Page 29 of Darkest at Dusk (Revenant Roses)

Chapter Twelve

E arly the following morning, Isabella woke with a gasp, her breath sharp and ragged as though she’d been running. Her chest heaved as she pressed a hand to her racing heart, the remnants of a dream slipping away like water through her fingers.

She had been chasing someone. No, not someone— him .

Rhys Caradoc. His dark coat had whipped behind him as he strode away, always just out of reach, disappearing into a tunnel formed by the twisted, barren branches of blackened trees.

Her bare feet had slapped against the ground so hot it seared, smoke clawing her throat as she tried to follow.

Sparks rained down. Ash stung her eyes. She had called his name, her voice lost to the roar of the fire.

But he never turned back. He never slowed.

Then, just as she had slowed, choking on smoke and despair, he had stepped from behind the charred trunk of an ash tree and caught her, as if that had been his goal all along, as if he had lured her by staying just out of reach until he had led her into the very heart of the blaze.

The dream faded, leaving behind an unsettling wariness. She had had a similar dream before, on the train to Maidenhead. Then, as now, she had had no explanation as to why.

She pushed upright in the large four-poster bed, her nightgown clinging to her damp skin, her hair stuck to her forehead in tangled curls.

The dream slipped away, and in its place came something sweeter.

Closing her eyes, she lifted her fingers to her lips.

Rhys had kissed her. She had wanted him to.

The memory came in fragments: the velvet heat of his lips, the steadiness of his hands when the world had tilted and she had become unmoored, the clean bite of his scent, citrus with a note of mint, the sharp ache low in her belly.

Shame did not come, though perhaps it should have.

But reckless wanting did, bright and insistent, battling the sobering certainty that she ought to keep her distance.

She traced her lower lip with her fingertip, remembering the feel of him, the taste of him.

A treacherous part of her wished the moment back, ached for his arms around her, his body flush with her own.

“Enough,” she whispered and opened her eyes once more.

The fire had long since burned down in the hearth, leaving the air cold and sharp. Isabella swung her legs over the edge of the bed, the chill seeping up from the floor through the carpet to bite at her bare feet.

She washed and dressed in a black wool gown, her movements brisk.

Once her boots were laced and her hair gathered into a loose knot, she hesitated at the door.

A glance toward her window revealed thin fingers of dawn reaching through the heavy curtains.

Papa’s key hung around her neck, warm against her skin.

Her gaze skidded to the trunk in the corner.

Then she thought of the brass box on the desk in the library, questions humming in her mind.

For a moment, the room was silent. Utterly silent. Until a sound carried from within the walls, faint and distant, a rhythmic tap…tap…tap. Slow. Deliberate. She held her breath, listening, but the sound had already melted away.

With a final breath, she opened her chamber door and stepped into the hallway.

There, she walked softly, her boots muted against the thick runner. The grand staircase loomed ahead, broad and imposing, spilling down into the cavernous entrance hall like the spine of some great sleeping beast. She hesitated at the top.

The thought of descending into that wide-open space, with its yawning darkness and towering portraits, sent an uncomfortable prickle down her neck. Besides, she was uncertain that she would find her way to the kitchen given that she had only ever used the servants’ stairs to reach it.

Instead, she retraced her steps then turned down the side corridor. It took only a moment to locate the small wooden door tucked between two tapestries, half-hidden in shadow.

The servants’ stairs were steep and uneven, but she welcomed the closeness of the narrow walls, the sense of familiarity, and oddly, even the feeling of being enclosed and hidden from the yawning emptiness of the grand hall.

When Isabella stepped into the kitchen, she was greeted by a wash of warmth and the luscious scent of baking bread.

The fire crackled in the hearth, its warm glow chasing away the predawn chill that clung stubbornly to the stone floors.

Copper pots gleamed from their hooks, and steam rose in faint curls from a kettle set near the fire.

A long dresser held blue-and-white crockery; pewter plates shone dully in the half-light.

Cook stood at the great black range, sleeves rolled up, forearms dusted with flour. She spared Isabella a quick nod before sliding a peel beneath a waiting loaf and turning the bread with practiced hands.

Mrs. Abernathy sat at the long wooden table, her cup of tea cradled in both hands. She glanced up at Isabella's entrance, her sharp blue eyes softening. Wisps of fair hair escaped her cap and curled at her temples, her rosebud lips curving in a smile.

“Well, good morning, Miss Barrett,” she said, her voice carrying the rasp of early hours. “You’re an early riser today.”

Isabella lingered in the doorway for a moment before stepping forward, her skirts brushing against her boots. “Good morning, Mrs. Abernathy. I hope I am not intruding.”

“Not at all, lamb.” Mrs. Abernathy set her tea down and gestured toward the bench near the table. “Sit yourself down. There’s tea in the pot, and Cook’s just pulled bread from the oven. You’ll want something warm in your stomach before the day begins.”

Isabella hesitated before lowering herself onto the bench.

As she poured herself a cup of tea from the stout pot, her gaze drifted across the kitchen.

Matty, thin-shouldered and quick, slipped in through the scullery door, a bundle of kindling under one arm and a bootjack in the other.

He bobbed his head to Mrs. Abernathy and set the kindling by the coal scuttle before continuing on his way.

“Did you sleep well?” Mrs. Abernathy asked Isabella.

“I… I think so. But I woke early. And I—” Isabella faltered. “I dreamed…”

“What did you dream about?”

“A man,” Isabella said softly, willing to admit only that and no more. “I was chasing him. Calling after him. But he did not stop, did not turn.”

Mrs. Abernathy’s lips pressed into a thin line. “Perhaps it was not a man you were chasing in your sleep but rather your old life. Settling in to a new place can tangle the mind.”

Isabella glanced down at her tea, her brow furrowed. “Do you think dreams are tricks, then?”

“My mother said dreams are wishes or warnings,” the housekeeper said.

Isabella’s cheeks warmed at the memory of Rhys’s mouth on hers. Wish, warning…perhaps her dream had been a little of each.

“Pish posh,” Cook said, her tone brusque. “Dreams are just dreams.”

Mrs. Abernathy reached for the pot to pour herself another cup of tea.

For a moment, the only sound in the kitchen was the faint splash of liquid into the mug.

Then, with a click of the scullery door, Peg edged inside, balancing the ash pail, cinders ticking as they cooled.

A curl of soot rode the air like a black snowflake.

“Tell me about the fire in the north wing,” Isabella said to Mrs. Abernathy, deciding a direct approach was the best. She had questions. The housekeeper might have answers.

The woman’s eyes widened, and her gaze flicked to Peg.

Not wanting the maid to be scolded for carrying tales, Isabella hastened to add. “I heard about it from the Burns sisters. We shared a carriage from Maidenhead to Marlow.”

“I stay away, miss. I don’t go near that wing,” Peg blurted. “Not if I can help. You can hear?—”

“That will be enough, Peg,” the housekeeper warned.

The maid ducked her head and busied herself at the grate, but her words had already escaped, hanging in the air.

Isabella set down her cup. “Why was that part of the house never repaired after the fire?”

“Because the men who were hired to do the work would not finish it,” Mrs. Abernathy said, turning her cup, aligning the handle precisely to the right.

“They said the stone would not keep. They said their tools were moved or went missing. They said they heard…things. Fools, the lot of them.” Her gaze held Isabella’s.

“Mr. Caradoc had the doors barred after that. That wing is not safe.”

“What sorts of things did they hear?” Isabella asked.

“Whispers down the flue,” Peg said. “Knocking in the walls. The howl of the wind on a still day. I’ve heard all those things, too, and more.” She shuddered.

“Peg,” Mrs. Abernathy said, sounding exasperated but not unkind.

“Well, I have,” the girl said, mulish. “And the draft there is wrong. Comes hot when the weather’s cold and there’s no fire anywhere nearby.”

“Peg,” she said again, her tone sharper now.

“I’ve buried one maid already, poor thing.

Fevered she was and terrified, swearing she heard things in that wing.

Snuck out in the night and was found dead the next day.

I’ll not bury another for the sake of curiosity.

” The housekeeper shook her head and said to Isabella, “There are places in Harrowgate, Miss Barrett, that are best left undisturbed. The north wing is one. There are shadows in this house that have been here far longer than either of us. Some doors, once opened, cannot be closed again. Do you understand?”

Isabella’s brows lifted. “I understand that oblique answers invite curiosity.”

Mrs. Abernathy hid the hint of a smile.

“I wondered if you might accompany me to the village on Wednesday,” she said, her tone lighter.

“The village?” Isabella blinked. “Why?”

“You spend every day in the library, breathing in mildew and dust and old paper,” Mrs. Abernathy said gently.

“Well…yes,” Isabella said. “I’ve been hired to set the library to rights…”