Dorran moved carefully. They still hadn’t found most of the concealed passageways, and as long as they stayed open, the house wasn’t truly theirs. Any time they passed through a new room, he paused at the door and listened.
The constant guardedness was beginning to wear on Clare. Every noise and creak made her flinch. By comparison, Dorran was like a rock. He was cautious, but never flighty. When Clare’s nerves started tightening beyond endurance, she looked at his face, watched how steady and confident he was, and made herself relax.
Dorran tried one of the second-floor rooms first, but after a minute of sifting through a wardrobe, backed out. “Not here. Which means it’s either in his bedroom or—”
Clare grabbed his arm to silence him. In between the house’s natural noises, the buffeting wind, and their own movements, she thought she’d caught a hint of another noise. A human noise.
Dorran held still while they listened. Under the house’s hollowness, Clare was sure she could hear a voice. Words. Coming from above them. On the third floor.
Madeline? No… she was so careful about not letting us hear her before. She can’t be back. And the others don’t talk.
Dorran silently unsheathed his knife and beckoned for Clare to stay close to him. Together, they stepped into the hallway and faced the stairs. The voice had fallen silent, but Clare could still feel its echoes, seemingly hovering around her ears like invisible moths. Dorran was at the stairs before Clare could hiss a warning to him. His dark eyes scanned the upper landing as he ascended, and Clare, her heart beating against her ribs, followed closely.
What if it’s a trap? They could be trying to lure us towards them.
They stopped at the top of the stairs. Neither of them breathed. The silence held for a moment. Then the voice came again, floating out of their bedroom.
“I hope you’re okay. I’ll try again tomorrow.”
Clare took a sharp breath, half in relief, half in shock. The voice was Beth’s. They’d agreed to speak again that day. She’d been looking forward to it—but she hadn’t realised the morning was that late. She slipped past Dorran and ran along the hallway, jarring the cuts on her leg but barely noticing. She caught herself on the bedroom door, fumbled to unlock it, then darted inside. The radio sat next to their fireside bed. She grabbed it and turned on her signal. “I’m here! Sorry!”
Static answered her. Clare dropped back onto her heels, burning disappointment stinging her throat and eyes. She should have watched the time more closely or at least thought to bring the radio with her.
Dorran hesitated in the doorway, his eyes tight. “I am sorry…”
“Not your fault.” The words were automatic. She swiped her palm across her eyes to clear them and took a ragged breath. “She’ll try again tomorrow. And I’ll make sure I don’t miss it.”
He approached, and his hand gently rested over her shoulder. “Would you like some time?”
“No.” They didn’t have time to spare. She pushed onto her feet and took a slow, steadying breath. “Let’s keep going. Where did you say we were looking next?”
They followed the hallway around a corner, where Dorran unlocked and opened the door to a bedroom. A strange sensation spread through Clare as she stepped over the threshold. Most of the house had been maintained so impeccably that it was hard to imagine someone living there, but this room was filled with signs of life. At the same time, it had an odd feeling about it—one Clare couldn’t put into words.
A bed, not much different to their own, had been neatly made. A jacket hung across the back of a chair, with a scarf carelessly draped over a side table beside a hairbrush and watch.
Clare, feeling like she was intruding on something private, didn’t let herself touch anything. She stayed to the centre of the room with her arms wrapped around her chest. “What was his name?”
“Eros.” Dorran stepped around the bed to approach one of two large wardrobes.
Clare knew the name. Dorran had told her about Eros when recounting the night half of his family had died at Madeline’s whim. She’d put cyanide in their wine, culling the family of any sign of dissent. Eros had taken Dorran’s side in the disagreement, and he had lost his life for it.
Shivers travelled through her. She understood why the room disturbed her so much now. The way the scarf and jacket had been carelessly arranged made it look like Eros had risen from bed just that morning. But he had not lived there for many years.
Madeline had not left the room locked up and forgotten, either. The furniture had been kept free from dust. The sheets must have been changed regularly. Each morning, the jacket would have been lifted to allow the chair to be dusted then carefully placed back the way it had been.
“Found it.” Relief bled into Dorran’s voice as he pulled boxes out of the base of the wardrobe. He hadn’t been impervious to the room’s atmosphere, either. He tucked two objects under his arm, shoved the box back into the wardrobe, then crossed to the door with steps that were slightly too fast to be casual.
“Great.” Clare followed him, trying not to show how relieved she was. “What else do we need?”
“I think we’re ready, actually.” He held out a hand, pulled her in for a hug, then kissed her forehead. “Are you all right?”
“Absolutely.” She took a moment to rest against his chest, as though she could absorb some of his confidence. Then she stepped back and put a genuine smile on her face. “I’m ready.”
Dorran collected their equipment in the foyer. The sled looked old and shabby, and Clare instinctively knew it had been used by the staff rather than the Morthorne family. On it, Dorran stacked the pitchfork and a hatchet, along with two thermoses filled with
