Chapter 2 The East Wing

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Chapter Two: The East Wing

The east wing smelled of lavender and dust.

Evelyn stepped into the suite Lord Thorne had assigned her, struck by its timeless stillness. The bedroom was large, with bay windows that overlooked the restless sea, its gray waves chewing at the cliffside like teeth gnawing bone. The ceiling stretched high above her, ribbed with dark beams, and the wallpaper-faded green damask-peeled slightly at the corners, as though trying to retreat into the past.

In the center stood a canopy bed draped in gauze that fluttered in a breeze she couldn't feel.

She dropped her bag on the tufted ottoman at its foot and turned in a slow circle, absorbing everything. A writing desk of inlaid rosewood. A tall mirror with a frame of carved onyx. A claw-foot tub near the hearth, half-veiled behind a folding screen patterned with hand-painted cranes. All of it beautiful. All of it too quiet.

On the bed was a simple note in the same calligraphy as the invitation:

> Your work begins at dawn. The dressing room is below. You will be escorted.

There was no name. No signature.

Evelyn didn't sleep much that night. The wind clawed at the windows, and she swore she heard faint footsteps in the hallway after midnight-deliberate and slow, as though someone was pacing. But when she cracked open her door, the corridor beyond was empty.

---

She awoke to sunlight filtered through storm clouds.

A knock at her door.

Evelyn slipped on her boots and opened it to find a woman standing there-late thirties, pale as porcelain, dressed in a uniform that looked Victorian in cut but immaculate in tailoring.

"I'm Maud," the woman said. "I'll be escorting you to the dressing room."

Evelyn blinked. "You're... staff?"

Maud's smile didn't quite reach her eyes. "In a manner of speaking."

She turned and began walking without waiting for Evelyn to follow.

Down the corridor, past paintings of somber women with hollow eyes, through a narrow passage lit by wrought iron sconces, and then-finally-into the heart of the manor.

The dressing room was nestled beneath the east wing. A subterranean chamber with high arched ceilings and no visible windows. Yet somehow it wasn't dark. Candlelight flickered in wall-mounted candelabras, and chandeliers-swarming with crystal teardrops-glittered above worktables arranged in a semicircle.

Evelyn stopped at the threshold, breath catching.

Dozens of mannequins stood like silent witnesses, each bearing a gown of impossible intricacy. There were bustles and bell skirts, high collars and delicate lace overlays, gloves sewn with seed pearls, veils that looked like spider silk. The air was perfumed with age-linen starch and dried flowers, lavender sachets and the faintest trace of decay.

"Where do I begin?" Evelyn whispered.

Maud handed her a pair of ivory gloves. "Lady Thorne insisted the collection be maintained in silence. Music is discouraged. Speaking aloud... is inadvisable."

"Why?"

Maud only smiled again. "The gowns prefer quiet."

And then she left, the door clicking shut behind her.

---

Evelyn began with the gown nearest the center-a mourning dress in deep obsidian, embroidered with jet beads so black they seemed to drink the light. Its hem was stiff with dust, and the lace collar had frayed into gauze. She worked methodically, pulling out her kit, documenting every seam, every stain, every threadbare spot.

By noon, she'd completed only the preliminary assessment. It wasn't just the age or fragility of the gown-it was the weight of it, the presence. Each time she ran her gloved fingers along the fabric, she felt watched.

She looked up once and caught a glimpse of her reflection in the long mirror beside the staircase. She was pale, hair pinned back, smudges of fatigue beneath her eyes. But what unsettled her wasn't her own face-it was the sense that something in the room had moved behind her.

When she turned, the mannequins were still.

But the air felt colder.

---

Later that evening, she dined alone in a small salon with tall windows and a fire that crackled softly. The meal was exquisite-veal in a wine reduction, root vegetables glazed with honey, and a plum tart so delicate she felt guilty taking a bite.

No one came to speak to her.

She hadn't seen Alaric Thorne since the day she arrived.

After dinner, Evelyn wandered.

The manor was a maze. Corridors branched like veins, and the décor changed subtly from wing to wing-some halls clad in velvet and gilt, others bare and echoing like a tomb. In one room she discovered a library with towering shelves and spiral ladders; in another, a conservatory sealed with frosted glass and rows of withered orchids. The further she ventured, the less it felt like a house, and more like a place suspended outside of time.

She passed by a locked door carved with a woman's face.

Her hand paused on the brass knob. It was ice cold.

Then she heard it-barely a whisper.

A voice. Faint. Female.

"Don't forget me."

She spun around, heart thundering.

No one there.

---

That night, Evelyn dreamed of a girl in a red dress.

The girl stood on the edge of the cliffs, wind tearing at her skirts, face obscured by a silk veil. She held something in her hands-a bouquet of lilies and bone-and whispered a name over and over, each time growing louder.

Isadora.

Isadora.

Isadora.

When Evelyn awoke, the veil of her dream still clung to her like cobwebs.

And someone had placed a fresh lily on her windowsill.

---

The second day brought more puzzles.

As she worked on a delicate tea gown trimmed with Alençon lace, she noticed a seam that had been hand-stitched over another line of thread-older, sloppier, meant to conceal. She unpicked it carefully and discovered a hidden pocket, barely large enough to hold a playing card.

Inside: a photograph.

Faded. Sepia-toned. A woman, laughing on a swing in a garden. Her hair dark, her dress striped with buttons down the front. And behind her-half-shrouded in shadow-was a man. Barely visible. Watching her.

On the back of the photo, a single line had been scrawled.

> She didn't fall. He pushed her.

Evelyn's fingers trembled as she re-sealed the pocket and tucked the photograph into her sketchbook.

What had she stepped into?

The house was giving her pieces-fragmented, out of order, but deliberate. She no longer believed these were coincidences. Someone had left them. Maybe Isadora. Maybe someone else who hadn't escaped.

And the gowns-each one whispered.

The rustle of silk. The faint scent of perfume. The ghost of a laugh stitched into seams.

They were not just garments. They were confessions.

---

That evening, Evelyn finally saw him again.

Alaric stood by the great hearth in the music room, where the firelight painted his sharp features in amber. He held a glass of something dark, untouched.

She hesitated at the threshold, unsure whether to disturb him.

He looked up. "You've found something."

Evelyn stepped into the room. "You left those notes for me, didn't you?"

He smiled faintly. "Do I seem the type to sew warnings into corsets?"

"I don't know what type you are."

"No," he agreed. "You don't."

She hesitated, then crossed her arms. "Who was Isadora to you?"

His gaze sharpened. "A wife. A curse. A mirror."

"That's not an answer."

"It's the only one I'll give."

Silence crackled between them like a broken string.

Alaric stepped closer, his eyes impossibly dark. "You should be careful, Miss Roth. Curiosity isn't always rewarded with clarity."

Evelyn held her ground. "And silence is never rewarded with truth."

Something flickered across his face. Approval, maybe. Or warning.

"She wrote in thread," he said softly. "But some threads unravel blood."

Then he turned and left her in the firelight, the flames throwing shadows like reaching hands across the marble floor.

---

That night, Evelyn returned to the dressing room after midnight.

She brought only a lantern and her sketchbook, and made her way to the gown at the very center-the one under glass. Isadora's favorite. The death gown.

She unlocked the dome and lifted the case slowly, the scent hitting her like a memory: jasmine and rust.

She didn't touch the silk. Not yet.

Instead, she circled the pedestal and examined the hem.

And there, beneath the third fold of the inner lining, a thread of crimson silk looped into a name.

Not Isadora.

But Lilian.

Evelyn sat back, chills rising.

Another name. Another voice. Another secret.

The house had begun to speak.

And she was listening.

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