The stairs beneath the mirror descended farther than she expected.
The air grew colder with each step, the silence pressing heavier on her shoulders. The only light came from flickering sconces embedded in the stone walls—sconces that shouldn't have been lit in a place that hadn't been touched in decades. Or centuries.
When her bare foot touched the final step, she found herself in a corridor lined with old oil paintings. But these weren't the regal, self-possessed Sinclairs that adorned the main halls upstairs. These were different.
Each canvas bore the same red slash across its surface—through the throat, the chest, or the eyes.
A warning.
She turned a corner and stopped.
There it was.
A heavy oak door with the Sinclair crest carved into it—the same one that had been on the mirror. And just beneath the crest, carved so deeply it looked like it bled into the wood, was a single word.
"Forgive."
Eliana reached for the handle. It was warm.
The door creaked open.
The room beyond was circular, lined with shelves stacked not with books, but with boxes—wooden, metal, velvet. Some old, some newer. And at the center, beneath a hanging lantern, stood a pedestal. On it rested a single leather-bound journal.
She opened it. The pages crackled beneath her fingertips.
The handwriting was neat. Feminine.
"October 13th. He married her. A stranger. A girl he barely knew. And now everything I built is gone."
"I begged him. I warned him."
"She'll end us all."
The entry was unsigned. The next one was dated only two days later.
"The girl is still alive. How?"
Eliana closed the journal and turned, startled.
Behind her stood Adrien.
"What is this place?" she whispered.
He didn't answer at first. His eyes were on the journal in her hands. "This is where the Sinclairs bury what they can't explain."
"Eliana," he said quietly, "this house was never meant to protect us. It was meant to contain something."
She backed away from him, her heart pounding. "Are you saying someone thinks I'm… dangerous?"
"I'm saying," Adrien said, "that someone in this family believed you were cursed. And others believed you were the cure."
⸻
Back upstairs, the sun was rising—soft golden rays spilling into the estate like the warmth of a world unaware of the storm forming inside its walls.
Eliana sat in the solarium, shaking, still clutching the journal.
Adrien watched her in silence. "I shouldn't have let you come here."
"You didn't have a choice," she replied. "Neither did I."
She turned to face him. "What did your father see in me? Why would a dying man change his will for a woman he'd never met?"
Adrien's voice dropped. "Because he had met you. Years ago. You just don't remember."
Eliana blinked. "That's not possible."
"Yes," he said. "It is."
Adrien pulled something from his coat pocket—a photo, aged and torn. It showed a little girl standing in the Sinclair rose garden. Younger versions of Adrien and Celeste stood nearby.
And there—holding Adrien's hand—was Eliana.
⸻
That night, Celeste summoned Eliana to her private study.
The room smelled of lavender and ink, its walls lined with volumes of law and history. At the center, the matriarch sat in a wingback chair, sipping from a crystal glass.
"You found the room," she said without preamble.
Eliana stayed silent.
Celeste set her glass down. "You've been in this house before. But your mind, clever girl that it is, chose to forget."
"Why?" Eliana asked. "What happened to me?"
"You died," Celeste said softly. "Or at least, that's what the doctor said. For six minutes, your heart stopped. We buried the memory. But the house never forgot."
Eliana's knees weakened.
"You were my husband's obsession," Celeste continued. "He believed you were sent here for a reason. That the blood in your veins could break this family's curse. But I think he was wrong."
Eliana's voice cracked. "What do you think I am?"
Celeste's smile returned, icy and victorious. "I think you're the spark that will burn this house down."
⸻
Back in her room, Eliana stared at the broken mirror.
She could see herself now—but she wasn't sure she trusted that reflection anymore.
She ran her fingers over the cracked glass and whispered, "What are you trying to show me?"
And behind her, the closet door creaked open on its own.