Page 4 of The Secrets of Roan Island

My heart races.

Chills race over my skin, clammy and damp.

Nightmares scratch at my mind. Ones I don’t want to remember.

The darkness and panic close in, tightening around my chest.

Somewhere, someone laughs.

I spin again and back across the room until my bustle bumps against a solid surface. Unable to bear the darkness, I squeeze my eyes shut. My breath comes in gasps, one hand clutching the buttons at my chest, the other fumbling for the doorknob, hoping I’m not far.

“Behave yourself,” a voice says from the gruesome dark.

My eyes fly open. The candles on the table are lit once more, as if they’d been that way all along. A woman blows out a long match, her severe face all sharp angles and pointed features. “You should know better.”

“I’m sorry. The door was open and–”

“Not you, child.” The woman picks up the candelabra and spins to face a dark corner. “Him.”

A man strolls from the darkness with his hands in the pockets of his dark trousers. A matching vest buttons neatly over a light-colored shirt, unbuttoned at the collar, and his dark hair is parted to one side, the thick locks combed smooth. He smiles, a handsome face, too handsome. It’s off-putting, as if his facial features were purposefully drawn to perfection.

“I was just having a bit of fun.” He smirks and saunters toward me with a dignified grace, looking me over from head to toe. I’m suddenly all too aware of my disarray. “So you’re the infamous Professor.” He makes a judgmental noise through his nose. “We thought you’d be a man.”

I swallow under his attention and dip into a small curtsy, but I’m still feeling a bit wobbly so the movement is far from graceful. I rise stiffly, exposed nerves grating at his statement.We thought you’d be a man. How many times have I heard that sentiment? How many times have I been overlooked, ignored, ousted, disparaged because of my sex. I straighten my shoulders and narrow my eyes. “As you see, I am not.” Holding his gaze is easier now that my blood is boiling. “You have the benefit of my name. Am I to assume you are Mr. Roan?”

“One of them.” He circles me. “Looks as if the travel did a number on you.”

“It would have been helpful if the gate had been left open to receive me.”

He laughs loudly, the sound cascading through the expansive room as if thrown up into the air like confetti anddrifting back down around us, spent. Then he pauses, tilting his head to the side, and an awkward silence fills the space between us. “Mrs. Darning,” he eventually says, “is our guest’s room ready for her?”

“Yes, sir.”

“How do you do, Mrs. Darning.” I greet the other woman now that I finally have her name.

“She’s just the housekeeper,” Mr. Roan says, waving a dismissive hand.

The housekeeper makes an impatient noise. “One who raised you.”

“That was then and this is now, Mrs. Darning. Time keeps on ticking, changing everything.”

The housekeeper steps forward with a stiff back. “I’ll show Professor Rose to her rooms.”

“No,” Mr. Roan says, backing away toward the wide stairwell, the first step situated just behind the table where the candles in the candelabra flicker. “Allow me.”

I bend to collect my satchel, but Mrs. Darning picks it up before I can, pinching the bag between her fingers as if the severe woman loathes to touch the offensive material. It is rather worn, the leather cracked and faded, but I haven’t replaced it for sentimental reasons. My best friends, the amazing ladies of The CWS, gifted it to me upon my tenure at New Essik College.

“Would you like me to dispose of this, ma’am?”

“No. No.” I take it from her, hugging it against my chest. “It’s mine.”

“Well?” Mr. Roan calls from the stairs.

“Right.” I nod to the housekeeper and start up the wide staircase. “If you don’t mind, Mr. Roan–”

“Mr. Roan.” His voice croaks as if he despises the name. “Mr. Roan is my father. Please, call me Jafeth.”

“Jafeth,” I repeat, turning with him into a hallway which seems to stretch forever. Sconces jut out from the dark papered walls, offering only enough light to guide us through the hallway. The shadows are pervasive. We pass ornate doorways framed with carvings that beg me to stop and look closer, figures writhing in the dark-stained wood. Paintings line the walls from the floor to the ceiling, stern-faced men and delicate women that resemble carved porcelain.

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