Chapter 16

CHAPTER 16

P eggy tossed beneath her covers for what felt like the hundredth time, her frustration mounting with each failed attempt to coax herself into slumber. With a soft sigh, she sat up and swung her feet over the side of the bed. The cool floorboards beneath her toes made her shiver as she rose, reaching for her dressing dress.

A glance at the mantel clock revealed the hour to be a quarter past one. “So much for a restful night,” she murmured to herself. Still, the quiet castle offered a peculiar allure. Pegging it as a chance to explore, she grabbed a candle, shielding its flame with her hand as she slipped into the hallway.

Mrs. Hallewell would have my head, she thought wryly, recalling the housekeeper’s pointed warning on her first night to stay clear of the halls after dark. But there was no harm in a little wandering, surely.

As she moved through the dim, silent halls, her thoughts turned to the castle’s glaring lack of a library. It seemed almost criminal for a house so ancient and expansive to be without one. She shook her head at the notion, her footsteps soft against the polished floor. “What a waste,” she whispered to herself, though her voice carried in the stillness.

The thought led her to consider the portrait gallery. Perhaps Mrs. Hallewell, in a rare lapse, had forgotten to lock it. She changed direction, deciding to test her luck. The gallery had piqued her curiosity from the moment she’d arrived, its secrets tantalizingly out of reach.

But as she turned into another hallway, something unusual caught her eye. There, in the shadows ahead, stood a figure—tall, unmoving. She raised her candle, squinting to make out the details. “Morgan?” she called softly, her voice echoing faintly in the cavernous space.

Her husband stood motionless before a large shelf built into the wall. Its niches displayed various decorative figurines and trinkets, each carefully arranged, though none remarkable enough to warrant such rapt attention.

Peggy stepped closer, her slippered feet hesitant against the stone floor. “What a time to be admiring your decorations,” she remarked, her attempt at levity falling flat in the oppressive silence. A nervous little chuckle escaped her lips. Something about his stillness, his unresponsiveness, set her on edge.

Morgan did not respond.

She called out to him again, her voice firmer now. “Morgan?”

Still, silence prevailed, and her chest tightened with unease. Gathering her courage, Peggy stepped closer and reached out, her fingers lightly tugging at his sleeve. “Morgan,” she repeated, trying to infuse her tone with reassurance.

He did not move. His eyes remained fixed, staring blankly at an ornate porcelain bowl displayed in one of the shelf’s niches. His stillness was unnatural, almost eerie. Something akin to alarm coursed through her veins as she tugged at his sleeve again, this time with more urgency.

When that failed, she set down her candle on a nearby ledge and began to shake him lightly, her hands gripping his arms. “Morgan!” she said, her voice rising in pitch. But it was as if he wasn’t there—like he had been drained of all life, a statue carved from flesh and bone. Only the fact that he stood upright separated him from a lifeless man.

Alarmed and utterly confused, Peggy’s breath quickened as she glanced wildly around the dim hallway. She was about to turn and seek help when the sound of soft yet decisive footsteps reached her ears. Mrs. Hallewell emerged from the shadows, her face momentarily registering surprise before her usual composure slid into place.

“His Grace,” Peggy cried, her voice trembling as she gestured toward Morgan. “What is wrong with him? He’s utterly unresponsive.”

The housekeeper’s sharp eyes flicked to Morgan, her expression unnervingly calm. “The butler,” she said briskly, turning her head to call down the hallway. “Barrow! Quickly!”

Peggy was taken aback by the woman’s poise. It was almost as if Mrs. Hallewell had encountered this very scene before. The thought sent a chill down Peggy’s spine. “What is happening to him?” she demanded, her voice breaking under the strain of fear. “Why is he like this?”

Barrow appeared moments later, his usually serene demeanor shaken. Mrs. Hallewell wasted no time turning to him. “Get the tea. Quickly. We must revive him,” she instructed, her voice steady but clipped.

The butler nodded and hurried off, his footsteps fading into the distance as Peggy’s concern mounted. “Revive him?” she repeated, her tone edged with desperation. “What is going on?”

Mrs. Hallewell stepped closer to Morgan and raised her hand to his cheek, her palm resting there with a gentleness Peggy had not expected. “It is all past now,” the housekeeper murmured, her voice low but steady. “Do not believe what your mind shows you.”

And to her immense surprise—and tentative relief—her husband finally responded. It was subtle at first, a slight tilt of his head, as though the housekeeper’s words had penetrated whatever fog held him captive. Slowly, almost mechanically, he turned his face toward Mrs. Hallewell, his gaze meeting hers.

But there was something unsettling in his eyes. Though they moved, though they saw, there was no recognition, no spark of life. He seemed to look through the housekeeper rather than at her, as though she were an apparition.

“That’s it,” Mrs. Hallewell murmured encouragingly, her tone calm yet firm.

Morgan’s gaze wavered, drifting now to Peggy, and for a moment, hope flared within her. But as his dark eyes fixed on hers, she felt that hope sink despairingly into the pit of her stomach. There was nothing behind his stare—no flicker of acknowledgment, no trace of the man she knew. He was like an empty shell, hollow and unfeeling, and it chilled her to her core.

Her breath caught, and she instinctively reached out a hand, but before she could touch him, Mrs. Hallewell gently guided him away. He moved without resistance, docile under the housekeeper’s care, his movements still unnaturally slow. Peggy stood rooted to the spot, her hands trembling at her sides.

Her mind reeled. What is happening? Her pulse thundered in her ears, and the strange unreality of the moment pressed in on her. Was this truly happening? Surely not. This must be a nightmare, some strange distortion of reality conjured by her restless mind. Yes, that must be it. Once she returned to her bed, she would wake to a world far less confusing and horrifying.

Finally, her legs obeyed her. She turned on her heel and began to walk, though each step felt heavy and reluctant. As she entered another hallway, the soft sound of approaching footsteps caught her attention, and she looked up to see Barrow bearing a tray with the infamous tea.

“It is late, Your Grace. Have a restful night,” the butler said as he passed her, his tone polite but dismissive.

Peggy paused, debating whether to press him for answers, to demand an explanation for what she had just witnessed. But the set of his face, the unyielding professionalism in his demeanor, gave her pause. There would be no answers tonight, she realized. The servants were united in their silence, guarding secrets she was clearly not meant to uncover.

She drew a deep breath, her decision settling within her. There would be no use in lingering. Whatever this was, it would have to wait until morning. She had to trust that Morgan was in capable hands, that he would be well looked after in whatever strange affliction had overtaken him.

After all, there was much familiarity in the way the housekeeper and butler handled the situation. Their calm, practiced efficiency unsettled Margaret almost as much as the sight of Morgan himself. It was as though they had done this before—many times, perhaps. Too many.

The thought twisted in her mind as she made her way back to her chambers. When she finally slipped beneath the covers, the cold sheets offered no comfort. She lay staring at the canopy above her, wide-eyed and restless, her mind conjuring the frozen image of her husband before the shelf in the hallway.

Margaret wasted no time, stepping into the housekeeper’s sitting room the following morning and shutting the door behind her. “Mrs. Hallewell,” she began. “I need to speak with you about what occurred last night.”

The older woman looked up, her expression unreadable as always. “Your Grace,” she acknowledged with a small nod, her hands folding neatly over the open book on the desk.

Margaret squared her shoulders, determined to maintain her composure. “What happened to the Duke? He was entirely unresponsive—lost. I demand to know what that was.”

Mrs. Hallewell’s gaze didn’t falter, but a flicker of something—hesitation, perhaps—crossed her face. “I cannot say much on this matter, Your Grace,” she said evenly, her voice calm but firm. “But I do suggest you redirect your queries to the Duke.”

Margaret’s hands clenched into fists at her sides, the cool professionalism of the response only stoking her frustration. “You expect me to question him about something he cannot even recall happening?” she asked, her tone sharp. “He did not even recognize me, Mrs. Hallewell. Surely you must see why I am asking you. ”

The housekeeper didn’t answer immediately, her silence stretching thin over the room. Margaret exhaled slowly, reining in her temper. Pressing further would likely yield nothing but resistance, she realized, and so, with great effort, she shifted tactics.

“One last question,” she said, her voice softening as she turned toward the door. She paused, her hand resting on the handle. “Has this happened before?”

Mrs. Hallewell’s hands twitched, a brief, involuntary motion that didn’t escape Margaret’s notice.

“And I want utter honesty , Mrs. Hallewell,” Margaret added, her gaze steady as she turned back to face the older woman. Her tone lacked its usual brightness, replaced with a gravity that felt unfamiliar even to her.

The housekeeper regarded her for a long moment, her lips pressing into a thin line. Finally, she inclined her head slightly, a reluctant acknowledgment. “Yes, it has, Your Grace. ”