Page 4 of Darkest at Dusk (Revenant Roses)

Chapter Two

“ P apa?” Isabella called as she tried the door to his study. Locked again.

She paused, one hand poised to knock, the other tightening around the tray she carried, laden with tea and toast and the soft-boiled egg he’d requested over an hour ago, now cooling in its cup. A thin trail of steam rose from the teapot, the scent earthy and smoky with a hint of sweetness.

She pressed her ear against the panel. At first, she heard nothing, then a rustle, a whisper, the flutter of pages turning.

“Papa?” she called again.

There came the scrape of feet shuffling closer, then the unmistakable groan of something being dragged across the floor.

In recent days, he had taken to wedging the back of a chair under the handle of the door, determined that no one disturb his work.

Was he dragging it into place again now, or away? She could not tell.

“Papa, you must not lift heavy things. You must not exert yourself. We have discussed this,” she called through the door. She waited as a moment oozed past, then another, slow as pitch. When he gave no answer, she said, “May I come in? I’ve brought?—”

“No!” The word cracked like a whip. “Not now, Isabella. Leave it there.”

“But—”

“I said leave it.” The words were impatient, cold, angry. They struck like a slap. Never in all her life had he spoken to her in such a tone. For a heartbeat, she could not breathe.

Something was wrong. Had been wrong since the visit from the stranger, a man wrapped in shadow and threat.

Each day since, Papa had increasingly withdrawn into himself.

He shut himself away for hours at a time, emerging pale and trembling, his shirt damp with sweat.

His hands, once steady and meticulous, now fumbled at the smallest task.

He jumped at soft sounds. He whispered to himself and cast wary glances over his shoulder.

Once or twice, she had caught snatches of words not meant for her to hear.

“Two halves…the circle…hinge and key…not without a vow.”

Two nights ago, she had found him kneeling before the brass-bound trunk in his bedchamber, the key trembling in his grasp. But he had not opened it. He had rested his brow to the lid and whispered, “Choice. She must choose. Free will. But at what cost?”

She had remained frozen in the dark, aching to go to him, knowing she would be rebuffed.

Now, she stood at his study door, worry dragging through her, slow and suffocating.

“You haven’t eaten today,” she called through the panel. “Come now, Papa. Let me in.”

When he made no reply, she hesitated, then lowered the tray to the floor, porcelain clinking.

As she turned away, she caught a flicker of movement at the far end of the hall.

A pale figure stood silent and still in the shadows…

the woman, her gown translucent, her face blurred as though viewed through breath-fogged glass.

“Not now,” Isabella whispered. “Please.”

The figure did not move. Habit snapped its leash and Isabella fixed her gaze on the safe middle, spine straight, hands quiet.

A torrent of fractured words and sounds slammed through her thoughts, sudden and sharp. And then the woman vanished, leaving only a dark, empty space behind. Relief came thin and weak. The quiet never lasted.

Before dawn the next morning, Isabella roused from uneasy sleep to the faint clink of metal against wood.

She rose, pulled her wrapper tight across her chest, and stepped barefoot into the corridor. The floorboards beneath her feet were cold and uneven, their surfaces warped with age, the grain darkened by time.

The door to her father’s chamber stood ajar, a flickering candle casting elongated shadows across the paneled walls.

“Papa?” she called softly.

He was hunched before the brass-bound trunk at the foot of his bed, his hands braced on either side as though to steady himself, his back bent beneath the invisible burden he bore.

The room smelled of spent tallow and old paper, mingling with a sharp, metallic tang that made her nostrils sting.

Something within her balked at that scent, her mouth filling with the taste of a bitten coin.

Books lay scattered across the worn rug, their spines cracked, their pages yellowed and curling at the edges. They formed no discernible pattern, yet they surrounded the trunk like a guard.

One folio had fallen open, its vellum margins marked in ink.

Isabella caught an image, two semicircles nested together, like a broken ring reaching to be made whole.

Before she could draw breath, Papa’s hand darted out, his palm flattening over the image.

His eyes when they lifted to hers shone with a warning sharper than words.

“What are you doing? You should be sleeping. You need your rest,” she said, her voice scarcely more than breath.

He straightened abruptly, his features drawn and gray, the pouches beneath his eyes dark as bruises. Sweat clung to his brow, glinting in the candlelight. A fine tremor passed through his limbs.

“You ought not to be here,” he said, his voice hoarse. “It is not safe.”

“Safe from what?” Her tone was careful but the concern beneath it was not.

“He has stirred what should have been left to rest. I should never have replied to his letter. Never opened the door. But he spoke with knowledge no man should possess. He made promises I was too weak to resist.”

“You mean the stranger who came to the house? The one who made you so angry?” she asked. “What did he want?”

“Not a book,” he said, turning his gaze to the floor. “Not truly. Though he would have been happy for that, too. No, he came seeking something else. Someone else.”

She took a step backward. The words chilled her, though she could not say why.

“Who was he?” she asked.

Papa gave no answer. Instead, his gaze returned to the trunk. His hand rose to the chain around his neck, drawing forth the iron key he always wore, the one that belonged to the brass bound trunk before him. He pressed the key to his lips, as though it were a crucifix and he a man condemned.

“I thought I could protect you,” he murmured. “But I was mistaken.”

“Protect me from what?” Isabella asked, her thoughts spinning to the visions, the voices, the wraiths.

Did the stranger somehow know of her madness?

Almost did she ask, but fear stilled her tongue.

Papa believed she no longer saw them, heard them…

If she spoke of it, she would betray the truth and tear down all her carefully constructed lies.

Papa leaned forward and began to whisper to the trunk itself, a low chant that seemed to vibrate within the very bones of the room.

The candle flame flared tall and thin, its light no longer golden but tinged with blue at the edges. The pages of one of the open books lifted and rustled, stirred by no breeze. The air in the room grew heavy, close, clinging to her skin like damp wool. A shiver crawled through her.

From the doorway behind her, a new sound arose. Soft at first, like the rustle of silk across stone. Then a whisper, faint and urgent, brushing the edge of her thoughts. She did not turn to look.

Instead, she fixed her eyes on her father, his gaunt face, his hunched form, on the key still clutched in his clenched fist as though it alone might hold the darkness at bay. He shuddered, the candlelight illuminating the trembling curve of his mouth.

“Go now, Isa,” he said without looking at her. “Leave me.”

Distress suffused her at his distant, resolute tone. Her thoughts spun through events of recent days, back to the morning it had begun.

And suddenly, he was there, the stranger, not in flesh but in memory, the man who had stood unmoved while her father’s fury buffeted him.

His presence had filled the street. His gaze had pierced the glass, finding her, pinning her, seeing too much.

It was not merely a fanciful notion. She had felt it that morning, silent, precise, inescapable, like a dagger sliding beneath her skin.

“Papa, let me?—”

“Please, Isa,” Papa cut her off. “Go.”

She hesitated, her breath coming shallow and fast. Papa’s voice had always been her anchor, her compass. Now it was foreign, distant, devoid of warmth. Devoid of hope.

The candle flame flared high and blue. The pages of the open books strewn across the floor lifted and danced in the still air. The whispers flew at her, curling around her like choking vines. She could not breathe. She could not think. There was something dark here, something evil.

“Go,” Papa ordered.

With a gasp, she turned and fled.

And the whispers followed, eager as hungry dogs.

The house was silent save for the rain that fell in slanting sheets and the wind rattling the shutters.

Water spilled from the gutters in thick, silvery ropes.

The study door stood ajar. Isabella froze, wariness snaking through her.

For weeks now, Papa had taken to locking himself in whichever room he occupied, barricading the door with chairs, chests, or stacks of books.

But now, at the end of a long and silent day during which she had neither seen nor heard him, Papa had left the study door not only unbarred, but open.

A fly buzzed at her ear. She brushed it away and stepped inside.

When she saw him slumped in the worn, burgundy brocade chair he favored, eyes closed, chin resting on his chest, she forced a bright tone and said, “Papa, pray do not sleep here. You’ll have a crick in your neck come morning. You always do.”

The air felt thick and stale. Darkness dripped down the walls and pooled on the floor at her father’s feet.

Light from the dying fire painted one side of his face, leaving the other in shadow.

One arm lay across his chest, fist curled at the base of his throat; the other dangled loosely, fingers slack. An open book lay on the floor.

Isabella frowned.

“You missed supper,” she said as she crossed the room and retrieved his book from the floor. She set it down with unwarranted care, unease coiling through her as she stared at it.

Because a part of her knew.

A part of her had known from the second she crossed the threshold.

Still, she asked softly, “Are you hungry?” Her voice trembled as she turned back toward her father and stepped closer. “Papa?”

His lids did not flutter. His chest did not rise.

A cold, crushing weight settled over her, pressing inward, slow and merciless. It found the soft places beneath her ribs and burrowed deep.

With a gasp, she fell to her knees at his side and cupped both his cheeks. His skin was too cold.

Her breath hitched in her throat. Her voice broke as she whispered, “Papa…” The word came out small, her voice that of a child.

She pressed her ear to his chest. Listened. Waited. Willed his heart to beat. Wishing so hard. Wishing in vain. The silence roared.

A sob broke loose, raw and helpless, as she rested her cheek against the worn fabric of his sleeve. The shadows crowded closer, silent witnesses to her grief. A whisper slithered through the hush, curling into her ears, through her veins.

The wraith by the fireplace drifted forward, one arm outstretched, fingers curled like talons.

The ever-present whispers became a storm, growing frantic, clamoring to be heard.

Gone…Lost…Darkness…Alone…So alone…Do you see me…

Can you see me…See me…See me…Hear me…I am here…

I am here…Let me in…Let me touch…Let me…

Grief loosened the knots she tied in herself, rushing in through every gap.

It was ever this way when she was unable to maintain the barrier that kept the wraiths at bay, when fatigue or strong emotions chipped away at her carefully constructed wall and the voices carried through the ethereal place that was not quite of this world.

Cold sweat beaded on Isabella’s brow. Her chest tightened, bound by invisible cords, the whispers cinching tighter with every breath.

He is dead…he is gone…gone…But we are here…we are here…

In her mind, she cried out, “Leave me alone. Go away. Go away!” But aloud she said nothing. She longed to slam her palms against her ears to block the voices, but she knew from experience it would not help.

She would still hear them.

And they would still know she could hear them.

But to admit by word or action that she heard them would be to admit she was mad.

Never say it. Never show it.

“Oh, Papa.” Her throat was thick, her mouth dry. Grief flayed her, her heart left naked and shivering.

Limbs heavy, thoughts foggy, she pushed to her feet.

The voices she pretended not to hear rose and fell, making her shiver, following her when she moved through the house, half-blinded by tears.

She drew the curtains and stopped the clocks to mark the moment of her father’s passing.

She hung black veiling over the mirrors to prevent his soul from being trapped in the glass.

Not that she believed his soul was at any such risk.

His voice was absent from the cacophony that surrounded her, which meant he was gone, truly gone, his soul no longer here.

But she had no way to explain that to the servants, so she followed the rituals of death in order to mask the truth behind their familiar shape. She had learned to wear the pretense of sanity like a second skin—tight, fragile, always at risk of tearing away to reveal the madness beneath.

As she carried out her grim duties, she thought that she could summon the housekeeper and the maid and the cook.

Perhaps she should. But she felt it was her place as Papa’s daughter to see the things done with her own hands.

So, she carried out the tasks alone save for the whispers that lifted the fine hairs at her nape.

At last, she settled on the floor at Papa’s side and held his hand as the night crawled by, his still form draped in a blanket she had fetched.

The shadows swelled and twisted at the edges of her vision, the whispers swelling with them.

A pile of ash and a few glowing embers were all that remained of the fire when she roused herself hours later.

By then, her tears were dry, and the whispers had faded to a rustle of dry leaves.

Her hands found the chain at his neck, lifted it over his head, and drew the iron key free.

Its weight settled in her palm like a brand.

She curled her fist around it, her grip tight, her resolve tightening with it.

Papa had worn this key always; now, she would do the same.

The legacy it locked away was hers, whether she wished it or not.