“Yes,” I say, quickly. Then softer, “But it’s mine now.”

  Amelia studies me, her brow furrowed. She doesn’t believe me. I can see it in the way her lips press together, the way her eyes flick toward the drawers I didn’t close tightly enough. She smells the perfume just as strongly, and she feels the weight of someone else still here. She knows just as well as I do that it’s a weight I can neither lift nor replace. Sophie would have asked a hundred questions. Amelia doesn’t. She just stands there, quiet, and that silence feels louder than words. I cross to her, smoothing her hair.

  “It’ll feel more like ours once we’ve settled in,” I whisper. “Give it time.”

  She nods, but her body is stiff, and her trust is hesitant. She slips away a moment later, leaving me alone again in the suffocating Blue Suite. I stand in the middle of the room, my pulse drumming, and realize that I am not just living in another woman’s house. I am living in her shadow. And shadows can be hard to escape.

  The lodge is quiet in the late afternoon. Heavy snow still presses against the windows, muting the outside world into oppressive blankness. Inside, only the fire downstairs crackles, a dull heartbeat in a house that seems otherwise asleep. I should be resting, or unpacking properly, or coaxing the girls into games that make the place feel less alien to all of us. But something pulls me back to the dresser.

  The top drawer sits slightly ajar from earlier, as if the gowns inside are leaning forward, waiting for me to lift them out. My eyes drift to the rear of the drawer, to a small jewelry box I hadn’t noticed before. It’s tucked in the corner, half-hidden beneath a silk shawl.

  The box is wooden, dark walnut, the surface carved with tiny vines. Dust settles in the grooves, but the clasp gleams faintly, polished by years of use. My breath catches. This doesn’t look like part of the display, like the untouched gowns and folded stockings. This looks personal. A thing someone would open daily, touch, cherish, and keep hidden from prying eyes.

  It’s Isobel’s, of course. I know it before I even touch it. I glance at the door, listening for footfall. The hall is still. The house is vast. Stuart is surely with Mrs. Lennox in the study again, discussing the order of the household, or instructing her on some unseen detail. The girls are playing downstairs, I can just barely hear Sophie’s sing-song voice drifting up when the silence shifts.

  It feels safe to look, just for a moment. My fingers brush the lid. The wood is smooth, warmer than I imagined. I undo the clasp with a faint click. The sound seems loud, like it might echo down the corridor. I wait, listening again, ready to spring it shut and shove it to the back of the drawer. But no sound comes.

  I slowly lift the lid. Inside, velvet the color of dusk cradles a scattering of jewelry. Pearls, yellowed slightly with age. A brooch inlaid with sapphires. A ring with a thin band worn nearly smooth. And a delicate chain, its pendant a teardrop of blue glass, no bigger than the nail of my thumb. I lift the chain carefully. The pendant sways, catching the dim light, throwing a blue spark across the quilt. It’s lovely, but there’s something mournful about it too, like it belongs more to a coffin than a throat.

  I wonder if Stuart’s mother wore it often. If she touched it absentmindedly while looking out the same window I’ve looked through, watching the forest shift against the snow. Did she feel trapped here, too? Did she dream of leaving?

  A floorboard creaks behind me and my stomach plunges. I turn, with the pendant still in my hand, to find Stuart standing in the doorway, his figure framed by the dim hall. His face is dark, the light from the landing casting half of it in shadow. For a moment, neither of us speaks. Then his voice, low and sharp.

  “You mustn’t disturb her things.”

  The words crack through the air. Not loud. Not shouted. But terribly final. I freeze, the pendant swinging faintly between my fingers. My mouth goes dry.

  “I…I ’m sorry. I was only…”

  “Looking?” His eyes narrow. He steps into the room, the weight of his boots sinking into the rug. “Prying?”

  Heat burns my cheeks. “No. I didn’t mean. I was looking for somewhere to unpack my things. It was just there, and I…”

  He stops close enough that I can smell the faint trace of paint on him, linseed and turpentine. His gaze drops to the pendant, then back to my face. His jaw is clenched, a muscle ticking.

  “She was so delicate,” he says, his voice low, taut. “Everything she touched is delicate. It must be preserved. That way Do you understand?”

  I nod quickly, heart pounding. “Yes. I understand. I didn’t mean to…”

  He plucks the pendant from my hand with a swift motion, as if rescuing it from danger. He lays it back in the box with exaggerated care, closes the lid, and fastens the clasp. His hands linger on it for a moment, smoothing the surface like one might soothe a child. And then he places it on the dresser top with a small pat on its lid.

  The silence between us thickens, suffocating. I want to move, but I’m fixed to the spot, waiting for his next move. Then, just as quickly, his expression shifts. His shoulders soften. He reaches for my hand, lifting it to his lips. The kiss is slow, deliberate, and his eyes never leave mine.

  “You are my wife now,” he says gently, though something colder glints behind his words. “You don’t need trinkets from the past. And you don’t need to be anyone else. You have me.”

  His mouth lingers on my skin. To anyone else, it might look tender. But his linger with a weight that makes my stomach twist, as though he is both loving and measuring me, ensuring I will not cross some invisible line again.

  I whisper, “Of course.”

  His thumb strokes the back of my hand once, then releases it. He straightens, his voice returning to that calm certainty that always makes me feel both reassured and trapped.

  “There are things in this house that are sacred,” he says. “Things you must not disturb. You’ll learn which. And when you do, you’ll see that obedience is not weakness, it is strength.”

  I nod again, quickly. My throat feels tight, as though the air itself has hardened. He studies me for a long moment, then finally smiles, softening once more. He brushes a stray hair from my face, the gesture intimate, almost tender.

  “You’ll grow to love this room,” he murmurs. “She would have wanted it.”

  Then, he leaves me standing there, the jewelry box gleaming but shut, my hands trembling. The door closes softly behind him and the silence that remains is louder than anything he said.

  I sit on the edge of the bed, my pulse still racing. The Blue Suite feels smaller now, its velvet curtains closing tighter around me. I can’t shake the image of his face when he caught me. His features revealed the hardness of his fury as he pressed it under control. He hadn’t shouted. That would have been easier, maybe. Instead, he wielded silence, and quiet precision. His displeasure was sharper because it was so quiet.

  I look at the jewelry box again. It sits where he left it, ordinary and still. But now it feels like a warning, not a curiosity. A forbidden thing that will cause more harm than good. The perfume in the air seems stronger suddenly, even more cloying, as if Isobel herself is pressing closer, and whispering. You don’t belong here.

  The girls’ laughter drifts faintly from downstairs again. Sophie’s giggle, Amelia’s firmer voice. I cling to the sound of them, grounding myself. But even that sound feels fragile, as though the lodge is already swallowing it, already teaching them silence.

  I tell myself it was nothing but a misunderstanding. He was protective, not cruel. He only wants to preserve what mattered to his mother. That’s love, isn’t it? That’s devotion. But deep down, I know better. His reaction wasn’t about jewelry, it was about control. And he’s left the box here deliberately, in plain sight, to tempt me, taunt me, and test me.

  8

  The parlor smells faintly of polish and smoke, the air thick with the residue of years of fires burned low in the grate. Heavy curtains swallow most of the daylight, leaving the room hushed and dim. It’s one of the smaller spaces in the Lodge, or at least one of the few that doesn’t make me feel like a child wandering through a cathedral. The shelves here are lined with books in cracked leather, their titles faded to ghosts, and a pair of armchairs sit angled toward the fire as if still waiting for occupants who never returned.

  In the far corner, a polished mahogany desk holds a single object. A simple telephone. Its black receiver gleams against the dark wood. The cord, stiff with age, curls in a neat loop. It looks ordinary, if slightly old fashioned. It looks dependable. And for a moment, just seeing it steadies me. There is a connection to the outside world, after all.

  I cross the rug and pick up the receiver, pressing it to my ear. Silence. Then, faintly, a crackle. A distant hum, like wind in a tunnel. I frown, jiggling the hook.

  “Come on…”

  A burst of static hisses in my ear, sharp enough to make me flinch. Then nothing. No dial tone. No further hiss. Nothing. I press the receiver harder, as though force might coax sound through the line.

  “Please,” I whisper, ridiculous, pleading with a machine. “Just work.”

  Behind me, the door creaks. I whirl, my heart thumping. Mrs. Lennox stands in the doorway, her figure stiff against the dim hall beyond. Her hands are folded, as always. She regards me for a long moment before speaking, her voice low and matter-of-fact.

  “The phones are often unreliable this far out.”

  My cheeks flush, as if she’s caught me doing something illicit. I lower the receiver slowly, setting it back into its cradle with a muted click.

  “It’s dead,” I say, quickly.

  She steps into the room, her shoes soundless on the rug. “They go down in storms. Lines freeze, wires snap.” Her eyes flick to the window, where snow still drifts past in thick veils. “Sometimes they’re out for days.”

  Days. The word lodges in my chest. I try to smile, to cover the tightening in my throat.

  “I was just trying to call a friend in Boston. To let her know we’d arrived safely.”

  Mrs. Lennox’s gaze lingers on me, gray and heavy. Then she nods once, brisk, and smooths her skirt.

  “You won’t need to trouble yourself. If it’s important, Mr. Drummond will see it one.”

  I open my mouth, but the words shrivel before they leave me. She’s already turned back toward the door. Her posture is so rigid it looks painful, her back a line of obedience carved by decades. When she’s gone, the room feels even smaller than before, the silence louder. I stare at the phone, black and gleaming on the polished wood. So close, and yet as unreachable as if it were locked in glass.

  That evening, I try again. The girls are upstairs, giggling faintly in the room Stuart has set for them. Their laughter is a thread I cling to as I slip back into the parlor. The fire has burned low, embers glowing. The phone sits where I left it, smug in its uselessness. I lift the receiver and hear static again. A long, low sigh in the line, like someone breathing from very far away. But still no dial tone.

  “Please,” I whisper, though I don’t know who I’m asking. Rachel’s face rises in my mind, her arched brow, her knowing smirk. If I could just hear her sharp, sarcastic, unflinching voice, it would cut through the fog settling over me. But there’s nothing there and no way of reaching her. The silence in the line is not just absence. It feels like a deliberate wall being held up. I set the phone down, my hand trembling.

  Later, over supper, I force myself to ask him about it. Like so many other rooms here, the dining hall is cavernous, and the fire struggled to keep up with the size of the room. Shadows climb the walls like restless figures. Stuart sits at the head of the table, carving into a roast Mrs. Lennox has prepared. The girls pick at their plates. Amelia polite but tight-jawed, Sophie yawning into her sleeve. I clear my throat.

  “I tried the phone today. It doesn’t seem to be working.”

  Stuart looks up, the carving knife pausing midair.

  “Ah.” He sets it down carefully. “The lines are unreliable out here. They always have been.”

  “I wanted to let Rachel know we arrived,” I say. My voice sounds thin and defensive.

  He smiles faintly, indulgent. “Rachel will assume you’re well. She’ll hear from you soon enough.”

  I hesitate. “And if I needed to make a call? For the girls, or…”

  His gaze sharpens, though his smile doesn’t waver. “You won’t need to. Anything essential, I’ll handle.”

  “But…”

  He reaches across the table, his hand covering mine. His grip is warm, firm, silencing. “You’ll see, my love. Simplicity suits us. The world beyond these trees has only hurt you. Here, you’ll never be hurt again.”

  His thumb strokes my knuckles, tender but possessive. The girls are watch us silently. Sophie’s wide eyes flit from his face to mine. Amelia’s brow furrows, her lips pressed thin. I force a smile.

  “Of course.”

  His expression eases, and he seems satisfied with my reply. He lifts his glass, his voice rich and final.

  “To family. To peace.”

  I echo the words, but the wine tastes bitter on my tongue, and inside, unease spreads like frost.

  Later, as I tuck the girls into bed, Amelia whispers, “Why doesn’t the phone work?”

  I smooth her hair, avoiding her eyes.

  “The snow, maybe. It’ll come back on soon.”

  She watches me, sharp and doubtful. Sophie cuddles close to her sister, already half-asleep, trusting the silence because she must. I kiss them both, linger a moment longer, then slip out into the corridor. The Blue Suite waits down the hall, with its velvet curtains heavy with perfume. But I can’t shake the image of the phone. Black, gleaming, silent. Like a mirage. A door that looks open, but isn’t.

  9

  A renewed burst of the storm begins just before supper the next day. By the time Mrs. Lennox calls us to the dining room, the wind has picked up enough to rattle the shutters, and sounds like a constant gnashing against the glass. Snow drives in furious sheets across the tall windows, reducing the world outside to a blur of white and shadow. Inside, the fire in the hearth fights to keep up, its roar swallowed by the howl whistling across the top of the chimney, drawing the flames too fast.

  The dining room is long and severe, its carved chairs arranged like soldiers around the vast table. The girls sit across from me, Sophie’s feet swinging, Amelia composed but rigid. Stuart presides at the head, knife and fork at the ready. Mrs Lennox delivers a simple meal of lamb, potatoes and steamed vegetables. The smell of meat and rosemary fills the air, but my stomach knots too tightly to be hungry.

  Sophie hums softly to herself, trying to make the silence less heavy. Amelia doesn’t speak at all. She only watches, her eyes darting between Stuart and me like she’s measuring something unseen. I lift my fork, forcing normalcy.

  “The storm sounds fierce tonight. It’s lucky we’re warm in here.”

  Neither girl answers. Stuart skewers a slice of meat on his fork, studying it, before placing it in his mouth, chewing cautiously. His movements are precise, deliberate, almost ceremonial.

  Then, without warning, Amelia sets her fork down with a sharp clink. Her voice slices through the room, steady but trembling at the edges.

  “I don’t like it here. I want to go back to Boston.”

  The words hang in the air like shattered glass. Sophie freezes, her hum cut short. My breath catches. The storm outside seems to pause, listening. Stuart looks up slowly from his plate. His smile comes, but it’s tight and hard, pulled across his face like fabric stretched thin. His eyes are bright and cold.

  “This is your home now,” he says calmly. “Boston was never truly home. The lodge is where we all belong.”

  Amelia doesn’t flinch. Her chin lifts a fraction, her dark eyes fierce.

  “It doesn’t feel like home. It feels…” She hesitates, then blurts, “It feels like a prison.”

  My chest constricts.

  “Amelia,” I whisper, trying to soothe and soften the word that cuts so sharp.

  Stuart sets his knife and fork down with careful precision. He leans back in his chair, folding his hands, studying her as though she’s a specimen on display.

  “Ungrateful,” he says finally.

  The word is soft, but it carries weight. He doesn’t raise his voice. He doesn’t need to. Amelia’s lips press together. Her fists clench in her lap. Sophie stares at her sister, wide-eyed, then ducks her head as though hiding will make her invisible. My instinct to protect her rises, hot and fierce. I reach across the table, touching Amelia’s hand.

  “She’s adjusting,” I say quickly. “It’s new for all of us.”

  Stuart’s eyes flick to me. His smile doesn’t waver, but I see the warning there, sharp beneath the calm.

  “She must learn gratitude,” he says evenly. “This house offers her everything she needs. Warmth, shelter, family. What more could a child want?”

  “A choice,” Amelia whispers.

  The silence that follows is unbearable. The storm batters the glass, the fire snaps and crackles, but in the room, there is nothing but the thrum of blood in my ears, and his cold, calculating silence. I squeeze Amelia’s hand under the table, my own trembling. Her eyes meet mine, both pleading and defiant at once. Stuart lifts his glass, sipping as though nothing has happened. But his gaze lingers on Amelia, steady and unblinking, until she looks away.

  When the meal ends, Sophie scurries from the room without a word. Amelia follows, her back straight, her head high. I want to go after them, to gather them both into my arms, to promise safety. But Stuart’s hand closes over mine, anchoring me to my chair.

  “She will learn,” he says softly. “In time.”

  His smile returns, smooth and practiced. But in his eyes I see the same sharpness he used on me when he caught me with Isobel’s jewelry box. The same warning, cold and absolute. His need for control is no longer aimed only at me. It has turned toward my children. And I will never forgive myself if I let him break them.

 

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