Chapter 5 Unseaming

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Chapter Five: Unseaming

The thread snapped.

A faint, almost imperceptible sound-but it echoed through the chamber like thunder.

Evelyn's fingers trembled as she pulled another stitch free from the hem of Lilian's mourning gown. The silver needle quivered in her grip, glinting in the candlelight. She had returned to the dressing room at dawn, unable to wait. The locket still lay against her chest, tucked beneath the collar of her blouse like a talisman.

The seam was weakening.

And she was unraveling it.

Each gown had its own weight-not just physical, but psychic. When she touched them, she felt Lilian's breath on her skin, heard the whisper of silk over stone, smelled the ghost of rosewater and despair. She couldn't unsee the mirrors. Couldn't unhear the voice.

Unpick it.

The gown on the floor before her was the one she had seen first-laid like a corpse at the foot of the hidden door. She worked carefully, as if disturbing it too violently might tear a hole in the air itself.

With each removed stitch, the fabric sighed.

The lining bore marks-charcoal scrawls, smudged by time. At first, Evelyn thought they were stray tailoring marks. But as more fabric gave way, the truth surfaced.

Words.

Names.

Dates.

> March 3rd, 1862 - Lilian F.

> June 29th, 1870 - Annalise R.

> December 12th, 1894 - Madeline C.

Each name stitched into the folds like a confession.

Dozens of them.

Dozens of women.

Each one sewn into the house.

A cold sweat broke across Evelyn's spine. Her mouth tasted like iron. She backed away from the gown, heart hammering against her ribs.

The house wasn't haunted by one ghost.

It was haunted by many.

And each one had left their story stitched into silk.

---

Later that morning, Evelyn wandered the corridors of Silkenmoor in a trance, lost in thought. Shadows lingered at the edges of her vision, but she no longer flinched from them. The manor was waking-she could feel it. Floors creaked behind her where no one walked. Mirrors breathed condensation from rooms that hadn't seen life in decades. And the faint scent of camellias followed her, though no flowers bloomed on the grounds.

She turned a corner-and collided with Alaric.

The impact jolted her from her reverie. His hands caught her shoulders instinctively, steadying her.

"I-sorry," she said, breathless.

His gaze roved over her face. "You look pale. Have you been down there again?"

She didn't deny it. "I unpicked part of the gown. There were names hidden in the lining. Dates, too."

He nodded grimly. "The house remembers."

"Who were they?" she asked. "The other women."

His eyes darkened. "Guests. Servants. Lovers. Some simply... disappeared. Others died in ways no one could explain. But every time it happened, a new gown appeared in the dressing room. My grandmother used to whisper that the house stitched its sorrow into silk."

Evelyn's voice cracked. "And Lilian?"

He looked away. "She was the first the house chose. Or the first it refused to let go."

There was a long silence between them, taut with unspoken things. Evelyn searched his face. There was something fractured in him-a man divided between guilt and inevitability.

"I think it's happening again," she said softly.

He met her gaze. "To you?"

"No," she whispered. "To us."

---

The next few days blurred.

Evelyn moved through them like a woman living two lives. By daylight, she explored the manor's wings, tracing the footsteps of those who had vanished. She followed narrow stairwells that ended in bricked walls. Opened doors that led only to silence. Read letters left unfinished, books with corners dog-eared to chapters on betrayal, curses, resurrection.

And by night-she unpicked.

Each gown told a story.

Some were quiet: a seamstress who embroidered hope into her wedding dress, only to be buried in it weeks later. A governess with too-bright eyes and too many questions. A sister. A thief. A muse.

Others screamed.

The bloodstained hem of a debutante's debut gown. The opera cape of a singer who never took her final bow. A christening dress with a tear down its center-slashed in grief or rage, Evelyn couldn't tell.

She recorded them all in her journal, tracing threads of history through violence and beauty alike.

And she began to feel them.

In her skin. Her dreams.

In the pulse of the manor's walls.

Once, she awoke to find her own hands stained faintly with crimson-though there was no wound, and no ink had spilled.

The manor was sewing her in.

---

One evening, she ventured into the west wing-the only part of the estate she had not yet explored. It had been locked since her arrival, but now the door stood open.

Inside, dust coated every surface like snow.

This was Isadora's wing.

Portraits lined the walls, but the faces were obscured. Slashed canvas. Shattered glass. Only one remained intact.

Isadora Thorne.

Evelyn stared at her.

A pale woman in a dark green gown, pearls tight at her throat. Her smile was faint-but her eyes were furious. Alive.

And in her hand-a needle.

Evelyn leaned closer. The canvas was more detailed than any she'd seen. Almost... too much so. Her fingers grazed the frame-and the surface rippled.

She staggered back.

But the portrait had gone still.

Breathing shallow, Evelyn turned away-and saw the sewing room.

The door had been left ajar.

Inside, moonlight spilled over spools of thread and bolts of unused fabric. At the center sat a half-finished dress, pinned to a mannequin. The same color as Isadora's.

And beside it-a note.

> Not all threads can be cut. Some must be tied. She tried to save her. She tried to save herself. But some gowns never fit the body they're made for.

Beneath the note lay a pair of silver embroidery scissors-just like Evelyn's.

Her reflection caught in the mirror behind her.

But it wasn't hers.

Lilian stood there.

Pale. Distant. Watching.

And then-

She blinked.

Gone.

---

That night, Evelyn returned to the study.

Alaric was waiting, as if he knew she would come.

"I saw her," she said.

He nodded. "Lilian?"

"No. Isadora."

He looked down. "She lingered longer than most. Tried harder than I ever did. She stitched wards into her clothing. Burned poppets in the hearth. Told me the house fed on forgotten women."

"And yet you stayed," Evelyn said.

"So did she."

They stood in silence for a long moment.

Then Alaric said, "Come with me."

He led her through a passage behind the study-one Evelyn hadn't noticed before. It wound downward, behind the library, past dust-choked shelves and sealed doors.

Finally, they entered a chamber that pulsed with warmth and silence.

A hidden archive.

Scrolls. Sketchbooks. Old tailoring ledgers. And in the center-a single journal bound in crimson velvet.

He handed it to her.

Lilian's.

She opened it slowly.

The pages were filled with sketches of dresses, but beneath each drawing, she had written poems. Memories. Names. Accusations.

> They told me I was beautiful when I was silent.

> He loved me best when I was afraid.

> She tried to free me. She bled for it.

> The house has teeth. And I was its first meal.

Evelyn closed the book.

She couldn't breathe.

Alaric's voice broke through the silence. "There's a room no one speaks of. Beneath the house. The original foundation."

"What's down there?"

He hesitated. "The final gown."

---

That night, Evelyn dreamed again.

She stood in the manor's foundation, beneath centuries of silence. The walls were raw stone. The air thick with dust and despair.

Lilian stood beside her.

She pointed to a pedestal.

Upon it-a wedding gown.

But this one shimmered with black silk. The veil covered the face of the mannequin, but Evelyn could feel the presence beneath.

Alive.

Waiting.

"I never wore it," Lilian whispered. "But he wanted me to."

Evelyn reached for the veil.

And the walls of the dream collapsed.

---

She awoke at dawn.

The locket burned against her skin.

It was time.

She descended to the hidden passage, back into the vault of mirrors.

The dress form still stood.

But now-it wore a different gown.

The final one.

Black. Veiled. Perfect.

As if time had not touched it.

The mirrors flickered.

Each showed Evelyn now-not Lilian.

Her own face.

But not her eyes.

She touched the bodice of the gown.

It felt like skin.

A whisper echoed from the walls.

> Finish it.

She raised her scissors.

And began to cut.

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