Morning came reluctantly to Thornhaven Manor. The storm had spent itself during the night, leaving the grounds shrouded in a dense, eerie mist. Ivy awoke to the soft crackle of the fire in the hearth, the scent of damp stone and aged wood lingering in the air. For a moment, she lay still, trying to piece together her dreams—fragmented images of golden eyes, twisting shadows, and whispers she couldn't quite understand.
Dressing quickly, she chose one of the simpler gowns from the wardrobe—a soft gray dress with lace cuffs that clung to her curves. The silk felt foreign against her skin, but she pushed away the discomfort. She had accepted this job to start fresh, and she wasn't about to let her nerves get the better of her.
The hallways were as silent as a tomb as she made her way to the dining room. The manor seemed endless, its corridors twisting in ways that made her question if she'd taken a wrong turn. The walls were lined with portraits, their subjects stern-faced and shrouded in a gloom that matched the manor itself. She paused before one of the paintings—a woman with striking features and eyes that seemed to follow her.
A chill ran down Ivy's spine as she read the brass plaque beneath the frame:
"Lady Evelyn Ashford, 1786-1812."
"She died so young," Ivy murmured, her voice barely audible in the oppressive silence.
"Curious, isn't it?" Gabriel's voice startled her, and she turned to find him standing behind her. He was dressed more formally than the night before, his dark suit tailored to perfection. His golden eyes flicked to the portrait, then back to her.
"Good morning," she managed, her cheeks flushing. "I didn't mean to linger."
"You're free to explore," he said, his tone unreadable. "But Lady Evelyn's story is not one I recommend delving into."
"Why not?" Ivy asked, her curiosity piqued.
He stepped closer, his presence overwhelming. "Some stories are best left forgotten."
Before she could respond, he gestured toward the dining room at the end of the corridor. "Breakfast is ready. You'll need your strength."
For what, he didn't say.
The dining room was grand yet somber, with high ceilings and tall windows that barely let in the gray morning light. A long mahogany table stretched the length of the room, set with gleaming silverware and fine china. Ivy sat at one end while Gabriel took the other, the distance between them only amplifying the tension in the air.
"Do you live here alone?" she asked, breaking the silence as she buttered a slice of bread.
"For the most part," he replied, sipping his coffee. "Though I'm rarely without company."
Ivy frowned, unsure what he meant. Before she could press him further, the door creaked open, and an elderly woman entered. She was short and thin, her white hair pinned in a tight bun, her expression severe.
"Ah, Mrs. Thorne," Gabriel said, his tone softening. "This is Ivy Whitmore, our new caretaker."
Mrs. Thorne gave Ivy a brief, assessing look before nodding. "A pleasure, Miss Whitmore. You'll find Thornhaven has its own rhythm. Best not to disturb it."
"Of course," Ivy said, unsure how to respond.
The older woman left as quickly as she'd come, and Ivy couldn't shake the feeling that her arrival had been met with quiet disapproval.
After breakfast, Gabriel rose. "Your duties begin today. Mrs. Thorne will guide you, but the library requires attention. I suggest you start there."
Ivy nodded, though her curiosity burned. "And the west wing?" she asked, her voice cautious.
Gabriel's gaze hardened, the gold in his eyes darkening. "Do not test my patience, Ivy."
The warning lingered in the air long after he left the room.
The library was a world unto itself, a vast chamber lined with towering shelves that reached the ceiling. Dust motes swirled in the light filtering through the stained-glass windows, and the faint scent of old parchment filled the air. Ivy marveled at the collection—rows upon rows of books, some bound in leather so cracked and faded they seemed older than the manor itself.
As she worked, carefully dusting the shelves and cataloging the titles, something caught her eye. One of the books was wedged at an odd angle, its spine cracked. Ivy pulled it free, revealing a hollow space behind it. Inside was a small, tarnished key tied to a strip of black ribbon.
Her pulse quickened as she turned the key over in her hands. It was heavy, its intricate design unlike any she'd seen before.
"What are you hiding?" she whispered to herself, glancing around as if Gabriel might appear out of the shadows.
Tucking the key into her pocket, she returned the book to its place. She tried to focus on her work, but her mind kept drifting back to the key. What door did it open? And why had it been hidden in the library?
As the day wore on, the weight of the key pressed against her like a secret begging to be uncovered. Ivy resolved to search the manor after dark, despite Gabriel's warning. She couldn't explain why, but she felt certain the key was important—perhaps even tied to the unease she felt in the manor's endless halls.
That night, as the fire in her room crackled softly, Ivy sat on the edge of the bed, turning the key over in her fingers. The storm had passed, leaving the manor in an eerie stillness.
She stared at the door, her heart pounding. The west wing loomed in her mind, forbidden and tantalizing. What secrets was Gabriel hiding there?