Chapter 4

Today feels…different.

I say day, but I have no concept of time. The heavy drapes are still pulled closed, the room shrouded in shadows with a pale light fighting its way through the cracks like weeds.

Something makes me feel hopeful. Lighter. Like a brand new dawn has risen. Lying still, I slowly scan my body with my mind, feeling for any injuries, aches or pains. When I detect none, I wiggle my toes. The sheet moves. I roll my ankles, stretch my calves by pointing my toes towards the wall and then up to the ceiling.

I draw my ankles up to my bum, my knees rising like mountains until the joints click. I wince at the sound – loud in the silent room – but it doesn't hurt. It feels good to move.

The last thing I remember is rain…rain and mud. I was drowning. Something else is on the tip of my tongue, another memory poking at the haze of blackness. But when I try to recall it, there's nothing.

My legs drop, and I use my hands to push myself up on the mattress into a sitting position.

It's so dark here. The small shafts of light are filled with dust, as if I've disturbed the manor from its slumber. It's heavy. Oppressive. The air feels thick with sickness and a mustiness that makes my chest tighten.

I want to open the window.

I need to breathe.

Determined, I shuffle to the edge of my bed and tentatively place my feet on the cool wooden floor. It smarts a little, the soles of my feet oddly tender, but the pain is bearable. I estimate that it's about five paces to the window. More if I shuffle and take it easier, but still doable.

As I take my first step, the floor creaks beneath my weight, causing me to freeze in place. The sound echoes in the room, shattering the stillness like breaking glass. I hold my breath, waiting for any sign that someone else might be present in the house. But all remains silent.

Encouraged by the lack of response, I continue my slow shuffle towards the window. Each step feels like an eternity, my heart pounding with every movement. The darkness seems to press in around me, as if trying to keep me confined within its oppressive embrace.

After what feels like hours, with trembling hands, I grasp the curtains and pull them back. A dim light filters into the room, casting long shadows across the floor.

As I push open the window, a rush of cold air greets me like an old friend. Gasping at the sudden change, I lean out slightly, taking in deep breaths of the crisp night air, swallowing it greedily as I fill my lungs.

Tonight the moon is full and beautiful. The night sky is clear, the storm clouds gone. So, it's not a new day then? The thought fills me with a sense of clarity, washing away the remnants of grogginess that had clouded my mind.

How long had I been asleep?

Hours?

Days?

Weeks?

Does it even matter anymore?

A silvery glow illuminates the landscape outside, casting everything in a mystical light. The outline of trees sway gently in the night breeze, their leaves whispering secrets to the night. The world outside feels alive, vibrant in a way that the darkness of my room never could be. From here I can see the maze. I vaguely remember Carver mentioning a groundskeeper, but the overgrown remnants of a garden that must have been beautiful once deny his presence.

As I lean further out of the window, a sense of longing washes over me. I yearn to be out there, among the shadows and moonbeams, to feel the cool night air on my skin and the soft earth beneath my feet.

I'm tempted to do something stupid.

Something crazy.

I lean further forward, too far forward, teetering.

A door slamming somewhere within the manor makes me jump, and I lose my balance.

The sound reverberates through the silence, sending shivers down my spine. My skin prickles and sweat runs between my shoulder blades. Someone else is here. I am not alone. Quickly, I pull myself back into the room, heart racing with fear once again. Why am I so afraid?

Straining my ears, I listen intently for any other signs of presence, but all I can hear is the beat of my own heart as it pumps blood around my body and the faint rustling of the trees outside, their leaves whispering secrets that I cannot decipher.

Without thinking, I rush back to the bed ignoring the tenderness in the soles of my feet as they slap against the cold floor.

Shadows dance along the walls, playing tricks on my eyes.

I dive under the covers, pulling them right up over my shoulder as I wait to be discovered. Every creak of the floorboards, every echo of the wind outside sets my nerves on edge as I try to stifle a whimper that falls from my lips. Time seems to stretch on endlessly, each moment dragging out into eternity. Somewhere a clock ticks. Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock.

And then I hear it – a soft thud. It comes from down the hall. Someone is moving through the house, their footsteps deliberate yet muffled by the thick carpeting that lines the floors. Carver.

Remember, Ari.

Remember.

The footsteps draw closer, and each beat of my pounding heart echoes in my ears like a drum announcing impending doom. The door to my bedroom opens slowly with a low groan, and through my slitted eyelids I can barely make out a figure in the doorway, they're nothing more than a shadow touched by the dim moonlight filtering through the window. I bite down on my lip, trying to stay quiet.

Please, I beg silently. Please.

A sudden gust of wind shifts the still-open curtains and I realise a moment too late my mistake. I try to keep my breathing deep and even, instinctively wanting this person to think I'm asleep. The earthy scent that follows a heavy rainfall lingers in the air, along with something more musky.

Their footsteps echo as they cross to the open window, closing it softly and muttering something unintelligible under their breath.

The drapes are closed once more, blocking out all of the beautiful moonlight and plunging me back into total darkness. No. Please. No!

My covers move as the person comes closer. The mattress dips slightly as they lean over, and a gentle hand brushes a stay lock from my forehead. The touch is cool, surprising me. Carver's hands are always hot. Clammy.

They pull away, and it isn't until I hear the door click shut that I allow my tears to fall silently, trickling down my cheek before soaking into my pillow.

Somehow, I manage to snatch a few more hours of sleep but I wake not long after the sun has risen to find a plate of pancakes, a mug of tea and a handful of wildflowers in a small vase waiting on the dresser for me.

This time, it takes a lot less effort to get out of bed, my steps surer and more steady. The floorboards remain relatively quiet as I move about the room, cracking the curtains slightly to let in some light before I eat.

A gasp slips from my lips when I try to open the window and find it locked. There's no sign of a key.

I'm sure the window wasn't locked before. I remember…

What do I remember? Can I trust my memories?

My stomach grumbles, distracting me, and my mouth waters when I see that the pancakes are drizzled in syrup. It looks and smells delicious, but it isn't the sort of food Carver would normally let me eat. Especially not now. He believes in eating healthy, bland food. Usually all I get for breakfast is unseasoned porridge. I hate it.

But pancakes I love. I don't have many memories from when I was younger, but when I was little my mum would make them for me every single weekend. It was our little tradition. No matter what happened or where we were, we had pancakes on Sunday morning, and I could never get enough. Once she met Carver, that all stopped though.

Returning to bed with the plate, I get stuck in, a soft groan escaping me as I savour it. After the first heavenly bite of pancake, nostalgia washes over me. Memories of those lazy Sunday mornings at the kitchen table with my mum flood my mind, the radio would be on low in the background, her laughter filling the room as she flipped pancakes on the griddle. Before Carver. The taste of syrup and butter mingling on my tongue brings a bittersweet ache to my chest.

As I devour my breakfast, savouring each mouthful, I can't shake the feeling that something is amiss. The locked window, the missing key, the pancakes – it all feels like pieces of a puzzle I can't quite put together. Pieces that don't actually belong together.

I take in my surroundings with newfound wariness. The sunlight filtering through the curtains casts a warm glow over everything, giving the room a false sense of security. But beneath the surface, unease simmers like a pot about to boil over.

Finishing the last delicious bite of pancake, I push the plate aside and swing my legs over the edge of the bed. The floorboards creak beneath my weight as I stand up, every sound magnified in the stillness of the room.

I make my way to the window once more, determined to unravel the mystery that seems to shroud this place. The window remains locked, stubborn and unyielding. I search for any sign of a key nearby but find nothing. Frustration bubbles up inside me as I rattle the lock with increasing urgency. I'm sure I opened the window last night. I can recall the soft breeze on my face as I bathed in the moonlight…

Rubbing my temples, I sigh. Bringing my mug of tea with me, I make my way very slowly downstairs, to the solarium. It's the only room in the house where I don't feel trapped, the glass walls offering me the illusion of freedom. Placing my tea down on a small carved table next to the chaise lounge, I push open the doors – the ones I used to run out onto the moors the other day? Week?

When the cool spring air makes breathing easier, I settle down on the chaise with a throw and watch the world go by as it spins on its axis.

"Ah, Ari, you're awake. And out of bed."

Carver's voice cuts through the silence, startling me. I turn to face him. He's leaning on the doorframe with his arms crossed, an amused smirk on his face, but his eyes are hard and cold as they move over me. The late afternoon sun streaming in warms my skin and I become conscious that I'm only wearing my thin nightdress.

Carver is a man who most people consider handsome. He's tall, with broad shoulders and a toned body. He keeps fit by eating healthy, playing squash at his club weekly, and running almost every day. But there's something…unsettling about him. His angular face, with his sharp cheekbones and almost pointed nose alongside his dark eyes, make me uncomfortable. It's like he has no softness to him. Everything is hard lines and harsh angles. And he's always watching. Watching and waiting like a hunter, examining its prey.

I blink.

How long have I been sitting here, staring out at the landscape? It was barely dawn when I opened the doors to let the air in. The half finished mug of tea in my hands is now stone-cold. Hours must have passed, but it feels like I only blinked and then we were here.

"You'll catch a chill with those doors open, dear," Carver chastises. "But don't you worry, I'll take care of it. And you."

As Carter strides towards the doors, looking authoritarian in his three piece suit, hair slicked back, I feel sick.

The pancakes from earlier are now like lead in my stomach as I push to my feet and step towards him. I didn't deserve the sweetness from this morning, the memories. It was my fault she was gone. I would never ask for pancakes again, but he mustn't close the doors. I won't be able to breathe. I need the air. I need the breeze. The window in my room was locked. This is all I have.

He closes the doors firmly, ignoring my whispered, "No."

I don't need him to take care of me.

I need air.

I need the doors and windows open.

No sooner do I have that thought and my knees are buckling. Carver springs into action, racing forward to catch me. The warmth from his body burns me through my nightdress as his warm hands grab hold of me.

"Ari, you're overdoing it, love." He guides me back to the chaise lounge and pulls a familiar bottle out of his pocket. He frowns at me and clicks his tongue in chastisement. "You'll never get better if you keep pushing like this. I'm worried about you."

I don't tell him that I don't need to get better because I'm not ill. I swallow my protests and my suggestions that I might feel better if I was allowed out once in a while, just like I swallow the pill he pushes between my lips.

Weren't invalids once prescribed a season by the sea to recuperate? The waves of the ocean crash beyond the walls of my prison, but it's not enough. It will never be enough.

"Come, let's get you changed into a fresh nightgown and back into bed." Carver's words barely penetrate the haze gathering in my head like a swirling sandstorm.

He moves me, carrying me, guiding me, positioning me like I'm a doll. Part of me knows I should care. Knows that if I could hold on to my thoughts for long enough, I would be angry. Instead, all I know is that his hands are too hot on my skin, burning me as he pulls at my clothes.

It's always the same.