33. Chapter 33

Chapter 33

A s the day wore on, Evelyn found herself jumping at small noises - the creak of a floorboard, the rustle of leaves outside. She told herself it was simply the girls turning to her more often, seeking guidance and comfort in their father's absence. That explained the constant feeling of eyes upon her, surely?

At dinner, Evelyn was seated at the head of the table, in the Baron's usual place. The empty chair seemed to loom large in her peripheral vision, a constant reminder of his absence. She picked at her food, her appetite diminished by the strange unease that had settled over her.

"Miss Bane," Augusta said suddenly, her grey eyes - so like her father's - fixed on Evelyn's face. "Are you certain you're well? You seem... distracted."

Evelyn managed a wan smile. "I'm quite alright, Augusta. Just a bit tired, I suppose. Nothing to worry about."

But as she lay in bed that night, staring at the shadows on her ceiling, Evelyn couldn't quite convince herself that everything was fine. The feeling of being watched persisted, even in the solitude of her room. She pulled the covers up to her chin, trying to shake off the chill that had nothing to do with the temperature.

Evelyn tossed and turned in her bed, the sheets tangling around her legs as she struggled to find a comfortable position. Sleep eluded her, chased away by the unsettling thoughts that plagued her mind.

Her gaze kept drifting to the window, beyond which she knew the burnt West Wing stood like a silent sentinel. She had never paid it much mind before, but tonight, it seemed to loom large in her imagination. The charred remains of what was once a grand part of the manor now felt like a malevolent presence, watching and waiting.

Evelyn sat up, pushing her hair back from her face with trembling hands. Why hadn't they simply demolished it? The question nagged at her, refusing to be silenced. Surely it would have been easier, less painful, to tear it down and start anew. Instead, it remained, a horrible scar on the face of the manor, a constant reminder of past tragedy.

She slipped out of bed, padding softly to the window. The moon hung low in the sky, casting long shadows across the grounds. In the silvery light, the West Wing looked even more ominous, its blackened walls seeming to absorb the moonlight.

Evelyn shivered, wrapping her arms around herself. She had never felt so acutely aware of her proximity to the burnt wing before. Her room, the closest to that part of the house, suddenly felt exposed and vulnerable. Every creak of the old house, every whisper of wind through the trees outside, set her nerves on edge.

Evelyn froze, her heart pounding in her chest as she strained her ears. There it was again—a faint creaking sound, as if someone were treading carefully on old floorboards. She held her breath, trying to pinpoint the source of the noise. It seemed to be coming from the direction of the West Wing, growing steadily closer.

Her eyes darted to the door of her room, watching for any sign of movement beneath it. The creaking continued, slow and deliberate, now sounding as if it were just outside her door. Evelyn's fingers gripped the windowsill, her knuckles turning white with the force of her grip.

Then, another sensation hit her—the acrid smell of smoke. A gasp escaped her, her breath hitching suddenly. As she whirled around, her gaze immediately falling on her fireplace. But the hearth was cold and dark, not even a hint of embers glowing in its depths. The warm summer night had made a fire unnecessary, yet the scent of smoke hung heavy in the air.

Evelyn's mind raced. Could it be coming from the West Wing? Had a fire somehow rekindled in the burnt-out shell of the building? The thought sent a chill down her spine, memories of the Baron's scarred face flashing through her mind.

The creaking outside her door stopped abruptly, replaced by an eerie silence that seemed to press in on her from all sides. Evelyn stood frozen, caught between the urge to investigate and the paralysing fear that kept her rooted to the spot. The smell of smoke grew stronger, tickling her nose. She tried to convince herself it was her imagination, grown far too active from nerves.

Evelyn took a deep breath, steadying herself against the windowsill. The acrid smell of smoke still lingered in the air, but she pushed her fear aside. She wasn't some wilting lily, cowering at the first sign of danger. She'd proven that already, hadn't she? Running across open fields to warn the Baron of the flood, standing up to him when she disagreed with his methods, fleeing the Judge and seeing his crimes exposed—she was made of sterner stuff than she'd once believed.

The thought of something or someone being in the house, potentially threatening the girls—her girls—filled Evelyn with a sudden surge of courage and determination. She might not be their mother, but she'd grown to care for them deeply in her time here. The idea of any harm coming to Julia or Augusta was simply unacceptable.

Silently, Evelyn crossed the room to the fireplace. Her hand closed around the cool metal of the fire poker, lifting it from its stand with a quiet scrape of iron against iron. The weight of it was reassuring in her grip, a tangible reminder of her resolve.

She padded towards the door, her bare feet silent on the wooden floor. The creaking had stopped, but the smell of smoke remained, a constant reminder of the potential danger lurking beyond her room. Evelyn's heart pounded in her chest, but her hand was steady as she reached for the doorknob.

Evelyn stepped into the hallway, her heart pounding in her chest. The fire poker felt heavy in her hand as she peered into the darkness. Moonlight filtered through the windows, casting long shadows across the floor. The corridor stretched before her, silent and still.

Her gaze was drawn to the door of the West Wing. It stood slightly ajar, a sliver of flickering light spilling out from behind it. Evelyn's breath froze mid-inhale. She'd never been in that part of the house before—it had always been strictly off-limits.

As she crept closer, the acrid smell of smoke grew stronger. Evelyn's mind raced. Surely, if there was a fire, someone would have raised the alarm by now? She pressed her ear to the door, straining to hear. Voices. Faint, but unmistakable. They drifted through the gap, too low for her to make out the words. Evelyn's grip tightened on the poker. Who could possibly be in there at this hour?

She pushed the door open a fraction wider, wincing at the slight creak of the hinges. The flickering light grew brighter, casting dancing shadows on the walls. It looked almost like firelight, but there was something off about it—too steady, too controlled.

Evelyn had never put much stock in ghost stories. She'd always prided herself on her practical nature. But now, faced with the inexplicable, she felt her certainty wavering. The voices continued, rising and falling in a strange, rhythmic cadence that sent shivers down her spine.

She took a deep breath, steeling herself. Whatever was happening in that room, she had to investigate. The girls' safety might depend on it. With trembling fingers, Evelyn pushed the door open wider and stepped into the West Wing.

Evelyn's heart thundered in her chest as she crept down the charred corridor of the West Wing. The acrid smell of old smoke clung to the air, mingling with the musty scent of disuse. Her bare feet made no sound on the blackened floorboards, but every creak of the old house set her nerves on edge.

The faint light grew stronger as she approached one of the empty rooms. Shadows danced on the walls, cast by what seemed to be a single candle or lantern. Evelyn's grip tightened on the fire poker, her palms slick with sweat.

She pressed herself against the wall beside the door, straining her ears. There it was again—the unmistakable sound of movement within. Something, or someone, was shuffling about, accompanied by the occasional rustle of fabric.

Evelyn's mind raced. Who could possibly be in there? A thief? One of the servants? Or something far more sinister? The Baron's scarred face flashed through her mind, and she felt a surge of protective anger. Whatever was happening here, she wouldn't let it threaten the family she'd grown to care for.

Taking a deep breath, Evelyn steeled herself. She couldn't hesitate any longer. In one swift motion, she spun around and shoved the door open with her shoulder.

The hinges groaned in protest as the door swung wide. Evelyn burst into the room, fire poker raised high, ready to strike at whatever danger awaited her.