Page 24 of Darkest at Dusk (Revenant Roses)

The breathless anticipation, the prickle of awareness across her skin…

she recognized these feelings for what they were.

After all, she had read the poetry of Byron, Shelley, Keats.

Their words had awakened a trembling awareness, unfamiliar and thrilling, though not even a pale shade as thrilling as what Rhys Caradoc stirred in her veins.

But she could not allow these emotions to color her thoughts, her logic, her decisions.

Was she safe here? What exactly did this enigmatic, magnetic man want from her?

She exhaled a shaky breath, her hand rising to her throat, fingertips resting lightly over the key that sat just beneath the fabric of her dress.

After a long moment, she turned back to the desk, her gaze flicking to the ornate box and the stack of her father’s letters.

Slowly, carefully, Isabella set the letters back into the desk drawer and slid it closed.

The library stretched out before her, quiet, shadowed, and filled with secrets. Secrets her father had tried desperately to shield her from. Secrets Mr. Caradoc guarded with a sharp edge of possession in his voice and a glint of something unreadable in his eyes.

Papa had been afraid— for her, yes—but also of her. Of what she might become if she stepped into the madness he had worked so tirelessly to keep her from. She saw that now.

But was it madness?

What of Papa had been wrong? What if the wraiths were not the conjurings of her unstable mind, but something else entirely?

What if convincing her that she did not see them was the mistake Papa had alluded to?

There was no turning back, not without answers. Not without knowing what her father had sacrificed so much to keep hidden, and why Rhys Caradoc had pursued her with such persistence.

She was not certain what haunted her more, the secrets, the ghosts, or the feeling that he, with all his dangerous knowledge, saw something in her that she could not yet see in herself.

When Isabella returned to the library the following day, she found that cleaning had begun.

The layers of dust had been wiped away from the desk, the chair, the narrow table near the multitude of open crates.

The tang of beeswax polish and the faint bite of smoke lingered.

The remainder of the room was still cloaked in a veil of dust and decay, Papa’s books exactly where she had seen them the previous day, scattered about in random disarray.

She felt certain that Mr. Caradoc had been searching for something specific in those crates.

Light crept hesitantly through the tall, freshly washed windows, casting thin, angular streaks across the dark wood floor.Dust motes swirled and scattered and danced. Somewhere in the walls, a faint chime threaded through the hush, too thin for a bell, too regular for pipes.

The space felt cleaner, yes, but not lighter. The air still carried a weight,a solemn hush, a sense of secrets coiled tightly in the shadows, waiting.It felt like walking into a cathedral a moment before a sermon…or a crypt moments before the last stone sealed it shut.

Isabella’s gaze lifted to the towering shelves and the carved wood ceiling above, her breath hitching as her imagination painted eyes in the carvings, mouths hidden in the dark knots of wood.

Near one of the lower shelves, Peg knelt with a feather duster clutched in one hand and a rag in the other.

Her red hair, damp with sweat and barely tamed beneath her white cap, glinted like molten copper in the morning light.

Her shoulders were hunched, her head down, as though she were trying to make herself small.

“Peg?” Isabella called softly.

The girl jolted upright, clutching the duster to her chest as though it might ward off some phantom threat.

“Oh! Miss Barrett!” Peg’s cheeks flushed crimson. “You startled me, miss. I thought you were Mrs. Abernathy come to scold me for dawdling.”

“You’re working hard, Peg. No one could accuse you of dawdling.” Isabella hesitated, her eyes drifting around the room, seeing all Peg had accomplished as well as the vast array of chores yet to be done. “May I join you?”

Peg’s green eyes widened. “You mean to help me clean, miss?”

“I do.” Isabella began to roll up her sleeves. “There’s more work here than one person can manage alone.”

Peg hesitated, then a shy, grateful smile tugged at her lips. “Well, if you say so, miss. Mrs. Abernathy sent me in before dawn. Mr. Caradoc said the room wanted cleaning.”

They worked side by side, Isabella taking up a clean rag while Peg wielded her feather duster.

The quiet between them was fragile, threaded through with faint creaks and the distant groans of the old house settling. Occasionally, Isabella would glance up at Peg, only to find her sending a sidelong glance at one of the shadowed corners of the library, her brow furrowed.

“Are you all right, Peg?” Isabella asked gently.

Peg hesitated, her teeth sinking into her lower lip.“I don’t like this room, miss. It’s like…” She paused, her voice dropping lower. “Like it’s holding its breath.”

Isabella studied her a moment. “You’ve been here at Harrowgate for a year, haven’t you, Peg? And you told me nothing bad has ever happened to you. You told me not to be afraid.”

Peg gave a tiny nod. “Aye, miss. Nothing bad has happened. And I’m not afraid, not even when the house cries in the night.

But this room…” She glanced around, her eyes darting to the shadows.

“Sometimes it feels like these walls are listening. Like they’re leaning in, close enough to hear us whisper. ”

Isabella’s rag stilled against the wood.

Peg was the first person she had ever met who seemed to experience things as she did, to feel things, sense things.

Isabella could not help but wonder if the girl saw things as well.

Her words came careful and cautious. “Have you ever seen anything unusual here, Peg?”

Peg froze, her fingers tightening around the feather duster.

“I mean,” Isabella continued softly, her voice level, “a person…or something that looked like one. Someone who… shouldn’t be here.”

Peg’s face paled, her freckles standing out starkly against her skin. She opened her mouth, closed it again, and shook her head.

“Best not to ask such things, miss,” she said, her words hushed and frantic. “Best not to stir them up.” She turned abruptly back to her task, her small shoulders tense and drawn tight as bowstrings.

Isabella’s rag stilled again on the carved wood, her chest tightening with words she very nearly let slip, the truth about the things she saw, the cold brush of hands that should not be felt.

The urge to confide pressed hard, desperate to be shared with someone who might understand.

Peg’s wide green eyes and the things she had said seemed to invite it.

But caution and Papa’s long shadow clamped her mouth shut. Never say it. Never show it.

Peg glanced at her and their gazes held for a heartbeat, as though she waited for words yet unsaid. Then she set her jaw and bustled toward the hearth. She snatched up the iron poker, carried it to the threshold, and laid it flat across the sill. The metal rang as it slapped wood.

“There,” she said with quiet conviction. “That keeps them out.”

“Them?” Isabella asked.

Peg pressed her lips tight. “Whatever listens. My mam says iron’s good for doors and sills. And windows—” She glanced at the windows framed by brocade curtains. “So the walls can’t breathe on us.”

Soft, almost imperceptible, the silence thickened, and the air shifted…a sigh or the settling of timbers.

The two women stilled. Then, at the same time, they laughed, too quick, too quiet, the sound edged with nerves. Peg clamped a hand to her mouth, freckles dark against her pale cheeks. Isabella shook her head, startled by her own reaction.

When their laughter faded, the oppressive weight had eased. The library was no less shadowed, but the air felt less dense. And Isabella looked at Peg with fresh eyes. She was not merely a skittish servant repeating tales. She was an ally armed with iron and stubborn resolve.

Peg’s gaze flickered toward the north side of the library. “There are parts of this house, miss, where no one goes. Where no one should go.”

“The north wing?” Isabella prompted gently.

Peg nodded, eyes wide.

“What happened there, Peg? Do you know?”

“Fire,” Peg whispered. “A terrible fire.” Her gaze darted around the room as if the fire might still flare in the corners. Isabella marked the fear and chose another path, one that would soothe rather than stir.

“Tell me, Peg, do you have any brothers or sisters?”

Peg’s expression softened.

“Oh, aye, miss. Three brothers and a sister, though I’m the youngest of the lot. They all think I’m spoiled, mind you. Being the baby and all.”

Isabella smiled faintly.“And are you?”

“A little, maybe. But it didn’t stop them from sending me here to earn my keep.

” Peg’s lips twitched into a grin. “My eldest brother, Danny, he’s the worst for it.

Acts like he’s my father sometimes. But he writes me letters, every month, like clockwork.

Full of gossip and nonsense. You’d think the whole village was on fire the way he tells it.

” She paused. “Glad I am now that Mam taught all of us to read and write.”

Isabella let out a soft laugh.“Your brother sounds like quite the storyteller.”

Peg nodded, her smile lingering before she turned back to her work. The silence that followed was softer now, less suffocating.

After a time, Isabella turned her attention to one of the crates.

It sat apart from the others, its lid cracked open, nails bent and splintered.

She went to stand before it, her hand hovering over the splintered wood.

With a huffing exhalation that felt too loud in the stillness, she pushed the lid open.