom inlaid with green and blue lead glass. Hanging in this window was a sign, once reading :

REST YOUR BURDENS HERE AND LEAVE FREE

Worn by salt air, neglect, and undoubtedly some creative vandalism, it now read only:

BURDENS HERE … LEAVE

This edition rang truer.

I had no business being here, but where else could I go? I was destitute, friendless, and a wanted criminal who’d lost the last real thing she’d ever loved.

Fiona .

Grief replaced my anxiety, and I braced myself, unwilling to indulge in a breakdown in front of my father.

“It’s a shame how far this old lady’s fallen,” he sighed.

“It looks worse than I’ve ever seen it.”

“Fiona struggled the past couple of years.”

Guilt coiled tight around my lungs, shaming me for my absence.

“I used to come up here to flirt with your mom between dock shifts,” Darren continued, surprisingly sentimental. “Granny Fora liked to chase me off with a fire poker. Got me solid in the shoulder.”

He rubbed said shoulder for emphasis, grinning. “Didn’t stop me, though.”

I regarded my father, attempting to see a man worthy of Isolde Blackwicket’s attention.

But all I discerned was an aging black-market crook who couldn’t accept the love given to him or offer any in return.

My grandmother, who’d died before fifty and left her daughter to fend for herself in a world growing ever more cruel, had sensed this aspect in him and reacted accordingly.

“I’m sure you didn’t deserve it,” I replied.

Grasping the front door’s brass handle, worn shiny by a thousand hands, I waited for the telltale thrum of energy, the rush of greeting, but it remained a lifeless piece of metal. I tried it. Locked.

“The key,” I said.

“Oh, uh.” Darren rummaged in his pocket. “I don’t think there is one.”

“Then why are you looking for it?”

“Nervous. This place, you know, it…”

A surge of static jumped from the handle, raising the hairs on my arm, followed by the sound of a bolt retreating. The heavy wood door swung inward a few inches, hinges singing. The house remembered the girl who’d turned her back on it after all.

“Does that,” Darren finished with an uncomfortable chuckle, sticking his hands deep into his coat pockets.

“The latch wasn’t set,” I said, the lie unnecessary, as my father was acquainted with Blackwicket House and its machinations, but some habits were too deeply ingrained.

As I entered the foyer, I was greeted by the familiar fragrance of aged cedar and salty damp.

Here, guests would have been welcomed by a sightline that drew the eye along a lushly carpeted front hall to the grand window overlooking the cliffs, offering a sense of being suspended in the air.

But the brocade draperies were closed, blocking the light, shrouding the hallway in forbidding shadows.

Another step produced the creak of a loose board, one I’d pressed repeatedly as a child just to hear the varying notes of its protest until my mother’s stern, affectionate voice called

Eleanora, please. Even the dead can’t rest!

The ghost of her voice echoed in my ear, and despite myself, I leaned my weight back to make the board squeak again, but it was silent, giving me no more welcome .

This and many other rooms besides had once brimmed with plants, flowers of all kinds, spilling from pots and hangers, the verdant green of it livening a space often wreathed in darkness.

Our mother had taught us to nurture them with the lightest touch of magic.

It had been her quiet mission to secretly sharpen our senses without exposing our abilities.

Organic magic was rare, and the people capable of calling upon it rarer, encouraging the eyes of greed to fall on natural users, no single villain more troubling than Grigori Nightglass.

His strange, clinical fascination with Curse Eaters made mother fear he’d discover Fiona and I were gifted.

These plants were gone as well, and in their place, pulpy water scars remained, boards stripped of their stain.

The proud formal stairwell, its hand carved banister still stubbornly beautiful, rose to my left, tufted runners removed, steps worn with the nicks and scrapes of use.

My gaze slipped next to the wide mahogany counter where arriving guests would have checked in, back when the inn was still well-loved and full.

As nostalgia softened my heart to it, I finally felt the pulse of Blackwicket House.

It encouraged the terrible adoration I’d never fully rid myself of, the sort that had accompanied me into every new city, on every train, in every car, tethering me to my bleak heritage.

Overwhelmed, I turned to my father for support, hoping to rest my head against the cool collar of his jacket, to be held by someone who’d known me my entire life, who understood what this meant. But he hadn’t come inside.

He stood on the porch, gazing in, wary.

“You’re not coming?” I hated the way my voice clogged in my nose.

“Aw, Cricket.” He hesitated. “I can’t.”

I dropped my bag onto the floor and stormed back to yank the other from his grip .

“You’ve never been needed before,” I said, re-entering the foyer. “This isn’t any different.”

Damn the tear that slid down my cheek.

“Eleanora.”

I attempted to shove the door closed, but my father slapped his palm against it.

“Wait, wait, you need to know something.” He pushed, and I relented enough to see his earnest expression.

“What?” I spat.

“Fiona’s funeral is in two days. At the Nightglass estate.”

The mention of my sister’s funeral landed like a punch. For a moment, my anger had made me forget.

“No,” I responded.

“What d’you mean no?”

“Her funeral won’t be at the Nightglass estate. She hated that place. I’m here, so I’ll take over the arrangements.”

“But it’s already done.”

“You can’t make those decisions. You’re not even on her goddamn birth certificate. As her last legal living relative, it’s my responsibility. The funeral will be here. She’ll be buried in the family plot.”

“Eleanora, find some sense, nobody will come to this house anymore. The kids in town recite rhymes about it, for fuck’s sake.”

“Then I’ll bury her myself.”

“That’s just plain stupid, Cricket.”

He was right, but heartache enhanced my stubbornness.

“Appreciate it as proof that I inherited at least one of your qualities, Darren.”

I drove my shoulder into the door, the sudden force giving my father no chance to react. He’d never dare knock, let alone barge in, but I turned the bolt anyway, just to underscore my hurt. It secured itself with well-oiled ease. Fiona must have locked it often .

My eyes burned, tears threatening to start and never stop. I knew if I didn’t address my grief soon, it would harden and become something worse, but I needed a bit more time.

I raised my eyes to the high coffered ceiling two stories overhead, where the seven-bracket brass chandelier still hung, its arms adorned with lacy cobwebs.

Many of my winter days had been spent lying in the warm pool of sunlight that streamed from the high window, tracing the curves and coils of the fixture, pretending to stroke the fern-shaped fronds of the medallion with my fingertips.

“Hello,” I whispered, and the house creaked, releasing a long-awaited breath.

“I’m not staying,” I added, wanting to make sure it understood that I wasn’t its salvation, that it couldn’t depend on me.

There was a shudder in my soul as everything fell silent, a deep, fathomless noise. My ears ached from the pressure of it.

Leaving my bags on the parquet floor, I moved to the old front desk, running a touch over the top where the edges of gold filigree had faded.

Here were the memories of early years, of a pair of little girls sitting on high stools, drawing pictures, and welcoming the rare visitors with bright smiles meant to lift spirits, already aware of what was being brought to leave behind in our mother’s care.

Next to a wall of slats for letters and correspondence was the small square board for keys.

Blackwicket House boasted twelve rooms, ten designated for guests and two for family.

All the keys were present, still hanging on their hooks.

The back wall beyond this was bare, grass cloth wallpaper faded, gold vines and emerald leaves dusty and sun-bleached, evoking fairytales from my youth, however dim.

I’d occasionally broken the rules and used magic to bring the metallic threads to life, stirring them in a bewitched breeze, winding them through one another until they formed silhouettes of castle turrets and forest cottages.

Fiona had never caused mischief, but loved it when I did, and though such magical larks were kept small, lest the Drudge grow too curious, they were cherished moments.

Moments now turned to thorns in my heart.

A heaviness descended around my shoulders, eager to crush me beneath the weight of loss. To battle it, I decided to take stock of the damage a decade of neglect had done, to gather the stories of Fiona’s struggles and what she endured to be driven to do the things my father accused her of.

I couldn’t face the first floor. Not yet.

So, I climbed the stairs, my footsteps falling louder than they used to.

The paneling from downstairs continued, the yellowing cornices following the slope of the ceiling.

I came to the hushed landing of the second floor, knowing it was illogical to begin here.

I needed to go where Fiona had most likely spent her hours: the family wing.

The stillness I found atop the last flight was eerie and uncommon.

There was no natural light besides the watery sun shining through diamond windowpanes at either end of the hall.

To combat this dreariness, the walls had been lined with sconces, their white globes resembling a parade of full moons guiding a weary traveler.

I flipped a switch. There was a buzz and a pop, the lights coming on in slow succession, as if struggling to remember their function.

Finally, they found their footing, and the hall grew luminous with the insincere glow of artificial light.

Energy anomalies were not unusual, not with what lived here, but the audible buzzing served as a sign that the issue was mundane, not magical. I could ignore it. Let the house catch fire with faulty wiring. Let it burn.

Ten years ago, a mere three rooms in Blackwicket House were livable, and even those barely so.

The walls and ceilings had become wrecked with mildew from cracked windows and the poor state of the roof, which let in rain.

The linens and rugs had soured and browned with water, paper peeling, windowsills becoming soft with rot.

Isolde Blackwicket had closed each door, never to open them again.

Delaying a confrontation with these rooms, I wandered to the tower door, tucked away in a small alcove, goldenrod paper wrinkled with damp.

I imagined the stairwell had completely caved in.

I reached for the doorknob, but it was locked.

The keys. They were downstairs. Aggravated at the thought of the journey up being in vain, I cursed under my breath, then quieted as an instinctive urge tingled at the base of my neck.

I withdrew my hand until only fingertips remained, searching for the fluttering hum of life.

There it was, soft as a sleeping breath.

I could open the door without a key, just this time, but as I dipped into my neglected magic, searching for a connection, the humming swelled, transforming into a piercing electric scream.

The globe of light nearest me exploded, glass scattering in all directions.

I guarded my face, ducking away with a startled cry.

Sparks convulsed and the fixture crackled thrice before dying out even as the other bulbs brightened, leaving me squinting.

I choked on the scent of scorched metal and something else I couldn’t place, nauseatingly oversweet, until the chaos calmed, lights dimming.

Shards fell from my sleeves as I lowered my hands and began my race down the stairs, planning to collect the little money I had and leave everything else behind before I was forced to brave anymore of this bullying.

But as I tripped towards the bottom step, barely catching myself on the banister, my strategy was derailed by something unexpected—the dominating figure of a man I knew all too well, waiting for me in the foyer.