Silas emerged from the bathing chamber, a fresh towel slung low around his waist, water still beading on his broad shoulders and the sharp lines of his chest. His hair, freshly washed, curled damply at his temples. He moved with a quiet power, a predatory grace that filled the small space. Julia, seated on the edge of the bed, was meticulously drying his discarded clothes with a smaller towel, trying to rub away the dampness that clung to the fabric.
"Cleanliness," Silas mused, his voice a low rumble, "a rare luxury these days. Almost makes me forget I'm a hunted man." He settled into the armchair, stretching his long legs out, an image of relaxed danger.
Julia didn't look up from her task. Her mind was already racing, plotting their next move. "A luxury you won't have in the East Wing, I imagine," she replied, her voice taut with lingering anxiety. "It's been neglected for years. Dusty, decaying."
"Adds to the mystique, then," he countered, a flash of white as he smiled. "A ghost in a ghost wing. Poetic, wouldn't you say?" He watched her, his amber eyes following the precise movements of her hands as she smoothed the fabric. "You worry too much, Julia. It makes lines on that pretty forehead."
She finally looked at him, a frown creasing her brow. "And you, Silas, worry too little. That's how people get caught. Or worse." Her gaze flickered to the scar on his cheek, then back to his eyes. He seemed entirely too comfortable, too at ease, for a man whose life hung by a thread.
"A gentleman's concern," he scoffed, though the glint in his eyes belied the sarcasm. "It's part of the thrill, isn't it? The dance with danger." He leaned forward, his voice dropping, drawing her in. "So, how does one move a ghost through a house full of watchful eyes?"
Their conversation continued throughout the day, a constant hum of whispered plans and nervous anticipation. Whenever Elsie's light knock sounded at the door, Julia would leap up, ushering Silas back into the relative safety of the bathing chamber. She'd feign a deepening headache, a lingering nausea, claiming a need for absolute quiet and solitude.
"I truly cannot face the dining room, Elsie," Julia would lament, her voice thin and weary. "The very thought of company turns my stomach. Please, would you be so kind as to bring my luncheon… and then my dinner… here? I find I have a surprising appetite when I'm left to my own devices." She'd add a request for extra portions, claiming a sudden, inexplicable craving for a larger meal, hoping Elsie would attribute it to her unusual condition rather than a hidden guest.
Elsie, timid and always keen to please, would dutifully bring trays laden with food. Julia would accept them with a grateful sigh, waiting until the door clicked shut before liberating Silas from his hiding place. He would emerge, lean and hungry, and they would share the meal, their heads bent close, their hushed conversation weaving between bites of roasted fowl and buttered rolls.
The shared meals, stolen moments of normalcy amidst the lurking peril, created a strange intimacy. Silas, despite his dangerous edge, was surprisingly easy company. He spoke of London's grimy underbelly, of poets and paupers, of the desperation that drove men to extremes. Julia found herself listening, captivated by a world so different from her own bookish existence. He made her laugh, a genuine, unforced sound, at his cynical wit, and she found herself confiding in him, sharing her deepest fears about Marian and Alistair, things she hadn't dared whisper to anyone else.
As dusk deepened and the grand house settled into its nocturnal rhythm, their plans solidified. The East Wing. It was a perilous choice, but the only viable one.
"The main gallery leading to it will be deserted after the dinner hour," Julia whispered, tracing a finger over a faded map of Blackwood Hall she had managed to sketch from memory. "Most of the staff will be in the kitchens or their own quarters. Alistair will be in his study, or perhaps the drawing-room."
"And Finch?" Silas asked, his eyes gleaming in the dim light of the single candle, his face half-shadowed.
"Finch is everywhere," Julia admitted, a shiver running down her spine. "But his rounds are predictable. He checks the main entrance hall, the library, the drawing-room. He rarely ventures into the guest corridors unless summoned. And he certainly avoids the East Wing. He believes it to be… haunted." She didn't mention his parting threat about the windows. Not yet.
Just after midnight, when the house finally succumbed to a deep, creaking silence, they began. Julia, dressed in dark clothes, moved like a phantom, her hand clutched around Silas's jacket—his outer clothes, still damp from the earlier attempt, now almost dry. Silas, also in dark attire, was a shadow behind her, moving with uncanny stealth. The air was thick with dust and the scent of old wood, ghosts of former grandeur.
They crept through the hushed corridors, every floorboard groan a thunderclap in the stillness. Julia's heart hammered against her ribs, a frantic drumbeat against the silence. Each shadow seemed to lengthen, twist into a lurking form. She moved slowly, carefully, constantly peering around corners, listening for any tell-tale sign of movement.
They were halfway down the long, echoing gallery that led to the East Wing's neglected entrance when Julia froze. A faint light flickered in the distance, accompanied by the distinct rustle of starched fabric.
"Agnes," Julia breathed, her eyes wide with dread. Ms. Agnes, the stern housekeeper, whose disapproval had been a constant, chilling presence since Julia's arrival. The woman who saw her as a harbinger of ill fortune, stirring up dust and ghosts.
Before Julia could react, Silas moved. He grabbed her hand, his fingers strong and warm, pulling her with unexpected force. He tugged her into a narrow alcove, a barely-visible recess hidden behind a heavy tapestry that depicted a forgotten hunting scene.
Julia stumbled into the confined space, Silas's body pinning hers against the cold stone wall. The ancient masonry pressed against her back, unyielding and rough. But Silas was warm, undeniably so, a startling heat against her front. The scent of him—earth, damp linen, and something wild, untamed—filled her senses.
"Don't breathe," he whispered, his voice a low, gravelly murmur against her ear. His lips brushed her lobe, a fleeting, electric contact that sent a jolt through her.
She didn't. Not even when his breath, warm and steady, stirred the small hairs at her temple. Not even when the soft fabric of his trousers brushed against her gown, and her thighs pressed together, a sudden, unfamiliar heat pooling between them. The proximity, the sheer, dangerous intimacy of their hiding place, stole her breath more effectively than any fear. His body was a solid, comforting wall against the looming threat of discovery.
Ms. Agnes walked past their hiding spot, her flickering lantern casting dancing shadows across the gallery walls. Julia could hear the faint click of her heavy shoes, the soft, rhythmic swish of her skirts. The housekeeper seemed to pause, her lamp swinging slightly, as if she sensed something amiss. Julia held her breath, her muscles screaming with the effort of stillness. Then, with a grunt, Agnes continued on, her light receding, eventually disappearing into the dark maw of the corridor.
They waited. Long moments stretched, thick with silence and the lingering echo of Agnes's presence. Finally, Silas pulled back. Barely. His eyes, molten amber in the gloom, locked onto hers. His gaze was intense, searching, lingering.
"Well," Silas murmured, his voice a low thrum that vibrated through her, his eyes dropping to her mouth. "That was… exhilarating. Perhaps we should arrange for more forced proximity?"
Julia's hand moved without conscious thought. Her palm connected with his cheek, a sharp, stinging slap that echoed in the silent alcove. The sound was shockingly loud. Silas blinked, his head turning slightly from the impact, his cheek reddening instantly.
His eyes, when they met hers again, held a mixture of surprise and a strange, knowing amusement. Her own eyes, however, felt drawn, almost against her will, back to his mouth. The faint bruise from her slap contrasted with the slight curve of his lips.
The East Wing door stood before them, a looming, dark portal. Julia rushed towards it, her earlier terror momentarily forgotten in the rush of humiliation and adrenaline. She grasped the cold, ornate handle. It didn't budge. She pushed, pulled, twisted. Locked. A heavy, resounding click that promised no entry.
Her heart sank. Despair, cold and heavy, settled in her chest.
Silas stepped beside her, his expression grim. He tried the handle himself, testing its resistance. His jaw tightened. "Locked," he confirmed, his voice flat. He ran a hand over the elaborate ironwork.
"It wasn't locked before," Julia whispered, her voice laced with sudden understanding. "When I first went there, it was merely bolted from the inside. Agnes must have told Alistair. He put a lock on it. He always knows."
Her mind raced, the dreadful realization sinking in. They had no key. And the only person who would have such a key, a key to the forgotten, forbidden East Wing, was the master of Blackwood Hall.
Or…
Finch. He had them. Finch had them.