Noble Husband At the Door

The road to Blackwood Manor twisted like a serpent through the hills, climbing higher and higher until the sky seemed to press closer than the ground. Aria sat in the back seat of the rattling car, her headphones in but playing nothing. She didn't need music. The silence of the approaching dusk was loud enough.

Outside, the trees leaned in, their shadows long and reaching. The last time she'd seen them, she was ten years old and asking too many questions. Now, at seventeen, she was older, quieter, and no closer to answers.

"Almost there," said Aunt Miriam, from the driver's seat, her voice clipped and tired. "Try not to get lost in your thoughts again."

Aria said nothing. What was there to say? She'd been sent here like a package, addressed but unwanted, following the death of her father in a car accident three weeks ago. There had been no funeral, no family gathering-just a quiet court order and a one-way trip back to the place her father had spent his entire childhood avoiding.

Blackwood Manor.

They rounded a final bend and there it was: perched on a bluff overlooking a sea of pine trees, the manor rose out of the mist like a memory refusing to be forgotten. Gray stone walls streaked with moss, windows like watching eyes, and that damned crooked weather vane still spinning in circles even when the air was still.

"You'll be staying in the East Wing," Miriam said as the car crunched to a stop on the gravel drive. "Don't go exploring. The house is... not as stable as it looks."

That seemed generous. The manor looked like it had been stitched together by a drunk architect with a taste for gothic novels. Aria stepped out of the car and took a deep breath. The air smelled of rain and something older-like burned wood and earth turned over too many times.

Inside, the house was dim. The walls were lined with faded tapestries and portraits of long-dead relatives who stared down at her with suspicion. The floors creaked with each step. The East Wing was up a narrow staircase that groaned like it resented her weight.

Her room was small, with a window facing the forest and a bed that sagged in the middle. A single trunk sat at the foot, already unpacked with her belongings-done, no doubt, by the silent housekeeper who vanished like mist whenever Aria turned to look.

She spent the first few days exploring what she could. The library was locked. So was the conservatory. The only rooms she could access were her own, the dining room where Miriam never ate, and the main hall, where an enormous grandfather clock ticked in ways that seemed inconsistent with time itself.

And then there was the cellar.

She first found the entrance to the cellar on the fifth day. A wooden door, half-rotted and tucked behind a moth-eaten curtain in the pantry. There was no lock, no light switch-just a narrow stair descending into shadow.

Curiosity, as always, got the better of her.

She returned that night with a flashlight and a lighter she'd stolen from her father years ago, back when he still smoked. She crept past the pantry, eased open the door, and descended.

The air grew colder with each step. At the bottom, she found a stone floor and shelves of dusty jars filled with unidentifiable contents. Herbs, maybe. Roots. Or parts of them. Cobwebs draped everything like lace. The beam of her flashlight caught on something metallic-an old sconce mounted in the wall. She pressed it out of boredom.

The wall shifted.

A click echoed through the cellar, and a panel of stone slid back to reveal a narrow passageway.

She should have run.

Instead, she stepped inside.

The tunnel bent downward, curving beneath the house. The walls were damp, carved with symbols she didn't recognize. Her flashlight flickered, then died. The lighter sputtered to life with a flick, casting a tiny flame against the darkness.

That's when she saw it.

A door.

Not wood. Not iron. Stone.

It stood alone, set into the wall as though it had always been there. Around its edges were runes that pulsed faintly in the glow of the flame. Aria stepped closer, heart hammering.

She reached out-and it hummed beneath her fingers.

A low vibration, not unpleasant but definitely alive. She pulled her hand back. The flame flickered, then extinguished.