Chapter 3

"Fine," she muttered. "I'll improvise."

She grabbed the tarnished spoon and the rusted nail from the drawer, weighing them in her palm. They felt pathetically inadequate. But the locked door beneath the stairs called to her now, a dark pulse she could feel in her teeth. Isabella's body was somewhere on the grounds, she'd said. But the door was beneath the stairs, and the cold draft smelled of earth and decay. It was a place to start.

Eleanor walked back to the foyer, the spoon and nail clutched in her hand like a talisman. The tapestry that hid the door seemed darker now, its threads woven with shadows that hadn't been there before. She pushed it aside and knelt before the door. The wood was old, warped, the lock a simple iron mechanism. Maybe she could wedge the spoon between the door and the frame, force the bolt.

She slid the spoon into the crack. It fit. She leaned her weight against it, pressing hard. The spoon bent. The door didn't budge.

"Of course," she hissed.

She tried the nail next, scraping at the lock itself, but it was too soft, too small. The nail slipped and scratched her thumb. A bead of blood welled up, bright and warm.

The temperature dropped.

Eleanor's breath plumed in the air. The shadows in the foyer seemed to gather, pooling at the edges of her vision. The cold draft from beneath the door grew stronger, carrying a whisper that was almost words.

"You shouldn't do that."

The voice came from behind her. Silas.

Eleanor spun around. He stood at the foot of the stairs, his form more solid than before, his dark coat pristine, his eyes burning with a cold, possessive fury. He looked at the bent spoon in her hand, then at the scratch on her thumb, and a cruel smile touched his lips.

"You bleed so easily," he said. "Life is fragile. You forget that, when you've been dead as long as I have."

"I'm not dead yet," Eleanor said, her voice steady despite the fear coiling in her chest. "And I'm not leaving."

"You spoke to her." It wasn't a question. His tone was flat, accusatory. "Isabella. You saw her in the mirror."

"She told me the truth," Eleanor said. "About you. About what you did."

Silas laughed, a sound devoid of humor. "The truth? She told you a story. A version of events that paints her as the victim and me as the monster. But love is not a cage, Eleanor. It is a garden. I tended her, I nurtured her, I gave her everything. And she threw it away."

"She said you killed her."

"She asked me to." Silas's voice dropped, raw with grief and something darker. "She wept in my arms, told me she could not bear to live without me. She begged me to make us eternal. And I did. I gave her the only gift that mattered: forever."

Eleanor shook her head. "That's not what she said."

"Of course not." Silas stepped closer, and the cold intensified. "She has had a century to rewrite our story. She blames me now, because she cannot face what she asked me to do. But I remember, Eleanor. I remember every tear, every whispered plea. She wanted to die in my arms. She wanted us to be together always."

"Then why is she still here?" Eleanor demanded. "If she wanted forever with you, why does she want to leave?"

Silas's face flickered, a crack in his composure. "She is confused. Grief makes us forget. She will remember, in time. She will remember that she loved me."

"Or," Eleanor said, her voice sharp, "she's telling the truth, and you're lying to yourself because you can't face what you really did."

Silas's eyes blazed. The air around him warped, heat and cold fighting. The portrait in the drawing room crashed to the floor. The chandelier above Eleanor swayed, its crystals chiming like funeral bells.

"You know nothing," he hissed. "You come into my home, you disturb my rest, you poison her memory with your doubt. I should destroy you."

"But you can't," Eleanor said, and she was surprised by the certainty in her own voice. "If you could, you would have done it last night. You need me. You need someone alive to haunt, someone to feed your grief. If I die, you starve."

Silas's expression darkened, but he didn't deny it.

"I'm going to find her body," Eleanor said. "I'm going to give her a proper burial. And then you're going to let go."

"You will fail," Silas said. "I will make sure of it."

"Maybe." Eleanor bent down and picked up the bent spoon. "But I'm still going to try."

She turned her back on him and walked toward the kitchen. She needed a real tool. A crowbar, a hammer, anything. Behind her, Silas's presence faded, but the cold lingered, pressing against her skin like a warning.

In the kitchen, she found a heavy iron poker by the fireplace. It was blackened and cold, but solid. She hefted it, testing its weight. It would do.

She walked back to the foyer, the poker in her hand. The locked door waited. She raised the poker, ready to drive it into the crack between the door and the frame.

And then she stopped.

The air changed. The cold receded, replaced by a warmth that smelled of lavender. The rocking chair upstairs began to move, its rhythm soft and steady.

Isabella's voice whispered in her ear, barely audible. "Not yet. He is watching. He will follow you if you open it now. Wait until he is weak. Wait until he sleeps."

Eleanor lowered the poker. "When does he sleep?"

"When the moon is highest. When his grief exhausts him. For a few hours, he is still. That is when you must act."

Eleanor nodded slowly. "Tonight, then."

She set the poker down and walked to the window. Outside, the garden was overgrown, choked with dead vines and brambles. The sky was grey, heavy with clouds that promised rain. Somewhere out there, Isabella's body lay hidden. And tonight, she would find it.

The house settled around her, groaning like an old beast. The rocking chair stopped. The lavender scent faded. And Eleanor was alone again, waiting for the moon to rise.

She sat on the floor, her back against the wall, and watched the shadows lengthen. The locked door seemed to breathe in the dim light, patient, waiting. And she waited with it.