Page 17 of Darkest at Dusk (Revenant Roses)

“Miss Barrett?” The housekeeper’s voice drew Isabella’s attention, snapping the thread of her rising unease. She realized that the woman had asked her something and she had neither replied nor heard the question in the first place.

“I’m sorry. I must have been wool gathering,” she said.

“There now, lamb. No harm done. You must be exhausted,” Mrs. Abernathy said. “Sleeping on your feet with your eyes open. Come along, then.”

She turned and continued on, her candle flickering, throwing dark shapes to twist and curl against the wood-paneled walls.

Finally, she stopped before one of the doors and pushed it open. “This one. It has a lovely view of the garden.”

Isabella stepped inside. A fire burned in the hearth, and she saw that her trunks were already there.

One was set on the floor at the foot of the bed and the other—Papa’s trunk—was pushed into a corner.

The walls were dark paneled like the hallway, the floor dark wood, covered in part by a large rug.

A heavy armoire stood against the wall opposite, its surface polished to a dull gleam, its brass handles glinting in the firelight.

Mrs. Abernathy sidled past her and crossed to the window, pushing it shut with a firm click.

“That Peg,” she said with a sigh. “I told her to air the room, and she must have forgotten to come back and close the window.” She shook her head. “It’s a bit chilly but the fire should warm it up soon enough.”

Isabella set her candle down on a small table by the bed as Mrs. Abernathy pulled closed the heavy velvet curtains.

“Is there anything else you need tonight, Miss Barrett?” the housekeeper asked, turning to face her.

“No, thank you,” Isabella said, forcing a weary smile.

“I’ll leave you to yourself, then,” Mrs. Abernathy said, her expression softening. She hesitated in the doorway, her face half-illuminated by candlelight. The shadows deepened the lines and hollows around her eyes and mouth, making her look older, wearier, and somehow…haunted.

“The house is old,” she said, her voice low, almost conspiratorial. “There are drafts and cold places, and the wind finds its way inside. It can sound like whispers. Like sighs. But it is only the wind.”

Her gaze held Isabella’s and the silence stretched between them.

The wind, Isabella thought, could not explain the feeling in her chest, the deep and unshakeable sense of dread.

And Mrs. Abernathy didn’t sound as though she believed the wind was the source of the whispers and sighs. Not at all.

“Then this house is much like my home in London. It was full of whispers and sighs,” Isabella said, the irony lost on the other woman. “I am certain I will be most comfortable here.”

“Sleep well, Miss Barrett.”

With a smile, thin and too brief to be comforting, the housekeeper left, closing the door behind her.

Isabella was tempted to curl up on the bed in her dress and close her eyes until morning.

Instead, she opened the armoire. The faint scent of lavender wafted from its dark interior.

And underlying that, a different smell…something acrid and unpleasant.

Memory clung to the edges of her thoughts, just beyond reach.

She tried to think why the scent was familiar, and why it forced a chill down her spine.

Limewash and closed rooms. Old pennies. Wet stone.

She exhaled sharply then drew a slow breath through her nose, only to discover that there was only lavender now.

With a shake of her head, she returned to her trunk and began to unpack her belongings, smoothing out each dress before placing it in the armoire.

She was just closing the lid of her now-empty trunk when there came a knock at her door.

She opened it to find one of the three maids standing in the hallway, carrying a fresh pitcher of water and a warming pan.

The girl was small but sturdy, with bright green eyes, red hair tucked beneath a crooked cap, and freckles scattered across her nose and cheeks.

With an awkward bob, the maid said, “Sorry, miss. I forgot to bring these when I made up your room. May I?”

“Of course,” Isabella said and pulled the door wide.

The girl set the pitcher on the washstand, then slid the warming pan between the sheets before turning back.

“Are you Peg?” Isabella asked.

“I am. You remembered my name.”

She seemed so pleased that Isabella decided against clarifying that it was Mrs. Abernathy’s muttering about “that Peg” that had given it away.

Peg’s eyes darted around the room, and her teeth sank into her lower lip. Then she offered a stiff smile. “Is there anything else you need, miss?”

“Not that I can think of.” Isabella expected her to take her leave. Instead, Peg scuffed her toe against the carpet and chewed on her lower lip once more.

“Are you the sort to walk the halls at night?” she blurted, her voice barely above a whisper. The way she asked the question, accompanied by a wary glance toward the dim hallway, made Isabella wary.

“I do not make a habit of it,” Isabella said. “Why do you ask?”

Peg shook her head and crossed to the door. “I’m sorry, miss. I shouldn’t have said anything. It’s just…”

Isabella waited her out. Either the girl would say what was on her mind or she would not.

Finally, Peg said, “It’s this house, this place. You feel it, don’t you? The strangeness of it?”

“Strangeness?”

“It isn’t right. You walk down a corridor or carry something up the stairs, and the walls feel odd, like they’re closing in.

Mary and Em don’t feel it, but I do. I feel it so strong sometimes I think I might retch.

And at night, I hear things. Knocking from inside the walls.

Or moans. Or cries.” She pressed her lips together, then whispered, “I hear them. And as soon as I saw you, I thought you might hear them, too.” She hesitated, then added in a rush, “And if you wake to find the door open when you know for certain you closed it—” She stopped, blanching and shook her head. “Best not to say more.”

Isabella stared at her. Never before had she encountered someone who saw the things she saw, heard the things she heard.

For a brief, shining instant, she considered trusting this girl with her confessions, sharing the burden of the wraiths that haunted her.

The words rose to the back of her teeth, Yes, I hear them.

But a level head and years of caution won out. She held her silence and only waited for Peg to say more.

“I don’t tell you this to make you upset or afraid,” Peg hastened to reassure.

“That isn’t it at all. I tell you because when you hear it, I want you to know I hear it too, and I’ve been here nigh on a year and nothing bad has happened to me.

Sometimes it does scare me.” She shook her head and offered a small smile.

“But my mam always said that ghosts aren’t really here and even if they were, they couldn’t hurt you. Only being afraid of them can do that.”

The girl fell silent and after a moment, bobbed an awkward curtsey and edged toward the door.

“Peg,” Isabella said.

The maid stopped in the doorway and looked back at her over her shoulder.

“Thank you for telling me about…” Isabella pressed her lips together. “I won’t be afraid.”

Peg offered a wavery smile, nodded once, and slipped out, closing the door with a soft click.

The quiet that followed felt heavy, leaden. The fire’s embers glowed in the hearth, battling the cold and the creeping dark that pooled in the corners like black treacle.

The armoire loomed, its polished surface reflecting a smudgy, distorted version of Isabella’s face, the warped image bending and swaying with each flicker of the flames. Her gaze slid to the dark gap between the doors. She could have sworn something shifted within.

Pansy’s words slid through her thoughts. Keep your wits about you… Harrowgate has a way of taking things.

From somewhere deep within the house, carrying through the walls, came a faint, deliberate knocking. Three measured beats, then silence.

Isabella turned a slow circle, trying to determine the direction of the sound.

It came again, closer now, a little louder. Knock. Knock. Knock.

Her skin prickled, the fine hairs on her arms lifting. She strained to hear it again, but the silence was heavy and absolute, thrumming in her skull.

Still, she felt it, the certainty that somewhere in this vast, cold house something had stirred, something that knew she was here.