A chime breaks my stare, and Rand comes to a stop in the middle of the hallway. “Excuse me a moment.” Setting the phone to his ear, he walks three paces ahead. “Yes?” In his profile, I catch the lowering of his brows. “You can’t be serious. The girl left abruptly with no communication, never once said a word to our in-house doctor, or nurse. She left the door to the balcony unlocked, placing Mrs. Blackthorne at grave risk.” The intensity in his voice fades as he continues down the hallway. “Whatever hallucinations she claims she’s suffered since leaving, it’s likely her own conscience biting her in the ass.”
Hallucinations? Pretending not to listen to the conversation, I look back at the room with the mirrors, but feel the light tap on my shoulder. On instinct, I flinch, and turn to find Rand holding up a finger, phone still pressed to his ear, before he walks off.
“She’s lucky the Master isn’t privy to all of this, or we’d have a far less equitable day in court.” His voice echoes down the hallway, and I keep on in the opposite direction, past the elevator toward more rooms ahead.
My wandering brings me to a doorway halfway down the corridor, and I halt mid-step, my heart leaping into my throat when I peer through the French doors.
Completely encased in windows and iron that converge into an arched, translucent ceiling, it reminds me of a cross between a greenhouse and a birdcage. An atrium with hardwood flooring and enough early morning light to illuminate the gossamer cobwebs clinging to the room. Dying plants lie about in what must’ve been a room brimming with life at one time, given the number of pots scattered throughout. In the center of it, sits the most beautiful black piano I’ve ever seen. Like the one from my dreams, where I sit and play my own compositions for a room of people who listen. Before I even realize it, my feet carry me across the room, until I’m standing in front of the beastly thing. Giving one furtive glance toward the doorway, I glide my fingertips over the ivory and ebony keys. Off to the side, on a pedestal table, is a snifter glass with an amber fluid and mostly melted ice cubes.
Swinging around, I search for another presence, but find nothing aside from scattered bits of furniture, stacked books, and what look like outdoor streetlights, the kind of Victorian era decor unfound in a town like Tempest Cove. The vines crawling over the windows outside remind me of an old London alleyway.
Mesmerizing.
I can only imagine what this room must look like in winter.
I settle my attention back on the keys and press a note, one I couldn’t recognize if someone paid me, but a common sound, found in many of the pieces I’ve played. Unlike on the old piano at school, broken down from age and overuse, these keys are even and smooth, yet slightly stiffer than what I’m used to. Heavier and crisp, as I play a simple scale. Sometimes, my music teacher would have me play at concerts when his usual pianist wasn’t available. I only have to listen to a piece once before I know the entire song, note for note. I’ve always appreciated consistent rhythms and the tick tick tick of the metronome.
A strange sensation winds down my spine, and I pause my playing, turning my attention toward the door in time to catch a flickering shadow of movement outside the room. “Rand?”
A cold sensation sweeps over my skin, springing goosebumps. I step around the piano to get a better look at what I’m certain is someone beyond the doorway. “Rand, is that you?”
Fine tendrils tickle the back of my neck, and I rub a hand across my nape over the creeping prickle.
It’s broad daylight, Isa. Relax.
The feeling of being watched has my eyes scanning the room. “Hello?”
“Miss Quinn!”
A scream flies out of my throat, and I stumble backward, setting a hand to my chest.
Rand peers in from the doorway. “I didn’t mean to startle you. And my apologies for the delay. Shall we?”
Eyes fluttering shut, I exhale a breath, and nodding, I follow him out of the room and down the hallway toward a set of silver doors, which appear to be an elevator. Of course, the place has an elevator. Why wouldn’t it?
“Only two rooms can be accessed from this elevator. Mrs. Blackthorne’s chambers, and the Master’s personal office. I’d caution you against snooping around the third level, as Master Blackthorne is very particular.”
“About his privacy,” I finish for him. “I understand.”
“Good.” He presses the button on the wall, and the panel overhead shows the third floor lit up, then the second. “You’re free to roam all other rooms, aside from the Master’s bedroom and the catacombs, of course.” At a ding, the silver doors slide open, and with a wave of his hand, Rand ushers me inside.
“Catacombs?” I ask.
“The bottommost level in the castle. It’s where the Blackthorne mausoleum, or ossuary, rather, is located.”
That cold sensation sweeps over me again. “Mausoleum? As in … human remains? In this house?”
“Yes. The Blackthornes have obtained special documentation that has permitted them to bury their ancestors right here on the property. However, the catacombs are off limits to you.”
“Of course.” Why the hell would I care to go snooping around for dead bodies, anyway?
“You’d be surprised what lengths some will go to, to see what’s off limits. I’d advise you don’t. One other small thing I want to mention. Should, by chance, you run into Master Blackthorne, I’d advise you not to make eye contact for long. Makes him a little … edgy.”
Guy must be sensitive about his scars. I get it. “Sure. He doesn’t wander about much, I take it.”
“Aside from his office and the gym, not much, no.”
“There’s a gym here?”
“And a pool, as well as an indoor track. The Master was quite an athlete in his youth. You’re welcome to use them, if you wish.”
Jesus, it must take a crew just to keep up the daily cleaning here. I’d’ve hated getting assigned this place back when I worked for the cleaning company.
The elevator comes to a stop on floor number two and opens directly into what appears to be a parlor, with an antique-looking settee upholstered in a black satiny material that has my palms itching to touch. The entire wall to the left is one giant glass curio cabinet filled with what I’m guessing are porcelain dolls. Hundreds of them. In the light through the window ahead, I can see their beady eyes staring forward through the glass, where each appears to be propped on some kind of stand.
Creepy.
As I step into the room, another cold rush of air dances over my skin, and the abandonment of this place becomes palpable.
“Mrs. Blackthorne has one of the most expensive and coveted porcelain and bisque doll collections in the world.”
“She’s been collecting them for a while, then?”
“Since she was a little girl. Please have a seat on the couch. I’ll fetch her.” With his parting words, he wanders off through a doorway, and I don’t yet bother to sit. I’ll do nothing but fidget, which will only bring my wracked-out nerves to my attention.
Eyes scanning over the lifeless faces, I take in the variety of dolls in her collection--some I bet came from different countries. Some with cracked faces, others smooth and flawless. I never grew up with dolls to appreciate them much. My mother always called them pointless, and by the time I went to live with my aunt, I was too old for them.