Page 11 of This Haunted Heart

Rynn Mavis

I took a wrong turn trying to find the kitchen and got lost. Finley said I wouldn’t see any staff, but someone had to be around attending to dinner clean-up. I would need a few allies inside Nightingale House—as many as I could get—and so I set off to recruit them. Preferably, I’d find someone willing to lend me shoes when the time came for it, or they’d help smuggle me out through the gates.

I wandered into a sitting room beside an art gallery of sculptures and still-life paintings, and I borrowed a lantern from it. The halls were too dark for my liking.

I spotted a back staircase, one intended for use by staff, then I rounded the corner and entered a hall that smelled like citrus and wine. Two vibrant bouquets of crimson roses flanked a heavy door of ebonized wood. The gaslights on the bronze torchiers flickered. A cold prickle trailed down my neck, and I slowed to a standstill.

The frame of the door was covered in locks. Unlike the central room which had only one lock, this one had two heavy chains, three deadbolts, and a latch secured by a padlock that was bigger than both of my fists put together.

“What the devil is in there?” I wondered. As I padded closer, a sensation not unlike walking through cobwebs coated my skin, lifting the fine hairs on my neck and arms.

I lost track of how long I stood there staring at that locked door and its eerily beautiful flowers.

“Rynn.”

I yelped at the sound of my name. Transfixed, I hadn’t heard Finley coming down the hall. He hoisted a glowing lantern of his own. It illuminated the scarred half of his striking face.

“Did you get lost?” he asked.

“I got exactly where I wanted to be.” My toes were cold. I folded one over the other to warm them in my stockings, an instant reminder of how unhappy I was with him.

“You got away from me, you mean.” His lips quirked.

“Yes, and you’ve gone and ruined it now. As is your habit,” I bit out.

His lashes lowered and he shuffled his feet, looking as close to rueful as I’d ever seen him. “I came to show you to your room.”

I pointed at the peculiar door behind us. “Show me that room.”

“Absolutely not,” he said darkly. “No one goes in that room. Not even I do.”

“Why?” My eyes were pulled toward it once more. Everything about it captivated me, from the swirling pattern in the grain of the blackened wood to the salty scent of iron that tinged the air from the heavy locks, the crisp smell of rose petals, the stark contrast of crimson against the ebonized wood.

Though others found it peculiar of me, I had always believed that houses had feelings. This home longed to be filled with something other than melancholy and loneliness. I was sensitive to it like I often was to the emotions of others, carrying them around on my back, picking up on feelings before the people around me did.

The temperature dropped suddenly. I hugged my lantern, absorbing the warmth through the glass.

Finley sighed, and his breath fogged. “Hear me, Rynn. It’s only natural for the living to be curious about the dead. I’m not surprised you wandered over here, that’s how I found you so quickly. I knew you’d feel the pull. I knew you’d come. You’ll feel it again, but you mustn’t ever try to open those locks. Stay out of that room.”

I glanced between him and the door. A petal dropped from one of the roses, floating delicately toward the ground.

“The dead?” As his words sunk in, I scoffed at him. “Are you trying to tell me there are ghosts in there?”

“There are ghosts all over this house,” he said, lowering his lantern, illuminating his strong jaw and casting the top of his face into foreboding shadow. “What’s in there isn’t to be trifled with. Stay out of that room, Rynn. You’ll regret it if you don’t.”

I didn’t believe in ghosts—especially not ghosts who apparently could be thwarted by a lock and key. Who’d ever heard of a spirit who couldn’t pass through walls? His expression had turned so severe, I didn’t doubt that he believed in them. It wasn’t the metaphorical sort we were talking about here .

Then again, why should I take him at his word? What if he stored the household safe in that room, and he wanted to keep me away with more trickery? Perhaps that was where he planned to hold my fortune.

“My interest in that door isn’t preternatural,” I said, letting out a humorless laugh that misted in the unseasonably cooler air. “You’ve got it covered in locks. Anyone with a predisposition like mine would be curious.”

“You mean anyone with an inclination to steal?” He raised a brow at me archly.

“Or an inclination to retrieve what they’re owed by any means necessary,” I bit out. “I was attempting to retire from theft. It’s not my fault you’ve sent me back to it with your poor treatment.”

He stepped up to me, squaring his shoulders. “You think my treatment of you is poor? Which part? The part where I made you scream while you came on my tongue? Or is it all the luxury you’re being treated to now that’s so egregiously unfair?”

“You know fucking well what you’ve done!” My shouted words bounced off the walls. “You stole from me, you’ve made me a prisoner here, and every word out of your mouth is coercion!” I squeezed my lantern so tightly between my fingers that the globe of glass rattled against the metal base.

A muscle in his cheek jumped. “And your words aren’t coercion? Isn’t that exactly what your trades and transactions are? Just pretty tricks.”

“At least my trades are fair! I give you a say in them. What say have you ever granted me?”

Melancholy shaded his tawny eyes even more heavily than the shadows. “You only pretend to care, pretend you want things you actually don’t, just to leave me guessing. You pretend it’s not a trap with your pretty words and a tempting smile, but that’s exactly what it is. At least I leave no doubt about my intentions.”

“What in hell are you talking about?” I glared up at him, as angry as I was confounded. “I did care about you. I cared about you and your stupid sadness the moment I met you. It’s you that went and ruined things between us with trickery. Not me.”

He snatched the lantern from me, and when I tried to take it back, he raised it over his head, out of my reach. I grabbed for it once, then gave up, refusing to allow him the satisfaction of another fight I’d lose.

“Come on then,” he grumbled. “Let’s go see this horrid prison I’ve readied for you to sleep in, shall we?” He marched off down the hall, taking the illumination with him.

The corridor dimmed and the shadows pressed in around me, and I had no choice but to follow him, casting one last long look at the mystery door.

This was a house that wanted to be lived in. I felt it in every groaning floorboard and creak of wood. Could sense it in each lonely room I entered. Smelled it in the cool citrus scent of the flowers. I didn’t believe there were ghosts here, but I was certain that at the end of that hall was a door covered in locks longing to be opened.

* * *

Finley took me up the back staircase and past the small library with the dull books. The bedroom he showed me was brightly lit by candles, and a lantern glowed warmly beside a bed dressed in billowy duvets and pillows. Another bouquet—this one full of pink carnations—sat on the fireplace mantel, letting off a green, earthy scent.

I repressed all the delighted sounds my mouth wanted to make. The decorations reminded me of a secret garden. A padded window seat was strewn with pillows embroidered with bright flowers, the scrollwork around the fireplace resembled ivy crawling up a trellis, and the books on the bookcase looked very promising. The colorful cloth covers begged to be opened to reveal what was hidden within.

“Do you approve of the cell I’ve selected for you?” Finley rumbled.

I shrugged my shoulders, forcing my expression into something reserved. “It’ll do.”

Lifting one of his lanterns, he brought it closer to my face. He squinted at me, then his lip tugged upward. “You love it.”

I fucking loved it! The first second I could I was going to jump on that giant bed like I was thirty years younger. It was still a cage. A gorgeous, gilded cage with bouncy beds and giant bathtubs, but a cage all the same. One I was determined to claw my way out of, kicking and screaming if I had to.

But not tonight. Tonight was for bouncing and rest. Tomorrow would be for plotting.

I waved him off. “I’m too tired to have another row with you. Please go away.”

He ignored the jab entirely. “I’ve added a few of my nightshirts to the dresser over there so you have something clean to sleep in. The rest of your things should arrive soon from Salt Rock. If you need me, I’m just across the hall.”

He handed me back my lantern. The moment my hands were busy, he cupped my cheek in his palm, drawing me closer .

I tried to repress the way my body responded to him, but my heart was not on the same page as the rest of me. It kicked against my ribs. I stared up into his grieving eyes and commanded myself not to feel sorry for him, but the stupid organ in my chest continued to ignore my wishes. The pinch of sympathy was so profound that I discreetly rubbed the sensation away.

My lashes lowered. “I wish I understood exactly what it was you needed from me.”

His breath blew against my cheek, warm and sweet, and I leaned closer on impulse. “I wish I did, too.”

Then he pressed his lips to the furrow between my brows and left.

I set my lantern in the windowsill because I liked the way the glow reflected in the plate glass. One item at a time, I plucked the stolen silver from my garters and hid them under the bed. I hung up my dressing gown beside the door and stripped free of my chemise, changing into one of Finley’s nightshirts. It swallowed me up, but it was clean and smelled like his spicy cologne water, and my heart misbehaved again.

I breathed him in, instructing myself to stop caring that he had a scent I wanted to bathe in.

As a distraction, I threw myself onto the bed, sinking into the billowy blankets, and giggles erupted out of me. I bounced on the mattress briefly, just to test its softness, but movement in the hall stilled me.

“Are you jumping on your bed?” Finley called through the door, voice wobbling.

“That must have been the ghosts you heard!” I called back, climbing under the comforter. “This house is haunted, don’t you know?”

* * *

I had terrible dreams that night. Dreams of crimson rose petals and locked rooms and angry voices.

In my nightmare, I was twelve years old, and the baron had ordered me to kill a chicken I had raised and grown fond of. The baron would eat her for his dinner because she wasn’t laying well, but I believed the hen just needed more time. I knew exactly what it was like to be thought incapable. So I stole her away and hid her in the woods to grant her a second chance.

Though kind Cook had tried to offer him an alternative, the baron guessed what I had done, and he locked me in a pantry as punishment. I hadn’t been given enough to drink, and the darkness was absolute. It pressed down on my chest and toyed with my mind. Air sawed through my dry throat. There were too many competing smells in my nose.

As the hours grew longer, sounds came to me in the dark. Whispers. Footsteps. The thump of an infernal heartbeat. Scritch-scratching against wood. The presence of malicious creatures that shouldn’t be real hovered near. I wet myself on the floor.

Lochlan couldn’t bear to hear me crying any more. He found the hen in the woods and brought her to his pa. The baron dragged me out of my prison, and he threatened to shut up Lochlan in the pantry next unless I broke the poor hen’s neck.

I killed her quickly and was too thirsty to make tears for her.

The baron put Lochlan in the pantry anyway for interfering. I kept close to try to help him stay calm. He could hear voices in there, Lochlan told me. Angry voices in the dark .

“They’re hurting me, Rynn,” he whispered through the crack below the pantry door. “They’re hurting me again.”

I awoke before dawn with a silent scream stuck in my throat.