Cassandra wasn't sure which was louder—the wind battering the windows, or her heartbeat as she followed Julian down the long, dim hallway.
"This place has... vibes," she muttered, trailing him with reluctant steps.
"Vibes?" he asked over his shoulder.
"Yes. As in, haunted manor energy. Murder mystery starter pack. Definitely a place where someone dies in Act One."
Julian stopped in front of a door she hadn't noticed before. It had a strange, ornate design—roses carved into the dark wood and a tarnished brass handle shaped like a lion's head. He turned it slowly.
"Wait," Cassandra whispered, grabbing his sleeve. "What if someone's actually in there?"
He looked down at her hand on his arm, then back up with a bemused smile. "Then they'll get a very awkward introduction."
He pushed the door open.
Inside was... empty.
Mostly.
A room filled with covered furniture greeted them. Sheets draped over grand armchairs, an armoire, a mirror. Dust floated lazily in the beam of Julian's flashlight. And in the middle of the room—a steaming teacup.
Still warm.
Cassandra stared at it. "You saw me. I didn't imagine that, right?"
Julian moved closer to inspect. "No. That's fresh. Someone was here."
"But who? We're supposed to be alone."
A creak came from above. They both froze.
Julian turned the flashlight toward the ceiling. "Attic?"
Cassandra stepped back. "Okay, no. That's where the ghosts live. And also probably the murderers."
"Or maybe just Elise," Julian offered, though there was doubt in his voice now. "She's been here for years. The kind of woman who makes things appear before you ask. Maybe she heard we were coming."
"Then why not say hi? Why sneak around with tea and creepy ambiance?"
He didn't answer.
Another sound. This time behind them.
They spun around.
In the hallway stood an elderly woman in a gray dress and an apron—Elise, presumably—holding a basket of towels and staring at them with unreadable calm.
Cassandra let out a small, involuntary shriek. "God, you scared me!"
"My apologies, Miss Beaumont," Elise said, her voice low and smooth, like aged velvet. "Didn't mean to intrude."
Julian nodded. "Elise, when did you get in? I didn't think anyone was here yet."
"I arrived this morning. The roads were still open then. I prepared the rooms as instructed."
"Instructed by whom?" Cassandra asked.
Elise tilted her head. "Why, by your father, Mr. Ashford."
Julian frowned. "That's impossible. He's in Hong Kong."
Elise said nothing. Just smiled gently.
Then she added, almost too quietly, "The house has its own way of preparing for guests."
Cassandra blinked. "Okay. That's either poetic or terrifying."
"Maybe both," Julian said.
"Dinner will be served at seven," Elise continued. "In the old dining hall. Please... do not wander into the east wing. Some doors are best left shut."
She turned and walked away before either of them could respond.
Cassandra stared after her. "That was not reassuring."
Julian sighed. "You'll get used to her."
"I'd rather not."
They returned to Cassandra's room in silence, the mood dampened by the tea, the attic noises, and the cryptic housekeeper. Julian paused at the threshold.
"Well, goodnight then."
"You're not going to keep wandering?"
"Tempting, but no. I think I'll avoid the east wing out of sheer superstition."
He turned to go.
"Wait," Cassandra said suddenly.
Julian stopped.
She didn't know why she said it. Maybe it was the storm. The house. The strange unease tightening her chest. "Just... don't get murdered tonight, okay?"
He smiled.
It wasn't smug. Or sarcastic. Just soft.
"I'll do my best."
Dinner was as awkward as expected.
The dining hall was massive, lit only by a roaring fire and a chandelier dimmed to a moody glow. A long table stretched across the room, but Elise had placed two seats close together at one end—as if intimacy could be staged with furniture.
Cassandra sat stiffly, watching Julian across the flickering candlelight.
"You're being weirdly quiet," she said.
"I'm digesting the ambiance," he said, slicing into roasted duck. "And the fact that someone might be living in our attic."
She snorted, despite herself. "If it's a ghost, I hope it takes you first."
"How romantic."
"I said hope, not pray. Don't get excited."
Julian chuckled. "You know, I expected you to be more difficult."
Cassandra raised an eyebrow. "Oh? I'm failing at being a nightmare wife already?"
"Quite the opposite. You're far more entertaining than I anticipated."
She blinked. "You thought I'd be boring?"
"I thought you'd be unbearable. The media made you sound... terrifying."
"Thank you?"
He met her eyes. "But you're not. You're sharp. Funny. And you've only threatened to kill me twice."
"So far," she corrected, but her lips tugged into a reluctant smile.
They ate in silence for a while.
Then the fire cracked louder than before—sending a shower of sparks into the hearth. The chandelier above them swayed, just slightly.
Julian looked up. "Did you feel that?"
Cassandra froze. "Was that... an earthquake?"
"In Vermont? Unlikely."
They both stood, instinctively moving toward each other as the chandelier creaked again.
A soft thud echoed from upstairs.
Followed by another.
And another.
Footsteps.
Pacing.
Directly above them.
They looked up.
And the footsteps stopped.
Cassandra exhaled slowly. "We're not sleeping tonight, are we?"
Julian shook his head. "Not unless we sleep in shifts. Or invest in holy water."
"Do you believe in ghosts?"
"I didn't. Until I got engaged to you and this house started acting like it wanted a starring role in a horror film."
Cassandra looked at him, dead serious. "If I die, you'd better avenge me."
He raised a hand. "Scout's honor."
"Were you a scout?"
"God, no. But it sounded comforting."
They stood there a moment longer, the fire popping, shadows dancing across the walls.
Then Cassandra cleared her throat. "Well. Goodnight, again."
Julian lingered. "Right. See you in the morning."
"If we make it that far."
He smirked. "Now you're starting to sound like an Ashford."
And with that, he turned, disappearing down the hall.
Cassandra watched him go, her stomach unexpectedly warm.
She wasn't sure if it was the wine, the duck, or the first time she'd genuinely laughed in months.
But something was shifting.
The storm was only beginning.
And so was everything else.