Page 19 of The Secrets of Roan Island

Then David was there, whispering his accusations, his judgments. Usually he shut the door, bolted it, and stayed on the other side. There would be a horrifying scraping, thumpingsound like a body dragged along a wooden floor. But this time the dream was different.

Instead, just when David would have bolted the door, I was suddenly running through the dark halls of the Roan estate, David fast on my heels. His voice morphed into Noah’s, closer than I thought. He whispered in my ear, words that made my pulse race. Nothing like what David said to me. No one had ever said anything like this to me before. These weren’t sweet nothings, but they made my body heat with desire. I was held with my face against a wall, a weight keeping me contained as I pushed back against the force. Adrenaline coursed through my body. Fear and excitement and pulsing, throbbing lust.

And when I turned to see my captor, it wasn’t David, but Noah’s face I saw, inches away from mine, his breath heavy on my lips.

My body still tingles from the dream, my pulse deep between my thighs.

Pulling the blankets closer against the chill, my gaze drifts around the room, unable to shake the sense that someone is watching. The mirror across from my bed feeds my own reflection back to me, but I look strange in the candlelight. Younger. More vulnerable.

A sudden draft gusts across my skin. The candle I left burning shivers and blinks out, sending me back to that cellar. My hands shake as I fumble to relight it. The match burns me and tumbles to the floor. I curse, shoving my singed finger into my mouth. Not until my third attempt do I finally get the candle lit.

A deep breath, then another, I fight to calm myself.

Since leaving David, I’ve worked to find my sense of control, but at the moment, the chaos inside me takes over. I climb from the bed and pace, needing… something. I think of my dream, ofthe whispered commands, of the feel of my body at the mercy of Noah.

Too keyed up to sleep, I shrug a robe over my nightgown, then use my candle to light a larger candelabra, intent on peeking into the hallway. Despite my efforts at silence, when I open the door, it squeaks like a mouse caught in a trap. I shudder at the noise.

While I don’t relish sneaking around the mansion in the dark, I dislike the thought of staying in my room even more. The lingering feeling of being trapped makes me restless. I’m awake, and this is the perfect opportunity to explore.

Since coming to Roan Island, I’ve been shuttled between the library, the dining room, and my room, always in the company of one of the brothers. Every moment of the day is strictly regulated.

My days have given me nothing, no new information to put in my paper, no promise of a grant, no answers to the mysteries surrounding this place and its family. I’m beginning to suspect that the promised interview with Hammish and the hope of a grant are nothing more than the lure used to reel me in.

Noah is right. Hammish is putting off the interview. Each day brings a new reason he can’t meet. I’ve tried bringing up the grant at the evening meal, which is the only time he eats with the rest of the household, but he always shrugs it off as“inappropriate talk for the dinner table.”What I can’t figure out is why they would bring me here at all. Why grant my request only to refuse it now that I’m here?

Perhaps the night will reveal some of their secrets.

Poised on the threshold, I wait to see if anyone heard my door. The hall is empty. A single lantern set in the center of a table still burns, but the gaslamp sconces have been doused, casting the hallway in shadow. I contemplate stepping back into the room, afraid of what might await me in the dark, but this hallis no darker than my bedroom, and I’m tired of being cooped up and guarded every waking moment. Right now, my desire for freedom and autonomy outweighs the stifling feel of the darkness.

Clutching the candelabra tightly in one hand, I step into the hallway.

I’m unsure where to go first. I’ve spent plenty of time in the library, scoured each shelf twice and found nothing of value, though I did figure out their cataloging system. Tonight, I want to learn something of the Roan family themselves, which means I’ll need to venture where I haven’t been before. So I turn away from the stairs the brothers always use.

The thick carpet runner masks my footsteps as I walk the hall that seems to stretch and flex around me. When I come to another passageway branching off from the first, I take it. Portraits grace both walls—men and women of devastating beauty. I hold the light up for a closer look.

“Corletta Roan,” I whisper to the painting of a woman, noting the year it was painted. She’s breathtaking. Her bronze skin flawless, her black hair sleek and styled. Her lips are ruby red, a slight smile teasing the viewer. “What is your secret, Corletta?”

The next painting is a man. He has thick eyelashes that remind me of Noah’s.

Next, another woman, her alabaster skin so white it seems translucent.

Then a painting of a man. Another man. A woman. A man. Another man. A man. A woman. So many men.

So few women.

I can’t help but wonder if it’s because of their misogyny or for some other reason.

The subjects also never seem to grow older than sixty. It makes me think about how young Hammish Roan looks. Hissons seem to be around my age—though Jafeth, perhaps, a touch younger—but Hammish Roan doesn’t look much over sixty.

At the end of the hallway a portrait of a young woman in bridal white gleams like a ghost in the midst of a dark graveyard. It’s like she’s floating at the end of the hall, beckoning me.

“Come,”she seems to say.“I’ll tell you our secrets.”

The look on the young woman’s face is painted with the same ethereal beauty as the other portraits, but whereas the others appeared austere, removed, this woman’s essence seems to be imbued in the painting. It’s easy to think she might move at any moment. A smile teases her red lips.

“Who are you?” I ask as I run a finger along the edge of the gilded frame. There are two words engraved in the gold.Zarah Roan.

“What are you doing?”

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