Julia woke with a gasp, her body rigid, still sprawled on the bed where she had scrambled back in terror. The memory of the note, Marian's hair, and that horrifying, silent scream was a burning ember in her mind. Had she screamed herself? The taste of raw fear lingered on her tongue. The piano music, a faint, haunting melody, seemed to fade into the silence of the early morning.
She sat up, her head throbbing, the bandage on her hand feeling tight and restrictive. Her room was shrouded in the grey light of dawn, slowly pushing back the shadows. Was it a dream? It felt too real, too visceral to be mere nightmare. The lingering scent of roses and decay, though faint now, was undeniable.
She looked at her bedside table. Her heart leaped into her throat. The lock of dark, red-ribboned hair was gone. The note, Marian's chilling warning – You're already in his hands – was also gone. A cold dread settled in her stomach. If it had been a dream, why had the objects vanished? If it had been real, who had taken them?
Her gaze fell to the floor near the edge of her bed. Faint, muddy footprints marred the polished wood, leading away from her bedside table towards the door. They were small, delicate prints, not like a man's heavy boots. Someone had been in her room. Someone had stood by her bed.
She lifted her arms, examining them in the dim light. Thin, red scratches, like the abrasions from thorns or sharp claws, marred her forearms, just above the sleeve of her nightgown. They hadn't been there when she went to sleep. Her breath hitched. What in God's name was happening to her? Was she sleepwalking? Was she… losing her mind? The thought was a terrifying whisper in the quiet room.
A soft knock startled her, and before she could answer, the door creaked open. Elsie, the young maid, peeked in, her timid eyes wide and startled. She took in Julia's disheveled appearance, her pale face, and the frantic look in her eyes.
"Miss Harrow?" Elsie whispered, her voice barely audible. She carried a bucket of water and a cloth. Her gaze, however, fell immediately to the muddy footprints on the floor. Her eyes widened further, and a look of sheer panic flashed across her face.
Before Julia could stop her, before she could even formulate a question, Elsie dropped to her knees, her movements a blur of terrified urgency. She began scrubbing at the muddy prints with the wet cloth, her actions swift and frantic, desperate to erase them.
"Elsie! What are you doing?" Julia cried out, her voice sharp with frustration and disbelief. She swung her legs off the bed, trying to stop the maid, but it was too late. The last of the muddy traces vanished under Elsie's furious scrubbing, leaving only clean, polished wood.
Elsie scrambled to her feet, her head bowed, her face flushed with a mixture of fear and shame. "Oh, Miss Harrow! I'm so sorry! I… I just thought… I thought they shouldn't be there." Her voice was a squeak of raw anxiety.
Julia stared at the spot where the prints had been, her jaw tight. The last tangible evidence of whatever had transpired in her room was now gone. "Why would you do that, Elsie?" Julia demanded, her voice tight with controlled anger. "Those were important! Someone was in here last night!"
Elsie flinched, her shoulders hunching. "I… I just wanted to make things tidy, Miss," she stammered, her gaze fixed on her worn shoes. "Mr. Finch always says the hall must be kept impeccable." Her fear was palpable, a tangible thing in the room. It confirmed Julia's suspicion – Elsie knew more than she let on.
Julia sighed, running a hand through her hair. The headache was a dull throb now, a persistent reminder of the night's horrors. The memory of her aunt Evelyn's frantic warnings returned to her, chilling her to the bone. "If you feel it again – the headaches, the fear – you leave. Don't let them pull you under like they did Marian." A cold tremor ran down Julia's spine. Was it already too late? Was this what her aunt had meant? Was she truly losing her grip on reality, or was she simply being pulled deeper into Blackwood Hall's dark current?
"Right," Julia said, trying to compose herself. "Well, the footprints are gone now, aren't they?" She looked at the thin scratches on her arms. What an impossible explanation she had. "Elsie, I need to take a bath. And then I'll need some clean clothes."
Elsie, visibly relieved to have a clear task, curtsied again. "Yes, Miss Harrow. Immediately." She set about her duties with quiet efficiency, drawing a warm bath, laying out a clean gown, and fetching fresh undergarments. Due to Julia's bandaged right hand, Elsie had to help her wash and dress, her small hands surprisingly gentle.
Once dressed, Elsie returned with a breakfast tray. "Lord Alistair went to London, Miss," she informed Julia as she placed the tray on the bedside table. "He left early this morning. Mr. Finch said he would be back in a few days."
Julia's heart gave a strange lurch at the mention of Alistair's absence. The revelation about Marian's miscarriage had profoundly shifted her perspective, leaving her in a bewildering state of confusion. Was he truly grieving? Was his emotional outpouring genuine? The charismatic man who knelt before her, cleaning her wound, seemed so different from the controlling figure she had first perceived. His absence felt oddly unsettling now.
"He's not back yet?" Julia asked, her voice tinged with a disappointment she hadn't expected. She picked at her food, her appetite minimal. "And he's not coming back for a few days?"
Elsie nodded, her eyes downcast. "That's what Mr. Finch said, Miss."
Julia leaned back against the pillows, trying to piece together the fragments of her thoughts. The dream, the missing note, the footprints, the scratches, Alistair's heartbreaking story… and her aunt Evelyn's urgent plea. "If you feel it again – the headaches, the fear – you leave. Don't let them pull you under like they did Marian." A shiver ran through her. Had her aunt known something specific? Had she experienced these things herself?
"Elsie," Julia began, her voice low, trying to sound casual. "Can you tell me anything more about Lady Marian? Before… before she became unwell?" She watched the maid's face carefully.
Elsie's eyes darted nervously towards the door, as if expecting Finch to appear at any moment. Her hands twisted the corner of her apron. "Oh, Miss… Lady Marian was… kind. Very kind. She liked to walk in the gardens."
"Which gardens?" Julia pressed gently. "The ones with the locked gates in the East Wing?"
Elsie visibly stiffened, her small frame tensing. She hesitated, her lips pressing into a thin line. "The… the Lady's Garden, Miss," she whispered, her voice barely audible, as if speaking a forbidden name. "She… she spent a lot of time there."
Before Julia could ask another question, a sharp rap sounded on the door. Elsie gasped, shrinking back, her face paling. Finch entered, his usual stern expression firmly in place. He carried another tray, this time with a single teapot and cup.
"Miss Harrow," Finch said, his voice as unyielding as stone. He set the tray down on the table and then, with a subtle, deliberate movement, his gaze dropped to the spot on the floor near Julia's bed where Elsie had scrubbed away the muddy footprints. His eyes, sharp and observant, tightened imperceptibly. He said nothing about them, but the quiet acknowledgment was almost more unsettling than an outright accusation.
"My Lord Alistair left instructions," Finch continued, his voice devoid of warmth, addressing Julia. "He wishes for you to rest today, and tomorrow. He specifically requested that you do not leave your room, nor attempt to go anywhere in the house, until your hand has fully healed. He will return in two days."
Julia felt a surge of defiance. "Rest? Mr. Finch, it's only my hand that's injured, not my entire body. Why should my movements be restricted?" Her voice was firm, reflecting her indignation.
Finch's gaze was unwavering, cold and unyielding. "Those are Lord Alistair's orders, Miss Harrow. His wishes are to be respected. If you have any objections, you may voice them to him upon his return." He poured a cup of tea and pushed it gently towards her. "Now, please drink this. It will help with your headache."
Julia looked at the tea, a sudden suspicion blooming in her mind. Was it truly just for her headache? Or was there something else in it? She picked up the cup, her hand trembling slightly, and took a slow sip, her eyes still on Finch. He watched her, his gaze intent, until she had swallowed.
Satisfied, he turned to Elsie, a subtle jerk of his head signaling her to follow. "Elsie, come. You are needed elsewhere."
Elsie cast a frightened, apologetic glance at Julia, then scurried out of the room behind Finch, leaving Julia alone once more. The silence pressed in, heavy and expectant.