Page 19 of Holly & Hemlock
“You’ll catch cold,” says a voice behind me.
I don’t jump, because Mrs. Whitby’s voice is the one thing in this house that never surprises me. She is a master of materializing, of deploying her presence at the precise moment it’s least wanted but most needed.
She stands in the center of the corridor, face composed into the same practiced blankness as always. In her hand she carries a small crystal glass, filled to the rim with dark, amber brandy.
She offers it, and I accept without a word. The glass is warm from her palm, the liquid inside catching the flicker from the wall light and scattering it in every direction. I stare at the drink for a moment, then take a cautious sip. It burns, and the heat radiates out along my ribs.
Mrs. Whitby studies me, gaze as cool as the glass. “Did Mr. Hughes upset you?” she asks, as if the answer is not already written on my face.
“He’s very—” I struggle for the word. “Intense.”
A ghost of a smile, then gone. “He’s a creature of habit. Many years in this house can do that.” She tilts her head. “Are you?” The question is ambiguous—upset, a creature of habit, or both.
I don’t know how to answer. I drink instead, then stare at the snow, which now billows against the glass in urgent, erratic bursts. I imagine the house from outside. The strength of the spires, the vastness of the stone, the gothic beauty of every detail.
But that’s just aesthetics.
Mrs. Whitby stands closer now, just behind my shoulder. I smell her lavender perfume. Her voice softens, the words more for herself than for me. “You see now what the house breeds.”
She says nothing else. Just lingers until my shivering stops, then collects the empty glass from my hand and slips away, leaving me alone with the storm.
I don’t see, though. I don’t understand any of this, only that it feels like I’m slowly losing my mind but discovering it all over again at the same time.
That night, I lie in bed, arms folded tight over my chest. The radiator has lost its battle with the cold and my breath clouds in the air above me.So much for the cozy warm Blue Room.
I hear nothing but the wind and the restless creaks of the old timbers. Every time I close my eyes, I see the green of Larkin’s irises, the bright, animal intelligence in them, and I remember the way my body answered his—before my mind could intercede.
I replay it, over and over. The pressure of his hand, the scrape of his sleeve, the impossible lightness of his touch under my scar. I remember the words—What spell did youcast to make her choose you?—and I wish I knew the answer. I wish I could believe it was magic and not a death sentence.
I wonder if this is what Aunt Maeve felt, alone in the house, with barely anyone but herself and the ghosts to talk to. I wonder if that’s why she closed off so many rooms, sealed up so many doors. To keep out the weather, or to keep in something worse.
I reach for the glass of water on the nightstand, but my hands are still unsteady, and I nearly knock it over. The cold from the window seeps into my bones. The blue walls press in, closer and closer, as if the room itself is leaning over the bed, intent on learning every secret I’ve brought with me.
Sleep comes in fits, broken by images I can’t control. Hands on my body, lips at my ear, a library of burning books.
I wake, gasping, convinced that someone is in the room with me, but there is only the house and the wind, and the certainty that the house is no longer content to be an observer.
It is in me now, under my skin, seeded in every synapse. I can’t tell if I am being watched or remade, if the thing growing inside me is a warning or a wish.
I close my eyes, and this time, I do not resist.
6
The First Crack
Idon’t sleep much, not really. I drift, I surface, I watch the window for movement and the door for shadow. By seven, the radiator in the Blue Room hisses a last, exhausted breath and I surrender to morning.
The day itself never really brightens; the world outside is a single pane of ice, colorless and perfectly level, the sky indistinguishable from the snow. By evening, the clouds have lowered further.
At precisely seven, the house comes alive with the ritual of dinner. I descend the main staircase, the runner soft beneath my feet, and make my way toward the dining room.
The corridor, a gauntlet of staring portraits, ends at a set of double doors, already open and awaiting me. Only two places are set: one at the head, and one at the foot. The intervening chairs march the table’s length like sentinels.
Larkin is already there. He sits at the foot, back ramrod straight, fingers laced over a wine glass. The candlelight sculpts his face into something too perfect for this era: high cheekbones, sharp jaw, skin so pale it makes the green of his eyes almost uncanny. His hair is damp, combed back withmilitary precision, as if he’s preparing for battle rather than supper.
I take my seat at the opposite end. The distance between us is symbolic. I wonder why Mrs. Whitby set it up that way, and if Larkin noticed. He raises his glass, the gesture part greeting, part threat.
Mrs. Whitby stands to the side, apron starched and immaculate, a silver ladle in her hand like a weapon. She does not speak, but acknowledges me with a single, shallow nod.
