Page 3 of Holly & Hemlock
We round a corner. Another corridor. More ancestors. The hush is so absolute, I find myself breathing softer. The windows here are leaded, the glass thick and weirdly rippled, giving the outside world a funhouse quality. I risk a glance. From here, I can see past the trees lining the winding drive to the road beyond. The taxi is long gone, its tire tracks all that remain of the memory.
“You live here?” I ask, keeping my voice low.
Mrs. Whitby glances at me, unreadable. “Yes, in theservant’s quarters. I maintain the premises. There is other staff, but they come and go.”
I want to ask: Who else is here now? But I keep my mouth shut.
Finally, she halts by a door. It’s painted a blue so deep it might as well be black, and the handle is a lion’s head with a ring in its teeth. Mrs. Whitby opens it with the same silent strength as the front door.
The room inside is . . . a surprise. Not the dusty crypt I expected, but polished, elegant, the bed freshly made with a coverlet in indigo damask, a writing desk by the window, a rich fireplace radiating actual heat. My duffel is already there, perched on a steamer trunk.
I try to say thank you, but it comes out as a sigh.
Mrs. Whitby places a hand on the windowsill. “Dinner is at eight. Normally you will eat in the dining room, but with your travels, I thought you’d take a tray tonight. You’ll want to go to sleep early and see the house in daylight.” Her tone makes it clear this is not a suggestion. “I will draw a bath for you if you prefer.”
“Oh no, thank you. I can manage.”
She nods disapprovingly and points to a braided gold cord with a tassle at the end, hanging from the wall. “If you require anything, ring twice for the kitchen, three times for me.”
She turns to leave, but I stop her. “Wait. Did you know her well? My aunt?”
She looks at me, and in that moment I’m certain she knows every sin, every secret in my blood. “I know the house, Miss Vale. I know what it keeps, and what it does not.”
And with that, she closes the door behind her, leaving me alone with the warmth, the dark blue walls, and the sense that I have been not so much welcomed as admitted.
For the first time in years, I feel like a trespasser in my own life.
The Blue Roomis warmer than any other place I’ve ever slept, hotel or human. Still, there’s something in the radiator’s hissing—a metallic undertone, a whiff of scorched dust—that sets my teeth on edge.
I unpack nothing. I perch on the bed and stare at the row of decorative steamer trunks, at the ceiling painted midnight, at my reflection in the streaked oval of the vanity mirror. My hair is wild from the wind. I push a fingertip over the scar in my brow and debate filling it in with makeup, then remember there’s no one here to care. The air inside tastes like furniture polish and secrets.
Another tray of food had arrived this morning at seven o’clock sharp. I had expected stale cereal or a wilting croissant, but instead there was a perfectly poached egg, sausage, brown toast, and blood-red preserves, along with a tiny metal pot of coffee so strong it could strip paint.
The neatness of it all made me weirdly uneasy. The tray appeared while I was in the shower, just waiting for me on the desk when I emerged, a polite feat of logistics suggesting not only Mrs. Whitby but another ghostlike staff member lurking about. I searched the hall outside for signs of activity, but found only silence and the lingering suggestion of movement behind the stained glass of the transom window.
I ate. I drank the sinister, bitter coffee and let the caffeine judder through my nerves. I changed into real clothes, the kind meant for archiving and restoration and impressing dead relatives, rather than travel. But I have a sense nothing would impress Mrs. Whitby.
Someone knocks. Not timid, not thunderous—just a flat, practical sound. I open the door. Mrs. Whitby stands precisely on the threshold, hands clasped, lips pursed in what might be concern or constipation.
“Will you join me for a tour of the house?”
A demand in question’s clothing. “Sure.”
We walk. She leads with brisk, mechanical steps, and I follow, footsteps echoing like ping-pong in a gymnasium. The upstairs corridor is a runway of faded runners and ancestral mugshots. She points them out with dry pride. Lord Harold, who built the West Wing on a dare, Lady Sibyl, who collected rare orchids and rarer lovers, Sir Rowan, who hunted wolves for sport and probably people, too, judging by the look of him.
I study the faces. They’re all arranged in a single file, each more dissatisfied than the last. My favorite is a woman in blue velvet, glowering as if she’s just been told she has to pose forever. The plaque reads “Maud Vale, 1844–1871.” I remember my mother saying that all the women in our family looked the same. I check: strong chin, wide brow, the same thin, suspicious mouth I see in the mirror every day.
“She died young,” I say, nodding at the portrait.
Mrs. Whitby’s eyes don’t quite meet mine. “They often did.”
I glance down and notice the impeccably clean baseboard. The house is so vast I can’t imagine how it’s kept up. “And you do all the work yourself?”
“I prefer things to be done properly,” she says. “The full-time help is for the grounds, the kitchen, and the animals, but we do have a maid most of the time.”
We stop in front of a window so old and warped I can barely see the view. I try anyway, and catch the distant sparkle of the river through the trees. “Is that?—?”
“Yes. The river is cold all year. Don’t go near it after dusk.”
