FRANCISCO IBARRA

YOUR BLOOD

is my

SUGAR

FRANCISCO IBARRA

YOUR BLOOD

is my

SUGAR

FRANCISCO IBARRA

YOUR BLOOD

is my

SUGAR

FRANCISCO IBARRA

Also by Francisco Ibarra

The Nesting House

For the wolves that taught me how to write about lambs.

Content Advice: 

Dear reader, I know I am a young author, but I can definitely say that this book is not for my age at all. This is a work of historical gothic fiction. Adult fiction. but beside that, if any of these following elements trigger you, please take caution:

This novel contains depictions of emotional abuse/emotional pressure, physical abuse, illness of a loved one, toxic relationship dynamics, forced marriages, misogyny, as well as intense, graphic depictions of gore and mutilation. (human and animal mutilation), corpse detail, and cannibalism.

If any of these themes may be distressing to you, please take care while reading.

Thanks, Francisco.

“I live in your warm life, and you shall die—die, sweetly die—into mine.”

Sheridan Le Fanu, Carmilla

Chapter one

That night I dreamt of red. Not the red of roses, nor the red silk of gowns, nor the red of dying ember. This red was darker, thicker, and richer. 

I raised my pocket watch to ascertain the hour. Four o’clock in the morning. 

Splendid. 

My eyes resisted closing, as much as I tried to think blankly, and rest my eyes, the crimson hue always returned, spiralling my thoughts like a tightening, aggressive serpent. I open my window to let in some fresh air, attempting for this to halt my repetitive thoughts.

I enter my bed once again, hopefully with refreshed reflections, and a positive mood to commence my rest. Though the wind brings no peace. Only a repetitive hush that seemed to tingle the boarders of my ears, waving my hair within the cold air. I wanted to believe it was refreshing, but the awful thought of red, dripping, filling my brain like rain, never left. I grunt, as if I were trying to confront my thoughts and tell it to shut up. 

I force myself to rest and not complicate this night anymore. But perhaps the crimson thoughts were meaning to utter something. Something powerful, dark, and menacing. Perhaps a warning, or a preparation for my dreading future. 

I wanted to sleep, and wake up with positive energy, and I started to feel the thoughts more

thoroughly. My head started to ache in pain, as I suddenly knew why my sleep was in such trouble. 

Victor. Of course, it had to be Victor. As much as I wanted to make my father proud, there was nothing special about Victor. Even when he held my hand, his touch was gentle yet hollow, as though his eyes searched everywhere but my own.

He will be coming at seven, and I will look like an awful mess. Though, if I was being truthfully honest, I doubt he will even notice, he rarely notices when I am present at all.

__________

That morning, I wake up with large bags under my eyes, representing my frustration with my rest. I slowly lead myself down three stairs to where I have my breakfast. As I enter, I see Nothing. Nothing on the hearth, not even a wisp of smoke. I sigh, as a grab a loaf of bread that has been sitting in the pantry for what felt eternity. I bite the rock-hard bread with my very little strength, and chew, though my jaw gets sore immediately. 

Rose, the eldest of all my sisters, steps with pride, with that unnecessary confident smug that always swells her face. She halts, her posture so perfect, I almost retch in laughter. She greets me with flared nostrils, and unimpressed facial expressions. 

‘You.’ She says, keeping the sly smug that never erases from her disrespectful personality. 

‘Look at you,’ she continues a moment after. I take another weak bite from the stale bread. ‘You’re a mess. It looks like you have seen a ghost.’ She utters, her sentence ending in a chuckle that makes my stomach swell in angst. 

‘Hush, Rose. Just remember who is engaged.’ I reply, with more confidence, perhaps more energy. Rose’s eyes widen.

‘It was a set up. I know your thoughts about him. Your honest thoughts. Father has no idea.’ She says, striding closer to my silhouette.

‘Just know, I have all the power. I can go to father right now and tell him.’ She finishes, or so I hope, before she laughs silently about five seconds after the insensitive response.  

Rose, who’s mouth opened, about to emit some other useless insult, before Beatrice, youngest, though most mature, and most religious, stepped silently as always into the living.

‘Sisters,’ she begins, her face flooded with disappointment. ‘We mustn’t argue to one another.’ She speaks, firmly, expecting us to comprehend. Although annoying, it seems as though Beatrice is the leader, and from day one, she expected us to follow her lead. And we did. Rose silently nods; her hand disposed around her back. 

‘Yes, sister Beatrice.’ Rose replies, with remorse. I clear my throat.

‘Sorry Sister.’ I speak.

‘Very well.’ Beatrice finishes, walking off, this time louder than when she first came in. 

Rose exchanges me a glance, which at first, I take in the wrong way, before she walks off and doesn’t say anything. I place myself back to where I was earlier. The kitchen. I slice myself another piece of the stale bread, and expect it to fulfill my hunger, maybe recharge my anxiety to marrying a man I have zero interest in. 

I chew quitter this time, as though I believe Rose will barge in again, and throw useless insults at me. The candle beside me gutters, as I stare at its guttering longer than I should. The way it moves with

the wind of Blackstone Manor unsettles me more than it should.

The flame does not simply flicker; it inclines, bowing at an angle too deliberate to be accidental. The windows are latched, the air still, and yet the candle bends as though acknowledging a presence I cannot see.

I watch it longer than necessary.

The wax gathers at its base in a slow, viscous descent. It thickens before falling, clinging stubbornly to the ivory column before surrendering to gravity. For a fleeting, foolish moment, I think of my dream again. Of that dense, consuming red. And I feel my throat tighten in response.

I exhale through my nose and turn away from it.

‘You stare as though you expect it to speak.’

My father’s voice does not startle me; it rarely does. He has always possessed the peculiar ability to appear precisely when he intends to.

He stands just beyond the threshold of the kitchen, already dressed for the day in a dark coat cut to perfection. Not a crease dares disturb the line of him. His gloves, as always, are immaculate.

‘I was merely thinking,’ I reply.

‘Thinking is better done productively.’ He speaks. ‘Don’t eat that bread, dear, it’s been sitting there longer than your mother has been sick.’ He recalls, pointing his index to the food I had just consumed. 

‘We don’t have anything else.’ I say in response, tightening my demeanour, and curling my eyebrows just enough for him to react more tense. 

Silence seeps too quickly, like a knife that had just been sharpened to its finest edge.

‘Anyway, dear,’ he begins, ‘Victor is arriving shortly, and I want you to present yourself more exceptional. Your standards are in a desperate mess.’ He finishes. The words hit me just like Rose’s

shitty insults that I was dreaded from hearing. 

‘Yes, father.’ I reply, bowing my head, as I make my way to my bedroom on the third floor. 

I take a candle that was placed on a chiffonier, and used the low, guttering, yellow gleam of the candle to lead myself. 

The candle wax begins to drip slowly onto my skin. I shudder. Its heat burns, though it brings me warmth. This house always has a coldness to it that we can never fix no matter how much clothes we wear, no matter how much socks we stack over our feet. There were not many fireplaces here, the main one in the living room, which has always been my favourite area in the estate, as it is the most peaceful. 

The candle’s wax made its way to my palm, which strangely seemed to burn more than when it fell on my wrist.

I finally made it up to my room, panting harshly. 

I quickly attired myself, and completed my facial hygiene, yearning for the bags under my eyes to vanish, though, to my expectations, Instead, they stayed there and seemed to be even bigger and darker now. How come? 

Fatigue.

Fatigue, I thought. It must be. They were always that large and dark. Soon, I detect the sound of the main entrance opening. It is Victor. I quickly arrange my thoughts in position and shuffled myself down the large number of stairs, almost slipping due to my amount of speed, though, I knew father would be largely disappointed if I didn’t arrive to greet Victor on time.  

So, after the rush of galloping down the stairs, I made it to the entrance, where father was standing there before me, a harsh look swarming his visage. Shit. I once again disappointed father. Now I know I most definitely cannot go live with Victor.  

‘Good day, my dear.’ Victor says in a peaceful tone, as he lifted my palm, and kissed the top of my hand. I let him kiss me often, though he didn’t seem to notice I never shared my love to him. I don’t love him enough to be in a lasting relationship with him, though I had no choice. Father believes he is such a gentleman, though I do not see it.

He may kiss my hand, and bring me flowers, though behind all that flexing, angel personality, he is just like any other man. Though, maybe when we get married, and he lives here in Blackstone manor with me, my love for him will change or deepen. 

Hopefully.

I do not want to live my future with a man that I don’t fully love with all my heart and passion.

‘Welcome,’ father begins, with a calm voice that seemed to make my skin crawl. ‘So pleasant to make your acquaintance again.’ He finishes, ending his sentence in a wide smile that bothered me again. I barely ever see him smile. Or be kind.

‘I believe the pleasure is mine, Mr. Harcourt.’ He replies, with a smug look on his face. 

‘Please, address me as Charles.’ Father replies.

All that time, I have been standing patiently beside them, longing for them to conclude their back-and-forth battles of tenderness. 

‘It’s a pleasure seeing you, darling,’ Victor begins, though I do not utter anything in reply, as though I have a feeling he will say more. ‘Though, your undereye region looks very fatigued, are you sure you completed your rest?’ He says, in concern. No, actually. I feel like absolute shit, and no one has been here to comfort my hunger, nor my restless nights of crimson worries and battles with imaginary scenarios. My head is an absolute tangle of mess, and I need someone to comfort me with my uncomfortable clutters.

‘Yes,’ I begin. ‘I’m fine.’ I reply. As much as I didn’t mind lying, this time, I felt a rotten sentiment spreading in my stomach. 

‘Very well.’ Victor replies with careless remorse. 

Chapter two

As Beatrice prepared supper, I made myself to mother. She was extremely ill, and, not surprisingly, we did not have the fortune to pay a doctor to treat her. 

I sat myself on the opposite side of bed, as I stroked her hand softly. Her skin was always so smooth, and delicate to the touch, though, now her illness had eaten her. 

Her colour was drained, her face pale as a white ghost. Her eyes rested, though I knew she was awake. Her breathing changed slowly, her breaths unbalanced. 

‘Oh, mother,’ I began, as a single tear ran down my cheek. ‘I need you more than ever at the present moment. Please. Come back.’ 

As much as I knew this was a stupid question, her getting better was rather a fictional dream. 

She unleashed a steady look, which made me jolt as she opened her eyes with such speed. 

‘Don’t let her take me.’ Mother whispered, with such a polite tone of fear, it made my skin tread with goosebumps.

‘Don’t let her take me!’ She says again, louder. She sits up firmly, her face paler now. She clasps my palm, gripping it with a surprising amount of force.

‘Don’t let her take me, my darling, Evelyn!’ She yells, a screeching pain hidden in the threads of her voice. Mother refuses to let go of my hand, as she grasps even tighter. 

‘Let go Mother!’ I say with such a deep unease that I couldn’t form my response properly. Mother grasps even harder, leaving large bruises circling my palm.

Mother begins to let go slowly, with each second degrading her harsh grip.

‘If you let her take me…’ She begins, drawing a single finger to my palm, ‘I will die.’ Mother finishes, her voice wrapped in an unsteady fear. 

‘I will die.’ She repeats, as she begins to pierce my skin with her nail. It hurts. 

‘Mother…’ I begin, slowly attempting to remove myself from her grip. Though, mother refuses to let go. Instead, she only pierces her nail deeper, revealing blood pouring from my hand. 

‘I will die!’ She yells, as her vocal escalations make me tremble even more. 

Blood did not stop pouring from my hand, and no matter how many times I wanted to let go, her nail would only dig deeper, and deeper. 

‘Stop it! Mother, you’re hurting me!’ I yell, getting rid of my patience. I understand that she is severely ill, and needs my affection, though I will not stand for harm. 

I grasp her finger, and grasp it so tight, my knuckles begin to lose colour. Mother lays back, slowly putting her palm and finger back into a comfortable place. Her nail and part of her finger are stained in my blood, though she doesn’t wipe it off. I began to feel uncomfortable in the silence.

‘Do you want me to bring you some food, mother?’ I say, attempting to demolish the harmful silence. ‘Supper is almost ready.’ I manage to form an awkward smile, though it doesn’t seem to reach mother’s ease.

‘No.’ She replies with such sudden coldness, I even began questioning myself if she really is my mother. 

‘Beg your pardon?’ I reply.

‘I said no. I mustn’t eat, or she will be angry.’

‘Who?’

‘She.’

I slowly remove my smile, my carless smile forming itself into an unpleasant frown.

‘Okay.’ I say with a quiet sigh, as I tuck her in the bedsheets, and remove myself from the room.

‘Are you certain?’ I remind her.

Mother slowly turns her head towards me; her face flushed in pale whiteness. 

‘Yes. I am certain.’ She replies, still keeping her remorse buried with her angering dryness. 

Originally, I wanted to assure her that there is no “she” out to get her, and that it is okay to eat, though, instead I nod in response, as I cannot generate an appropriate answer under all my anxiety. 

I leave the room, and proceed to walk to the kitchen, where I smell the aromas of cooking.

I wanted to forget all about the conversation I had just concluded with mother, and her disturbing, gut-wrenching words that made me fear my relationship with her in the future. 

Victor is seated upon the velvet dining chairs; his hands curled around the Holy Bible. His expression curled as his eyes darted to different areas of the thin, aged pages of the book.

After a while, Victor noticed my presence and wrapped his secretive demeanour into a pleasant, welcoming warmth.

‘Darling,’ he began, as he moved closer to me. ‘Sorry for not noticing you, I was just reading a very

intriguing section of the Bible.’ Says Victor, smirking cutely. 

I remain cold in response. He notices. 

‘Sweetie…Are you alright?’ He says concerned, stroking my shoulder in caring movements. 

‘I’m fine. It’s just Mother’s been behaving out of the ordinary. I’m worried that my relationship with her in the future will tangle. It’s hard to think that she will change. Her illness has really shaped her into some sort of sick monster.’ I say, concluding my words with my palm over my mouth.

‘Oh, my love. Give it time. She will heal.’ He says, wrapping me in a warm, and comforting embrace. 

‘Oh!’ I say, remembering about Sancho, the family dog. ‘I forgot to feed Sancho, darling.’ 

‘About Sancho…’ Victor says with a mysterious tone. ‘What breed is he?’ 

I look at him and manage to make a smile. ‘Greyhound mixed with whippet.’ I say, refusing to ask why he’s questioning it. 

‘Ah.’ Victor says. ‘Gorgeous little Sancho.’

‘Indeed, he is.’ 

I remove myself from the conversation slowly, attempting to avoid getting Victor’s feelings harmed.

I call Sancho in a high-pitched voice, quickly followed my scutters of animal nails dragging across the floor. Sancho emitted sounds of excitement. I put the food down, and he ate.

__________

After feeding Sancho, and patting him for a short time, I hear spoons scooping mashed potato and smell the fresh smell of bread. 

I smile when my presence is revealed to them. I step forward, grasping a seat. 

‘It smells delicious. Thank you, Bea.’ I say, grinning. 

‘Oh, well, I must provide.’ She chuckles, dabbing her stained lips with a napkin. Silence seeped in too quickly after that moment, curling around the shifting thick air. Silence shattered when father cleared his throat. 

‘So, since everyone is here⎯⎯’ 

‘Mother isn’t.’ Julian interrupts. The clatter of silver wear halts, as everyone, including me draw a confusing stir at his interruption. 

‘Yes, correct Julian. She isn’t.’ Father replies, with a reassuring smile. 

‘Since most of us are here, I would like to include the importance of…service. Beatrice, sweetheart, can’t be here as a full-time mother, and let’s face it, mother is not close to getting healed. So, I was thinking, after a couple more weeks, we could hire a maid.’ Father finishes, nervously.

We stare, as rose and Lillian exchange looks. Victor’s demeanour folds. 

‘Don’t you worry, Charles, I would be more than happy to chip in a pound or two.’ Victor says, folding his hands politely atop the table. 

Rose lets out a quiet laugh under her breath.

‘How generous of you,’ she says, though her voice carries the faintest trace of mockery. ‘Though I do wonder what sort of woman would agree to live in this house.’

Father’s smile stiffens.

‘One who is paid,’ he replies simply.

The matter seems settled by that alone. Father had always believed money could silence discomfort

the same way a lid silences a boiling pot.

Beatrice places the bowl of mashed potato upon the centre of the table and begins serving with mechanical precision. The silver spoon scrapes faintly against the porcelain, a sound that irritates my ears more than it should.

Julian shifts in his seat.

‘Will she sleep here?’ Says Julian. Father raises an eyebrow.

‘Of course. Where else would she?’ 

Julian shrugs awkwardly. ‘I only meant…this house is rather large.’

The conversation withers again, upon the strange air of Blackstone, that familiar silence that crawls upon us. Even the fire in the hearth cracks softly, as if careful not to disturb us. 

I begin to eat, though the food tastes strangely dull upon my tongue.

Victor continues speaking, eager to fill the quiet. 

‘It would certainly relieve some of the burden upon Miss Beatrice,’ he says politely. ‘Running a household of this size is no small task.’ He chuckles. 

Bea nods softly, ending her careless response when she looks at her plate. 

‘I manage.’ She mummers. Father clears his throat, his fist clenching in front of his mouth.

‘Regardless, the decision is made.’ He says, his tone leaving no room for disagreement. 

Sancho pads quietly into the room then, his nails tapping softly against the floorboards. His slender body moves cautiously between the chairs until he reaches my side.

Three

That morning came like a flower that had bloomed in spring. Yet, beneath the skin of the manor, a slow pulse lingered within its walls, as though the house itself carried the breath of some inherited sin.

The crimson drapes devoured the sunlight, as they moved slightly with the soft draft. Victor lay beside me, though he was awake. He notices I’m awake.

‘Darling,’ he says, drawing me into his warm embrace. He kisses my neck softly, and moans. ‘Oh, Evelyn, your skin is soft as silk.’ He says, with morning fatigue. He lifts his lips of my neck and holds my arms with strength that draws my attention towards him. 

‘Please.’ He says. ‘Please come with me to Yorkshire. I have a wonderful home there, than can provide us for a stable future.’

‘Were fine here.’ I reply, with coldness.

‘No, we are not. If your father can’t provide for your ill mother, how will he provide for us? He does not allow me to purchase or use any of my money for our relationship⎯⎯’

‘That stupid, vile man.’ I interrupt, shaking my head in anger.

‘I just think that our relationship cant builds if we stay here…’

‘Well, I know that. But father does not let me move out with you. He does not let me do anything. It’s like I’m his pet, chained to a rusted cage.’

‘Darling⎯⎯’

‘I’m going downstairs. Don’t follow me.’

 I made my way down the stairs, where I found no one. 

Lillian, Julian, Rose, Bea, or father. All gone, besides Sancho, who had been resting peacefully, his breathes layered with soft cries. Moments after, I heard a gut-wrenching, feral scream stir around the airs of Blackstone. I recognised it. It was Rose. It sounded like it was coming from outside. I move quickly under my panicked fear. 

__________

There has always been a river near Blackstone. When we were younger, it had been a place of laughter and careless summer afternoons.

Today, the river offered something else.

A body.

I ran outside, down the hill where I heard the scream. Rose and Lillan sat at the edge of the river, fixated on something. Then I saw it. A woman lay crumpled among the reeds, pale and motionless against the damp earth.

Forgotten.

Dead.

‘How did it get here?’ I asked, feeling sick to my stomach. 

‘No clue.’ Replied Rose. 

‘Move.’ Lillian spoke, eager to inspect the corpse. 

The jaw of the body was bended unnaturally, opened far too wide. Her stretched mouth cruelly packed with weeds, wildflowers, and grass, as though the Earth itself tried to silence her. Dried blood seeped from slices, including the sides of her jaw.

But oh god…Oh god, her stomach.

Brutally, ruthlessly opened wide, revealing bones, muscles, flesh, and more wilderness. Skin flapped the sides of her open wound, bruised and uncared for. Flies and little insects swarmed her open hole of flesh, eating away her meat soaked in red blood. The smell was the worst thing. It smelt of a mix of iron, the oddly sweet, natural scent of blood, with hints of flesh left to expire in the hinterland. 

‘Dear God.’ Rose manages to say, through a gasp, her hand covering her mouth. 

Lillian didn’t mind the smell. Nor the appearance. She even touched the open stomach flesh, held it up to her nose, and examined it with her scent. Her eyes widen.

‘It is fresh.’ She speaks. ‘Fresh. Not left here to rot in the river.’ ‘Very fresh.’

‘We must tell father.’ I speak. 

‘We can’t find him.’ Says Rose.

‘We should remove ourselves, girls.’ I say. Rose nods in agreement, as I walk away and she follows. Though Lillian does not comprehend. Instead, she stays, her eyes lingering at the blood-soaked

corpse. 

‘Lillian.’ I say, turning slightly. ‘Lillian, come on. You can’t stay here for too long. The body might have a disease.’ I say, with a polite tone, offering safety. Rose has no patience.

‘Lillian! Do you really want to end up like mother?’ She yells in a twisted emotion of anger and sorrow. ‘Do you really want to end up rotting in bed, saying the most twisted fucking things?’ 

‘Rose!’ I yell in reply, grasping her arm with a force so tight, she listens and halts. 

Lillian turns around, finally. 

‘Apologies, sisters.’ Lillian says, quiet. She stands up with slow care, as she brushed grasses and weeds off her muslin dress. 

She took my hand, as we proceeded to walk up the hill back to Blackstone. The view from here was beautiful. Blackstone manor was bathed in the light beam of the sunlight, making it gleam its rare stone. 

‘Do we tell Victor?’ Says Lillian, her eyes darting towards me. 

‘That’s not a good idea. Victor will think this house is cursed.’ I reply, not looking at her. 

‘This house is not far from being cursed.’ Rose adds, her responses always negative. I wanted to reply, though I knew that would only create conflict. 

‘Let’s just tell father, and if Victor finds out, well, well cross that bridge when we come to it.’ Lillian speaks.

‘Agreed.’ I reply.

As we walk higher and higher up the hill to Blackstone, everyone is too tired of panting to speak. 

The closer we made it to the front entrance, I see Victor peeking his blue eyes through the drapes of

the window. He jolts, moments after followed by the sound of the front door click open. 

‘Darling!’ He begins. ‘Where were all of you? I was worried sick. Charles and I were looking all around for you.’ 

‘Charles, you say?’ Interrupts Lillian. 

‘Yes, Charles. Your father.’ 

‘Where was he? We were urgent of telling him about the discovery we made by the river.’ Lillian says, with a curling eyebrow.

‘He was with Margaret. And what did you discover?’

‘It does not matter at this present moment. Bring him to me. Then you can listen.’ Lillian ends the sentence, exchanging a look to all of us.

‘Certainly.’

Victor turns around, while he stretches the door wider to let us in. The air smelt older, like pages of a book left to rot in age. Rose closed the door behind us. 

Victor called Charles several times, before he showed up in the kitchen, panting.

‘How may I help you?’ Speaks Charles. Victor clears his throat.

‘Your three daughters here wanted to discuss with you about something.’ Replies Victor, pointing his index finger at us.

‘Yes, girls?’

‘We found something disturbing in the backyard.’ Lillian says.

‘Oh, it can’t be too bad. Tell me.’

‘It was a woman. Perished. In the river. She had large wounds and cuts.’ I say. 

‘Oh.’ Father replies, stroking his facial hair softly.

‘It was horrible.’ I add.

‘What would you like me to do about it?’ 

‘Contact the authorities! Notify the Parish Constable!’ I yell.

‘Let the river take care of it. I don’t have time for that. We live in a secluded, remote area, so it can’t be too risky.’

‘Fine.’ Rose and I finish.

__________

Victor sat still in his chair after he overheard the disturbing conversation with father. Concern swarmed Victor’s face. Rose left, so did Lillian. 

‘Anyway,’ Father began, his voice still trembling with the fear of getting caught. ‘Your mother is getting worse. She is saying strange things. Bring her this tea, hopefully it can calm her mind.’ He says, handing me a cup of steaming tea. Even though I knew the tea wouldn’t work, I didn’t want to ruin father’s dreams of mother getting better. 

I walked slowly along the creaky floorboards, until I faced the door to mother’s room. I inhaled, preparing myself to what mother might say today. 

The door opened with a slow, steady sigh, as if the door itself were exhausted. 

Mother lay tucked under the sheets, sweaty, and even more pale than last time. Her lips were covered

with peeling, dry skin.

Her eyes were open, her breathing slow and steady.

‘Here you go, mother. Some tea.’

‘No.’

‘Excuse me?’

‘I said no, you dumb bitch.’

I grunted in anger; how dare she call her own daughter a dumb bitch. 

‘How dare you! What is wrong with you!’ 

Mother sits up, her tired red eyes widened, her expression curled in angst. Then, she picked up her tea, her palms strangling the handle. Moments followed, she threw the cup to the ground, the beautiful, patterned teacup smashing into shards, the tea splashing all over the floor and walls. Then, slowly, she faced her body to me.

‘I MUST NOT DRINK! SHE WILL BE SO ANGRY!’ She screams. I cannot form a response.

‘Help me, Evelyn my sweet little girl, HELP ME GET IT OUT OF MY HEAD!’ She screams. I attempt to run away, but then, she begins to do the worst. Her nails, once again, digging into her skin. She clawed her nails into her cheeks, tearing off her flesh. Blood poured from her fresh scar, as well as droplets of flesh. 

The sheets began to stain in the crimson liquid. My mouth hung wide open, my emotions tangled in terror and sadness. I gasped, as I hoist her arms.

‘Mother! Stop hurting yourself!’ I sob, tears rolling down my heated cheeks. Mother stares at me with a shocked terror, a look I can’t quite identify. 

‘She’s coming soon…Don’t let her take me, oh please I beg you.’ She whispers, her blood now traveling to my hand. 

‘Who is “she” or “her”, mother! Stop speaking nonsense and tell me!’ 

A deep, gnawing silence devoured the room. She took time to generate a response, but finally, she concluded.

‘I must not speak of her. Or she will be angry. But oh, please, don’t let her ruin this family.’

I ignored.

And left the room.

Four

The next morning, I struggled to forget mother’s disturbing and harmful words. She lay ill in bed all day but does not rest. Instead, she stares at the ceiling, gasping randomly and shuddering. As much as we try to help her, she simply does not change. Her unidentified sickness remains, gathering strength each day. It remains a mystery who “she” or “her” is, but, as I can recall, her behaviour states it that it is something unpleasant, somewhat evil. 

An emotion of me wants to go back to her chamber, and discuss with her, though, another part of emotion refused to step near her door, as it always ends with blood and flesh on the floor. We haven’t cleaned the bed since Mother dug her nail into me. Now, the sheets are stained in the crimson, slowly turning brown over the mornings. 

I go downstairs, and seat myself upon the squeaky chairs in the dining room. Beatrice is preparing breakfast.

‘Good God, sleep does not help anything.’ I mummer, dragging my palm softly, and massaging my eyes.

‘Language, sister. Politeness is something every woman must require.’ Beatrice replied, sharply.

‘Apologies, Bea. I have no idea what has gotten into me.’

‘Perhaps some porridge with tea might help.’ Beatrice replied. She placed a bowl before me. The porridge reeked of age, and the tea was tasted thin and weak. Still, I forced myself to eat. As I scooped the porridge, a question came to mind.

‘Where is Sancho?’ I ask. Beatrice glances at me and raises an eyebrow.

‘By the window near the main entrance. Dog is like a frozen statue. Hasn’t moved all day.’ She says, careless.

‘And you haven’t decided to check on him?’ I reply, after swallowing the aged porridge.

‘No, apologies. I have been too busy preparing the house and food.’

‘You know, you don’t have to do everything Bea. I’m happy to help.’

‘I must provide for this family. I need them, they need me.’

I decided to end the conversation at that and check on Sancho.

I get up, still chewing the porridge in my mouth as I walk towards the area Beatrice located Sancho.

And there Sancho stood. 

Frozen stiff, like a statue indeed. He stared through the window, unmoving. Outside, a thick fog had settled over Blackstone Manor. The clouds hung low across the land like a pale shroud.

‘Sancho.’ I call in a playful, high-pitched voice, that normally catches his attention. Nothing happens. No movement. No ear-bending.

‘Sancho?’ I say his name again, this time questioning his behaviour. Yet no response emits. 

I move closer, though his fixated eyes make me shudder. I stroke his thin coat of fur and try to see what he is looking at. 

Across from Blackstone, one finds a farm. It is secluded, yet a little more than a few animals stay there, well fed. Though today, none of them could be found.

‘Shit.’ I say quietly under my breath, so Beatrice doesn’t hear. I step to the door, and click it open with the rusted key. Sancho whines. I open the door, and Sancho runs bolting. He crosses the land to the farm and suddenly stops. He usually goes closer. 

I follow. 

I run across the same path, and halt at the same area as him. 

‘Oh, God.’ I say. I hoist Sancho’s collar. 

In front of Sancho and I lay the farm animals, all on the ground. Not breathing. Not moving. Stiff, and rotting. 

The sheep. The cattle. The pigs.

Every single one lay sprawled across the ground.

Not moving.

Not breathing.

Dead.

Their bodies had already begun to stiffen. Flies crawled across open flesh. The air was thick with the foul smell of rot and manure and something sickly sweet beneath it all.

The smell stank of farmland, as well as the mixture of animal meat, with hints of insects eating it away. I begin to feel sick with the feel of dread, anger, and sadness. 

Where are these misfortunes coming from?

I look at Sancho and decide to leave. 

‘Sancho, baby,’ I begin, grasping his collar tighter. ‘Sancho, lets go.’ 

Sancho does not budge.

I began walking anyway, gently pulling him away. At last, he followed, though reluctantly.

Even as we left the farm behind us, Sancho never once took his eyes off the dead animals.

Five

I go downstairs and seated myself upon on of the squeaky chairs in the dining room. Beatrice is preparing breakfast.

‘Good God, sleep does not help anything.’ I mummer, dragging my palm softly, and massaging my eyes.

‘Language, sister. Politeness is something every woman must require.’ Beatrice replied, sharply.

‘Apologies, Bea. I have no idea what has gotten into me.’

‘Perhaps some porridge with tea might help.’ Beatrice replied. She placed a bowl before me. The porridge reeked of age, and the tea tasted thin and weak. Still, I forced myself to eat. As I scooped the porridge, a question came to mind.

‘Where is Sancho?’ I ask. Beatrice glances at me and raises an eyebrow.

‘By the window near the main entrance. Dog is like a frozen statue. Hasn’t moved all day.’ She says, careless.

‘And you haven’t decided to check on him?’ I reply, after swallowing the aged porridge.

‘No, apologies. I have been too busy preparing the house and food.’

‘You know, you don’t have to do everything Bea. I’m happy to help.’

‘I must provide for this family. I need them, they need me.’

I decided to end the conversation at that and check on Sancho.

I get up, still chewing the porridge in my mouth as I walk towards the area Beatrice located Sancho.

And there Sancho stood. 

Frozen stiff, like a statue indeed. He stared through the window, unmoving. Outside, a thick fog had settled over Blackstone Manor. The clouds hung low across the land like a pale shroud.

‘Sancho.’ I call in a playful, high-pitched voice, that normally catches his attention. Nothing happens. No movement. No ear-bending.

‘Sancho?’ I say his name again, this time questioning his behaviour. Yet no response emits. 

I move closer, though his fixated eyes make me shudder. I stroke his thin coat of fur and try to see what he is looking at. 

Across from Blackstone, one finds a farm. It is secluded, yet a little more than a few animals stay there, well fed. Though today, none of them could be found.

‘Shit.’ I say quietly under my breath, so Beatrice doesn’t hear. I step to the door, and click it open with the rusted key. Sancho whines. I open the door, and Sancho runs bolting. He crosses the land to the farm and suddenly stops. He usually goes closer. 

I follow. 

The path underfoot was soddened with fog, each step muffled, as though the earth itself whispered secrets I could not yet hear. I reached Sancho, his slender form quivering as he stared at the scene, eyes wide and unblinking. My throat tightened, a hollow echo of dread swelling inside me. ‘Oh, God,’ I breathed, gripping his collar as though the tension could be transferred, contained.

In front of Sancho and I lay the farm animals, all on the ground. Not breathing. Not moving. Stiff, and rotting. 

The sheep. The cattle. The pigs.

Every single one lay sprawled across the ground.

Not moving.

Not breathing.

Dead.

Their bodies had already begun to stiffen. Flies crawled across open flesh. The air was thick with the

foul smell of rot and manure and something sickly sweet beneath it all.

The smell stank of farmland, as well as the mixture of animal meat, with hints of insects eating it away. I begin to feel sick with the feel of dread, anger, and sadness. 

Where are these misfortunes coming from?

I look at Sancho and decide to leave. 

‘Sancho, baby,’ I begin, grasping his collar tighter. ‘Sancho, let’s go.’ 

Sancho does not budge.

I began walking anyway, gently pulling him away. At last, he followed, though reluctantly.

Even as we left the farm behind us, Sancho never once took his eyes off the dead animals.

Sancho resisted leaving the field. 

Even when I tugged his collar, and coaxed him with quiet murmurs, the greyhound resisted with a stiffness, I had never known in him before, his slender frame trembling as though some unseen current of dread had travelled up through the damp earth and into his bones. At last he followed,

though reluctantly, casting frequent glances over his shoulder as we crossed the grasslands, where the fog had begun to creep low across the fields like a pale and watchful animal.

I tried not to look at the bodies again.

Yet the image would not leave me⎯⎯the twisted sheep lying in ungainly heaps, the cow stretched upon its side with flies already gathering eagerly at its eyes, the dreadful stillness of creatures that only yesterday had been living, breathing things. None of them moved. Not one. And yet, as we reached the low rise that led toward Blackstone, I felt a sudden and terrible certainty that something among them had shifted, though when I dared to glance back the field appeared unchanged, silent beneath the mist. Unease clung to my skin like a thick, damp cloth.

By the time the manor came into view, looming in a folded darkness under the grey sweep of the clouds, Rose stood already at the doorway with her arms folded across her chest and an expression of impatience upon her face.

‘Where have you been?’ she demanded.

‘I went down to the farm,’ I replied, brushing the wet grass from my skirt.

Her brow curled. ‘Why?’

I hesitated, for the words felt strange even as I prepared to speak to them.

‘The animals are dead.’ I say, my voice wrapped in a cold darkness. Sancho whines. 

For a moment Rose merely stared at me, as though she expected some hint of humour in my voice, some suggestion that this was a cruel jest made at her expense. When none came, the colour slowly drained from her face.

‘All of them?’

‘Yes.’

Rose steps closer to my silhouette, her demeanour folded with a longing look that crept upon my damp skin. 

‘Evelyn Harcourt, I swear to God, you rat, if you are lying to me⎯⎯’

‘I’m not lying!’ I Interrupt. ‘Go look for yourself you bitch! You are always so disrespectful to me, it is unbelievable! Why would I be lying!’ I say this, it feels good to remove this bulge from my chest.

Rose scoffs. ‘Excuse your little running mouth?’ She begins. ‘Call me a bitch again, I dare you.’ 

I step back, and hoist Sancho’s collar. 

‘Say it to me!’ Rose begins to come closer, clenching her fists, ready to pounce.

Sancho cries. I have never heard a dog cry before. I stroke Sancho’s soft fur, craving comfort. 

‘Say it!’ Rose says once again, her voice escalating violently. 

I step further back, almost toppling over a step. 

‘Rose⎯⎯’

‘Say it to me! If you were so confident to speak it earlier, do it again!’ Rose’s fists clenched, her cheeks eaten with red. She was ready to hurt me. 

‘Leave me alone!’ I yell. Something, or someone shifts.

Moments later, Victor steps through the conflict, waving his hands, and telling us to stop. 

‘Girls, girls! Enough!’ He yells.

Rose flicks her eyes to me, that stupid smug agitating me.

‘Saved by the husband.’ She says, with a rude humours accent that manages to male me exhale harshly. 

‘Come on, darling. Let’s go tell Charles.’ Victor says.

Six

I staggered back, my chest heaving, the echo of Rose’s laugh gnawing me with tension. The thick air suffocated me, like a thick, damp blanket. 

The air tasted faintly of rain and something older. The house exhaled a warmth that smelled of decay. Victor’s hand found my shoulder, though instead of comfort, it only made my anger worse. 

He led me into the house, brushing my shoulders, and my arms, informing me that it will be okay. Rose’s wrathful laugh consumed me.

Victor’s fingers closed around mine before I could retreat.

‘They must know,’ he said softly. ‘Come, let us tell Charles.’

His hand was warm. Too warm. It steadied me, yet something in the firmness of his grip made my stomach tighten, as though I were being led rather than guided.

We walked through the corridor in silence. The house seemed to listen, every step lingering with an ear-wrenching echo. 

I followed Victor’s lead; his uncomfortably warm hand still wrapped between my fingers.

The corridors seemed to press in, as though Blackstone itself attempted to listen to our footsteps. I wanted to break the silence. 

‘Would you like me to tell him?’ I say. ‘I just don’t want it to be pressuring for you, dear.’ 

Victor exchanges me a glance. ‘No, no its fine. Completely fine. I can handle it. After all, you’ve been through enough battles with him, I would like to do this for you.’ Victor replies. 

I smile at him, though he doesn’t do it back. 

‘I was wondering…’ I begin, as I cock my head. ‘Would you like to go on a picnic. Hopefully it’s a sunny day tomorrow.’  

Victor holds my hand tighter, his smile reaching me in reply

‘I would be delighted, dear.’ He says. ‘Though, what food do we pack?’ 

After Victor says that I feel a grip of sadness swell my stomach. He was right. What food do we have? 

I look at him, and smile.

‘We will figure that out later. Right now let’s just focus on finding father.’

‘Agreed.’

Moments after, that dreadful, yet memorable silence sliced through quickly. Too sharp, too dreading, too uncomforting. 

Along the halls Victor and I walked; there was no sign of living. No one was seen, nor heard, somehow. Though, it wasn’t a surprise for me much at all. Blackstone was always quiet. When someone would walk, their footsteps would bury into the ground, the stone floor swallowing them whole.

‘There he is.’ Victor says, pointing an index finger. His head was only visible. He rested on the leather armchair, the fireplace exhaled wisps of smoke, and released crackles of flame. 

He sat peacefully upon the leather chair, writing on a brittle piece of paper. 

The sound of the pen darting from word to word calmed me. Father noticed our presence and quickly drew a smile I knew wasn’t real. 

‘Pray forgive me, I was focused on my writing. How may I help?’ 

Victor breathed, slowly. ‘Evelyn took Sancho out for a…’ Victor researched a positive, yet believable excuse. ‘Run! A run! Yes, and she saw animals.’ 

I drew near. 

‘Dead. Dead animals father. In the farm.’ I mutter under the fear of my breath. 

Father didn’t move an inch, his muscles reaming still, his face fixated on my mouth, and the disturbing words spilling out of it. 

‘Really? The farm?’ He says. ‘How strange.’

‘They reeked an awful smell.’ I say.

Father arranges his posture, higher to face me better. 

‘Tell Julian to close the windows then. I don’t want that filthy scent slipping into this house. We don’t have many scented candles left.’

‘Yes, father.’ I reply. 

I tug at Victor’s material of his coat, indicating that it’s time to leave. He understands, and comprehends, and we walk once again down the dark halls of Blackstone. 

I go upstairs, where Julian’s room is located. His room is a far stretch of a hall from mine, the walls of the hall engulfed in paintings and delicate photographs. Moments after, I reached Julians door.

‘Stay here, dear.’ I say to Victor, pressing my palm against his chest. 

Julian’s bedroom door was tall, grand, and dark. Different from the rest of the doors in Blackstone. Wood chipped the sides, the painting delicate, and soaked in age. 

I knock, in three steadied times. 

The door clicks moments after, followed by a creak. 

Julain’s face peeks the open edge of the door slightly. 

‘Yes, sister?’ Julian says.

‘Father requested me to inform you to close all windows.’ 

‘Why?’ He replies, as his expression shifts from calmness to fear mixed with curiosity. 

‘Because…’ I say, lost with words. Victor steps forward slightly. 

‘Because an awful new plant has recently bloomed, and it’s releasing an awful reek.’ 

I smile at Victor. Julian nods.

‘Okay. I will do it now.’ Says Julian, opening the door wider, and leaving in hurried steps. 

‘Thank you, Victor.’ I say, stroking his hand. 

‘It is my pleasure. I told you I could produce something.’ 

I giggled. 

‘Well, as much as I could do it on my own, I thank you.’ I say, with glee. ‘It was a good excuse.’ I finish. 

‘You are so very welcome.’ 

__________

The evening drew itself over Blackstone like black lace over a corpse. Mist clung to the windows like warm breathes. 

Victor sat beside me in the living room across from the kitchen reading his bible, focused. In the kitchen, Beatrice was gathering aged ingredients, her expressions and body language clearly revealing struggle. 

She ranged from tile to tile, pantry to hearth, exhaling in frustration, as her cross necklace jingled. 

Even though we have plenty of tea, food was starting to lower. Ingredients were vanishing quickly. Rotting in the pantry, slowly with age and time. We are going to starve. I was certain of it. 

Soon, Julian walked in, and set the table, while Lillian and Rose watered the flowers and plants around the manor. 

‘Supper is almost ready.’ Beatrice called. Victor’s eyes drift to the kitchen. I am guessing he is hungry. 

I stand up, and approach Beatrice. 

‘Bea, would you like any help?’ I offer. Beatrice exchanges me a surprised look. 

‘Thank you for offering, sister Evelyn, though, I am quite capable of managing supper myself,’ she begins. ‘It is almost ready anyway.’ She says.

‘Very well.’ I reply, as I seat myself. 

Then, I hear footsteps echo through the empty corridors. Heavy, slow, though steady. Father. As he approaches slowly, I begin to see his shadowy silhouette.

He gets closer, before gripping on the chair, grunting as he seats himself. 

Moments followed, Beatrice rests a plate of food in front of me. 

‘Supper is ready!’ She calls. 

Footsteps and movement are followed after she calls us.   

Rose sits directly across from me; Julian and Lilian sit on opposite sides. 

Cutlery begins to scrape the bowls. 

‘Mother is not joining us today?’ I ask. Father’s eyes dart to me.

‘No, she is not well.’

‘She was never well.’ I reply. 

‘Well,’ father begins, searching for answers. ‘Yes, though this week her symptoms have increased. She refuses to eat, though she is drinking a little more which is a sign of improvement.’

‘But she is still severely ill.’ Rose adds. 

‘Yes, but we must focus on the positives, darling.’ 

‘We must get a doctor.’ I say.

Father rolls his eyes.

‘Does it appear that I have the fortune? A well-trained doctor to treat mother is very expensive, and it would be very difficult to find one where we live, dear.’ 

‘You are correct.’ I reply. And really, he is accurate. There is seriously no money for a doctor. Its either getting a doctor so mother can live, though we all die in return due to not having the money to afford food, or we don’t get a doctor, mother dies, but we all live. 

‘Father,’ Beatrice begins. ‘If you would like, I could chip in some money to buy a book on nursing. Perhaps I could train to help mother?’ 

‘Oh, don’t be silly dear,’ Father replies, waving his hand in the air. ‘You have already done far more than enough to help this family.’ 

Julian exhales. 

‘What about the maid? The one you mentioned a couple of days ago?’ Julain says. Father’s eyes shift to Julian.

‘Oh yes. She will be arriving soon.’ 

Silence eats the noise. 

‘What? It has already been arranged?’ Rose questions. 

‘Yes. It has.’ Father replies. 

‘When will she be arriving?’ I asked. 

Father’s eyes shift towards different members on the table commenting, though this time he seems

strangely fixated on my question. 

‘Tomorrow, actually. Early in the morning I presume.’ 

‘Oh.’ Rose and I reply coordinated. 

The rest of that dinner, no one dared to utter another word.

Seven

I awoke, with pity rest and a grumpy mood. 

The morning had risen dull and colourless, its light weakly pressing through the curtains as though even the sun dreaded looking upon Blackstone. My body felt heavy, my eyes sore with exhaustion,

and my head swam with the remains of uneasy dreams I could no longer properly recall. Only the feeling of them stayed with me. A feeling of dread. Of something standing too close.

I sat up slowly in bed, pressing my fingers to my temple. Victor was not present beside me. My thoughts were in a terrible tangle. Mother’s worsening condition, the dead woman by the river, the slaughtered farm animals, father’s carelessness, and now, the arrival of the maid. All of it seemed to knot itself together in my mind like a mass of black thread.

For a long moment, I did not move.

The silence of my room was thick, though not peaceful. It carried that same strange stillness Blackstone always bore, as if the house itself waited, watched, listened.

I slipped my feet onto the cold floorboards and shuddered at once. The chill bit through me. I dressed in silence, fastening my gown with clumsy, tired fingers, then brushed my hair before the small mirror. My face looked pale and unwell, the dark crescents beneath my eyes far too visible to ignore.

‘You look dreadful.’ I say to my own reflection.

The reflection did not disagree.

When I opened my chamber door, the corridor greeted me with dim grey light and the stale scent of

old wood and extinguished flame. No voices. No footsteps. Nothing. Yet I could not rid myself of the feeling that someone had only just passed through. I made my way downstairs carefully, my hand gliding against the wall as though the house might shift beneath me if 

I did not keep steady. The lower I descended, the stronger the smell of weak tea and burnt porridge became.

Beatrice stood in the kitchen, stirring a pot with a look of solemn concentration, as if she were preparing medicine rather than breakfast.

Rose sat at the table already dressed, though not elegantly, and looked no less sour than I felt.

‘Look who’s decided to join the living,’ she said, not lifting her eyes at first.

‘I hardly feel among them.’

‘You certainly look it.’

I exhaled sharply and seated myself. ‘Good morning to you too.’

Beatrice turned her head slightly. ‘There is porridge.’

‘Of course there is,’ I replied. ‘It seems porridge is all this house knows how to produce now.’

‘Then be grateful it produces anything at all,’ Rose muttered.

Julian wandered in not long after, his hair slightly frayed, followed closely by Lillian, whose expression held its usual odd expression. We all sat in silence, spoons scraping bowls, tea being poured, the quiet hanging over us like a veil.

Father did not arrive.

That alone struck me as unusual.

He was many awful things, but rarely absent at moments where he might exert some unnecessary authority.

‘Where is father?’ Julian finally asked, after glancing towards the doorway for what must have been the third time.

Beatrice shook her head. ‘I have not seen him.’

‘Perhaps he is with mother,’ I suggested, though the thought made my stomach tighten.

No one replied. Then came the sound.

Wheels over gravel. It seemed to disfunction in my ears, the rocks scraping beneath the carriage wheels, then suddenly halted when it reached the manor. Rose looked up first. 

‘Is that⎯⎯’

‘The maid.’ Victor whispered, his eyes widened.

Lillian frowned.  ‘She is early.’ She said.

Before anyone could add to it, father appeared in the doorway with such abruptness that Julian nearly dropped his spoon. He was already fully dressed, his coat neat, his hair tamed, his expression carrying a strange, sharpened energy.

‘Well?’ he said. ‘Why are you all staring like witless hens? The maid has arrived.’

No one moved.

Father’s jaw tightened. ‘Julian. Door.’

Julian stood up at once and hurried from the room. Julain rushed to the front door. 

Then, he opened it. A woman stood upon the threshold.

She was not old, though neither was she especially young. Her dress was black, and plain, practical for travel, with a fitted bodice and a long skirt still damp at the hem from the morning dew. A small hat pinned the top, neatly placed. 

She brushed the morning earth off her dress.

At first, nothing seemed remarkable about her. Until she raised her head. Her face was pale. Smooth, delicate, so white. I shuddered. Her hair was neatly combed, it beamed in a light brown, with delicate strands of chestnut. There is no human on this earth I have ever found with such pale skin as this woman.

There was something in her look that made me straighten without understanding why.

‘Miss Lenora Byrne,’ father said, his voice unusually smooth. ‘Welcome to Blackstone.’

She dipped her head slightly.

‘Thank you, Mr. Harcourt.’

Her voice was low, though a politeness that had me feared. She casted all of us a grim smile. 

Immediately I knew something was quite…off about her. Her delicate, pale skin, as if the sun itself were far too scared to expose itself on her. 

The way she smiled, too prefect, too sweet to exchange such a look. 

‘Lillian,’ father began, with a soft, gentle tone in his voice that hid behind his worries about money. ‘Would you be such a darling, and grab Miss Byrne’s bags for her, please.’ 

Lillian nodded and took quiet strides to her bags. She picked them up and walked to her room, close

to the kitchen. 

‘Thank you for coming. I hope it wasn’t too tiering with all the travel.’ Father chuckled. 

‘No, no, it is completely acceptable. It is nothing compared to the dreadful journey from Copenhagen last year.’

‘Copenhagen, I see? Wow, you certainly have seen it all.’ Father proceeded to say, still containing his polite laughter.

‘Oh, well, you can say that.’ She says smiling. 

‘Well, welcome to Blackstone manor.’ Father says, leaping out of the doorway, and displaying his hands to the home.

Lenora strides carefully among the floor, her shoes quietly scraping the tiles. Her hands held each other, as she moved her head across different areas of the manor, as if she were inspecting it to sell. Her countenance darted back to father.

‘It is very splendid. I feel comfortable.’ She says.

‘I am glad.’ Father’s chest expanded with pride. ‘Blackstone has belonged to our family for generations.’

‘So I suspected.’ Lenora replied.

Her eyes moved slowly across the walls, the portraits, the shadowed corners where dust and darkness gathered alike.

As father began walking further away, tugging Lenora’s attention to display all our special artefacts, as well as a helpful tour around the home, and talking about Lenora’s duties, Rose grasped my sleeve. I turn my head around. Rose moves closer. 

‘I find her actions quite unsettling.’ Rose says. Julain hears, and nods in agreement. 

‘She will sharpen with time.’ I reply.

Rose does not look convinced.

Her eyes linger upon Miss Byrne with an unsteady suspicion. 

The maid, if such a plain title can truly contain a woman like her. She moves through the entrance hall with an ease that feels strangely inappropriate for a stranger. Most newcomers to Blackstone carry themselves stiffly at first, overwhelmed by the gloom of the house.

Miss Byrne does not.

Her gaze travels slowly across the walls, lingering upon the long rows of portraits that hang in crooked lines along the staircase. Generations of Harcourts stare down from their frames with dark,

watchful eyes.

‘These portraits are quite unique.’ She remarked, though her voice sounds muffled. Father shuffled closer to Lenora.

‘Yes, indeed they are. Margaret is an artist.’ Silence curled the rotted roots of a tree. ‘Well, was an artist.’

‘Sorry for what is happening to her. I will pray for her.’ 

I glanced a look at Beatrice moments after Lenora states that.

She looks satisfied. 

For Beatrice, any mention of prayer seems to settle the world into its proper place. Her shoulders eased slightly, as though Miss Byrne had spoken some quiet reassurance meant only for her.

Father, however, shifted his weight.

‘I am sure Margaret would appreciate that,’ he said, though the words sounded strangely hollow.

Lenora inclined her head with gentle composure.

Her pale fingers brushed lightly against the carved banister, as she continued her slow inspection of the hall. Her eyes suddenly drift upward, toward the staircase.

‘Ah,’ father began. ‘That is where your chamber awaits. Upstairs. Let me show you.’ 

Rose lifts her gaze to a rude, wrathful stare. She exhales sharply.

‘If that pale bitch enters my room, I will take action.’ 

Beatrice’s cheeks turn scarlet.

‘Rose! Language! You are so disrespectful.’

‘Believe what you will.’ Rose replies. I linger a look to Rose. Not once, not ever in her years of life, has Rose not apologised in regard to when Beatrice scolded her.

‘Your attitude is feral today, sister. Improve your behaviour. It is wrathful.’ Beatrice says.

‘I can say whatever I want,’ Rose begins, as she stands up, and faces Beatrice’s eyes. Her cheeks are tinged in crimson. ‘I am a grown woman.’ 

Beatrice scoffs. ‘You sure aren’t acting like one with that language.’ 

Rose gasps. 

‘How dare you! You pietistic rat!’ 

Beatrice’s eyes turn cold. Her cheeks aren’t only red, they are hot, sweaty, and displaying her rage. She huffs. 

‘I am not pietistic! I am simply attached to the supreme being! How is that a problem? Why do you have to be such a rude pest?’

Rose breathes. 

‘Beatrice,’ Rose begins, now with a calm, though still raged tone. ‘Call me a pest again, and I’ll make sure you suffer intensely in my own rage.’

‘Rose,’ I say. ‘Calm down. It’s okay.’ 

‘It is not! Instead of comforting her, teach her a lesson!’ Beatrice yells. I turn to face her. 

‘Sister Beatrice, shut up.’ I say. Rose lifts her raged expression to a smug. Beatrice gasps in offence. She storms off, as if a cloud of thunder hung over her head. Her cross necklace jingled in her angered strides, like a Christmas ornament. 

‘Thank you.’ Rose whispers. 

‘It is my pleasure.’ I reply.

 __________

The evening settled in like a velvet shroud over the valley. Lenora settled into the manor quickly; her room was neatly set up. Lenora was preparing dinner. I depart my room and walk upon the hall.