1. In The Dark （Talia）

1

IN THE DARK (TALIA)

I think I've been shut up in the workshop without ventilation for too long.

Varnish. Fumes. Lack of oxygen.

That sort of thing.

That's the only reason why I could possibly be standing here in the open doorway of Grandpa's shop, blinking at the bright sunlight filtering in, drenched in the smell of spring wildflowers and the warm scent of rising bread from the bakery two doors down.

All while a clean-cut, dark-haired man in a full three-piece uniform with a tailcoat and white kid gloves bows.

There's a heavy vellum envelope in his hand with A Touch of Grey written across it, closed with a wax seal.

"I'm sorry," I whisper, staring at the envelope with our shop's name on it. "You must have the wrong place."

"No mistake, Miss Grey. I've been asked to request your grandfather's company," the man says. I guess he's a butler or a valet or something. The way he talks is so formal, polite but stilted and intimidating. He straightens, still holding the envelope, waiting for me to take it. "This invitation provides the time and date."

"But why ?" I blurt out.

The man only looks at me mildly, waiting for me to take the envelope.

Yeah, I'm not getting any answers here.

This is just too weird.

And I have a funny feeling I know who's behind this, considering the uniform and the fact that there's only one family here in Redhaven who'd do something this dramatic. Any other rich client would send us an email or call.

But the Arrendells just have to make a big production out of everything.

Breathlessly, I take the envelope gently like it'll grow teeth and bite me.

By now, I'm used to the Arrendells being the kind of weird only filthy rich people can be. They've been the backdrop of my town for my entire life and they've always given me the creeps.

Honestly, I'm not sure if I want anything to do with them.

It's not me they want, though.

He asked for my grandfather.

I turn that over as I break the seal. The smooth red wax crumbles against my fingertips, and there's a hand-calligraphed invitation card addressed to Grandpa.

We formally and humbly request Mr. Gerald Grey for a consultation on a custom commission project. Please arrive at the manor tomorrow at precisely 8:00 a.m.

-L, M, and X Arrendell

L and M—Lucia and Montero Arrendell—the Lord and Lady of the house and also the town's First and Second selectmen.

X… that must be Xavier.

The only son left in town after the ugly scandals that left two of his brothers dead recently. I'd say I can't begin to imagine how it feels to lose family that way, but unfortunately, I can.

I glance over my shoulder, through the open door to the workshop. I can just hear the rhythmic sounds of Grandpa working the lathe.

I offer the valet a thin smile.

"Um, this seems less like an invitation and more like a demand."

His lips twitch faintly. A hint of weariness, maybe?

"Please forgive the tone. The young master is rather accustomed to getting his way, yes. May I tell him he can expect Mr. Grey in the morning?"

"Well… let me talk to him first." I flash my politest smile, though I feel like I'm putting on a mask. Especially when this guy keeps standing here like he's waiting for me to go talk to Grandpa now and come back with an immediate answer. I take a step back, one hand on the shop door, my smile frozen in place. "We'll be in touch. No need to wait around, dude."

The valet looks like he might protest.

I almost feel bad for him.

Too bad.

If Xavier Arrendell is anything like the rest of his kin—and from the rumors, he's the most short-tempered of them all—then he won't like this minion coming home without an answer.

"Sorry to be so short. It's just a busy day for us," I say, hastily closing the door in his face before I bustle back into the rear of the shop.

God, I need a minute.

I'm not good with people or unexpected surprises.

And I really do need to talk to Grandpa before we can even think about accepting this invite to hell.

When I step into the workshop, my grandfather stops the lathe. He still uses the old manual kind with a foot pedal, and its whirring grinds to a halt, along with the bassinet leg he's been shaping.

"Serena?" he asks. "Is that you? Would you mind bringing me a glass of water, please? All this sawdust is choking me somethin' fierce."

My heart sinks when he calls me that name.

So it's a bad day.

He thinks I'm my mother again. He's forgotten my parents have been gone for over twenty years, killed in a car wreck caused by a drunk when I was just a toddler.

At twenty-seven, I guess I do look a lot like my mother did when she died, though. Now I know I made the right choice, not letting the Arrendell valet see him.

Gerald Grey is a proud man.

He'll probably work until he dies because he can't stand not being useful. He's been showing more signs of dementia since last year, and we don't like to talk about it.

It's so hard.

But he knows it's there, just like I do.

I won't hurt his pride by letting anybody see him when he's not completely himself.

And I'm not going to upset him by arguing, either.

For now, I'll be Serena, even if it shreds my heart.

"Sure, Dad," I say cheerfully as I walk to the sink and fill a glass, then bring it back to him and press it into his wrinkled hands. "How's work going?"

He takes the glass with a grateful nod, then scratches a hand through his sparse remaining hair. It's tinged grey with a fading touch of the same red as mine.

We have the same eyes, too. His midnight-blue gaze darkens as he looks over the piece mounted on the lathe.

"Slow." He draws the word out thoughtfully and takes a long sip from the glass. When he speaks again, his voice is smoother. "Then again, handcrafted's always slow as molasses. It'll come when it comes."

"Oh, I'm sure it'll be beautiful." I squeeze his shoulder.

"Eh, we'll see."

He looks down at his free hand, flexing it slowly. His knuckles are thick and swollen, his fingertips shaking slightly.

Dementia isn't the only thing on his plate.

I know he'd rather die than admit his rheumatoid arthritis hurts him. God, if he's mentally back in time right now to when my mother was my age, he probably doesn't even understand why his hands hurt, so gnarled and broken.

Keeping my smile right now feels harder than it was with the Arrendell valet.

Seeing him like this, everything he is fading away…

It's a blister on the soul.

Even worse because when he forgets himself, he's still a brilliant craftsman. The bassinet leg on the lathe already looks like art, etched with delicate grooves. It's like the Alzheimer's patients you hear about who forget who they are, yet they can still play a full Mozart piece while swearing they've never touched a piano in their lives.

Even when Grandpa's so far away, his talent still lives in his hands. Muscle memory.

No wonder someone like Xavier Arrendell wants his magic before it's gone.

Like the mind reader he is, Grandpa glances at the thick envelope clutched in my fingers. "What's that?"

"This?" I shrug, tucking it under my arm with a smile. "Invitation to a class reunion. I probably won't go."

He chuckles. "You were always so shy. Talia's taking after you, ya know. I worry about her. The kids at school pick on her too damn much."

Crap, crap.

No, I'm not going to cry.

My eyes sting anyway, but I bolt on my smile like it's the only thing keeping me alive.

"She'll be okay," I say faintly. "Talia, she can hold her own. I promise you she's stronger than she looks."

Right.

I definitely don't feel strong right now.

Not when I'm completely helpless to do anything to set his mind straight today, much less stall the inevitable.

No matter how many custom orders we take in, no matter how much artisan furniture we ship out, we'll never have enough money to buy real treatments for the disease destroying his hands.

Let alone the demon eating his mind.

Not that there's any cure for dementia, but it can be slowed, minimized—if you pay through the nose. There's even a promising new study out of Minnesota that's seen better results than any of the treatments on the market.

But it's funded by big corporate sponsors.

And it costs a lot of money to buy a spot for late-stage human trials.

Money we'll never have.

Still, if the richest family in town wants to hire us, that might help a little. At least we could keep his hands working for a few more months.

Am I in the mood for a deal with the devil?

I bite my lip and tighten my fingers against the invitation, watching Grandpa as he sets the half-empty glass down and bows over the lathe again, already hyperfocused, losing himself in work and forgetting I'm even here.

I don't want to put the burden of this meeting with the Arrendells on him.

But I can go, can't I?

I've been working under him my entire life. Learning his trade. One day, this shop and the entire business will be mine.

My stomach churns at the thought. I don't usually do customer-facing things, and dealing with people like them—

No, you can do it.

He's worth it.

And he absolutely is.

Fine, whatever.

If the Arrendells really want us, they'll just have to settle for the lesser Grey.

My bravado's not holding up as well the following morning.

The very first thing I do is check my purse for my inhaler.

I throw on a smart pink skirt suit—the only nice outfit I really have in my favorite color—and low heels, then pin my hair up before heading out, kissing Grandpa on the cheek as he hovers over his morning coffee in the kitchen of our loft above the shop.

He glances up at me, his eyes bright and clear today. Present .

"Look at you," he says cheerfully. "What's with the getup? Big date this early in the morning?"

"Grandpa, no! I'm meeting a potential client." I drop another kiss on top of his head. "I'll tell you all about the job when I get back."

I leave him blinking after me curiously as I escape before he starts asking any real questions. He might not have been there yesterday, but he's sharp today, and I'm—

I'm not a good liar.

I still feel a little weird not telling Grandpa where I'm going, but I don't want to get his hopes up in case this doesn't work out.

I borrow our only vehicle for the uphill drive, a rickety dark-grey delivery truck.

The Arrendell mansion looms over Redhaven like a twisted castle, perched at the peak of the tallest forested hill overlooking the small valley that cups our little colonial village.

There's only one road leading up, a winding paved lane that passes under bowers of trees bursting with spring growth.

The mansion itself resembles a strange white dragon coiled at the peak, this eerie brooding thing of tall columns and white marble and old Gothic architecture.

My nerves flutter wildly as I pull into the circular roundabout at the foot of the massive, palatial steps leading up to the house. As I park the truck, it coughs out a black cloud of smoke from the tailpipe.

Way to make a good first impression.

I feel like the universe is trying to remind me I don't belong anywhere in spitting distance of this place.

At least I'm a few minutes early, though.

I sling my purse over my shoulder, tuck the shop's project portfolio under my arm, and step out, handing the keys to a valet who looks nearly identical to the man who came to the shop yesterday.

Wait. That is him, I think. His nose wrinkles at the bitter smell of exhaust.

"Sorry!" I hate how small my voice sounds. "You, um, you have to pump the clutch a few times. If you don't want to bother, you can just leave it here."

"Miss," he says calmly, sliding behind the driver's seat.

I watch for a moment with a wince as the truck sputters while he fights the clutch. Then I turn—and nearly jump right out of my skin as the man from yesterday materializes at my elbow.

The actual man from yesterday, I mean, though with their identical haircuts and nondescript faces I can't be blamed for thinking they're clones. Especially with those uniforms.

I leap back with a little shriek, almost stumbling on the bottom step, but he catches my elbow smoothly and steadies me with a dry look.

"Are you well, Miss Grey?"

"Never been better," I lie.

"Right this way then," he says cordially.

"Thanks," I answer faintly and follow him up the steps.

I'm just killing it today.

Please, shoot me now.

Although I've lived in Redhaven my entire life, I've never been up to the big house. The four Arrendell sons all went to fancy private schools and never really mingled with the little people. They weren't the kind of kids to have playdates with the locals, invite them over for fancy tea parties, that kind of thing. So actually seeing this house up close is… wow.

Intimidating isn't a big enough word.

It's a mountain of a house.

Standing at the top of the stairs and looking up at the looming walls, it's like it takes up the entire sky. The soaring front doors groan as the valet opens them with a grand flourish and leads me into a dim-lit stone foyer draped with red velvet all over the walls.

This is too much house for one family.

And it's all so ostentatious, from the antique velvet furniture to the ornate gold wall sconces, the black-and-white checkered marble flooring, the vaulted ceilings.

Everything echoes here.

My heels chatter like ghosts in the high eaves with every clicking step, amping up my nerves.

I'm sweating as the valet leads me through the manor.

Thankfully, it's not far.

We swing off to the right, mount a short flight of stairs, head down another hallway, and then he stops outside a dark-varnished oak door with carved insets.

It's classical revival, a detail I can't help noticing when it's part of my job to know historic woodwork styles.

That's also what makes Grandpa's brand so unique. He partners old styles and forgotten techniques with modern craftsmanship to create vintage looks bordering on elegantly exotic.

I'm distracted with the details of the insets and varnishing as the valet raps lightly and then pushes the door open to a large office, opulently furnished in oak wood, black, and gold with subtle glassy accents.

A man stands behind the wide, mirror-polished wooden desk.

He's very tall. Lean to the point that if his shoulders weren't so broad, he'd be almost gaunt. There's a dark accent to his saber-sharp features and the deep hollows of his stubble-dusted cheeks.

Handsome enough, but grim.

He's almost posed in front of the window. The light coming through the sheer curtains gilds his razor edges and shines off the corners of a small silver box he holds up, inspecting it with laser focus. His icy-blond hair is short and swept back from his face. His pale jade-green eyes are sunken hollows that glow like embers in their shadowed sockets.

There's also something unsettling about him.

Something heavy that instantly makes me think of a caged animal trapped inside the deep-grey gloss of his finely tailored suit. It ages him, years beyond a man who must not be any older than his thirties.

Xavier Arrendell needs no introduction, though.

"Um." I open my mouth and stop.

I glance at the valet—but he's gone.

Just vanished into thin air, leaving me alone with a man I don't know how to talk to without the buffer of his parents.

But that little sound I gulp out makes him jerk.

He stiffens, his cold eyes cutting toward me, watching me like a snake before he turns slowly, setting the box down on his desk with controlled poise.

"Who are you ?" he bites off. His voice is full of cultured disdain behind a broken rasp.

I swallow hard.

Do not panic.

Do not panic.

I should be grateful, really. In theory, one rich guy seems easier to face down than three, but with the rumors about the Arrendell brothers… I'm not sure I want to be alone with him.

I clutch the portfolio folder so tight my fingers dig in.

"Hi, I'm T-Talia Grey. From A Touch of Grey. Y-you requested an appointment."

"I requested an appointment with Gerald Grey," he retorts. "Not his…" He pauses and those vicious eyes rake me slowly. "Not his apprentice."

That stokes my temper, enough to straighten my spine.

"I'm not his apprentice," I correct sharply. "I'm his partner, and I manage most of the day-to-day operations. Plus, many of our more difficult custom orders. If my expertise isn't good enough, then you're welcome to find another artisan to do your work. But my grandfather is dealing with a work injury, and he won't be attending today."

It's not quite the truth, but I'm trying to salvage Grandpa's pride.

Xavier gives me a long, withering look like he's just waiting for me to crumble.

Honestly, he might get his way if my chest gets any tighter. I force myself to breathe slowly, the way I learned a long time ago.

I'm not having an asthma attack in front of a potential client.

I have my pride to worry about, too.

After holding that look for too long, though, Xavier clicks his tongue dismissively and looks away. "Come inside and shut the door."

I let out an explosive breath and cross the threshold into the lushly furnished office. It's a little overdone, if you ask me. But I hesitate as I turn back to grip the doorknob, glancing at him.

"Does the door have to be closed?"

He meets my eyes again.

Something sharpens in his gaze, and for the first time, he smiles.

I'm sure a lot of people are charmed by that look. It's confident and oddly hungry as he gives me another once-over.

But to me, I just see a hyena.

Unpredictable and wild. Possibly one second away from lunging at my face with snapping teeth.

I shudder as he asks, "Are you afraid to be alone with me, Miss Grey? My family's reputation must precede me."

"No, I…" I stop right there. I feel foolish. This is silly and I'm overreacting. "I just thought I'd be meeting with Mr. and Mrs. Arrendell."

"Ah, yes. My parents are out of town. Vacationing in Sicily. Grieving, I should say." He sobers, that bitter smile falling away with a sigh. "They left me in charge of the estate for a few months while they try to forget the loss of my brothers by burying themselves in palazzos and pasta."

"Oh my God, I'm so sorry. That was rude of me." I flush wildly and shut the door. "I'm sincerely sorry for your loss."

"Yes, well…" He looks away sharply, his eyes glassy as they fix on the window. "That's why I called you here, isn't it?" He's a bit more crisp and businesslike as he turns his back on me, gesturing to one of the chairs opposite his desk before folding his hands behind his back. "Please, Miss Grey. Take a seat."

"I don't understand." Frowning, I sink down into the chair and put my purse on the floor, clutching the portfolio in my lap.

"This manor has been trapped in time for generations," Xavier says. "It hasn't changed a bit since before I was born. Decades of dead lives and dead people entombed in these halls. Shadows and shades haunting the place. Wretched fucking memories. The kind that chased my parents away and make living here a pain I can't describe."

Oof.

Without seeing his hyena face, it's hard not to feel the pain in his voice.

I really should have some compassion.

He's probably a victim of the same nightmare plaguing the family after his brothers turned out to be such monsters. I'm sure he's struggling with the full horror of what Ulysses and Aleksander did while still grieving them as lost brothers.

"So you'd like to change something in the house?" I venture.

"I want you to change the manor," he growls. "Every piece of furniture, every tapestry, every statue, every pedestal, every drape, every fixture—I want them all replaced. A full interior redesign from the ground up."

Holy shit.

For a second, I forget how to breathe.

My vision clouds with black stars before I catch myself with a gasp.

"The whole house?" I whisper, wondering if I even heard him right. My voice sounds tiny. "But we're a small business. My grandfather and I are only two people, and this house—I'm sorry, but it must have like fifty rooms?"

"Sixty-eight when you include servants' quarters, as well as outbuildings like the stables and gardener's cottage," Xavier says sharply. "I want the Grey touch on all of them."

My mind spins.

"That would take years for just the two of us. Not to mention the colors, the draperies—we're not interior designers. We bring in consultants for that sort of thing. We're really just furniture people. We don't—"

My throat closes off.

Xavier pivots to face me again, fixing me with a penetrating stare. "Then it takes years, Miss Grey. Consider it a lasting partnership. I'll consult you on every detail. We'll be working very closely together." He arches one sharp, mocking blond brow. "Is that why you're so ruffled? Since being alone with me makes you so uncomfortable."

"What? No, it's not that at all!" Like I said, I'm such a bad liar. It's mostly that for sure. "You just caught me a little off guard. We've never had a project this large before. We'll have to finish out our current client orders, put off any new ones, possibly hire contractors, not to mention the expense…"

"Spare none," he barks back. "I'm prepared to spend seven figures on this, Miss Grey." He smiles his cold, thin jackal's smile. "I know you've grown up in this town. Surely, you know that money is no obstacle for an Arrendell."

Am I dreaming?

That's almost enough money to send me reeling again.

Seven. Flipping. Figures.

But let's not get ahead of ourselves.

I'll need to do a real tour of the mansion. Get a feel for things and what he wants if I'm going to prepare a cost estimate without laughing myself silly.

Seven figures, though—even if it's the lowest end—would leave more than enough to help Grandpa.

Nerves war with dizzy hope until my chest flutters.

"Are you sure you want us ?" I raise my leatherbound folio. "I brought our project portfolio—"

He waves one long hand—and that's when I notice his fingernails are surprisingly thick and yellow, maybe a bit too long. Is his hand shaking, too?

Grief, maybe?

"I'm familiar with your work," he snaps. "I make it my business to be familiar with everything that happens in Redhaven. You don't need to sell yourself. You only need to tell me if you'll take the job."

He glares at me.

"…can I have a day or two to think it over? I'll bring this back to my grandfather, of course, and we'll see what we can do." My voice sounds like it's coming from down a wind tunnel. "We just need to figure out if we can do this, realistically. If we're only going to let you down, it wouldn't make sense. Ethically, I mean."

Something odd crosses his face when I say ethically .

Then he sighs with clear irritation, his nostrils flaring as he pinches the bridge of his nose. "Yes, yes. Take all the time you need. But I'll need an answer soon." He leans over his desk, plucks a business card out of a glossy wooden holder, and passes it over. "My personal number."

I wonder if my face is weird now at the way he says personal , but I take the card anyway, careful not to touch his fingers.

"Thank you."

"Miss Grey." He nods cordially, and that's when I realize I've been dismissed.

Ouch.

Part of me wants to be offended, but I'm happy to escape.

My skin thrums with goosebumps. The air feels ten degrees colder than it should, and I think it's just my nerves but maybe it's him .

Do I really want to deal with this? Spending years working in close collaboration with a man who makes me so uneasy?

But there's big money on the line.

There's Grandpa's health.

I can do it for him. I think.

"Thank you again, Mr. Arrendell," I say hollowly, grabbing my purse and speedwalking away.

When I open the door, I almost shriek.

The valet who escorted me before materializes like a phantom. He gives me the same dry look, his dark eyes knowing, right before he reaches past me to close the door.

"Miss Grey," he says politely—a bit shamefaced, and I don't understand why until he continues, "I'm afraid I have some bad news about your truck."

I stand at the foot of the tall stairs outside the mansion, staring at my truck in dismay.

Yes, it's still in the same spot where I left it. But now the second valet, who looked so offended at having to drive it, just looks apologetic as he offers me my keys.

"I'm afraid I'm not familiar with stick shifts," he says stiffly. "I'll inform the young master, and I'm certain he'll cover all repairs."

"In the meantime," the first valet says, "I'll have a car brought around immediately to return you to your shop."

"What? No," I say too quickly, my stomach sinking. I don't want much to do with anything Arrendell right now. I definitely don't want the looks I'll get for showing up at home in one of their cars.

That'll send the small-town rumor mill spinning, especially when everyone's probably hungry for more salacious gossip about the last Arrendell son left at home. I don't want people thinking I'm his new fling or situationship or whatever.

Groaning, I thank God I wore short, sensible heels today. "It's fine, guys. I'll walk. And I'll send Mort up with a tow truck when I can. Sorry for the inconvenience."

"Miss Grey," they say simultaneously.

This place is so surreal.

And just like that, I'm on my own again.

Sighing, I set out for the road.

It's not a terrible walk since I'm going downhill, even if it strains my calves. I'm huffing and puffing about ten minutes in.

God, I'm not going to have an asthma attack now , right?

It's over.

I survived the meeting without melting down. I should be happy I have a lead on a job that will pay our medical bills and then some.

But it's a lot to think about.

It feels insane to think about taking it on alone.

There's no question I'll have to manage the project with Grandpa fading in and out, and there are never any guarantees when the bottom could fall out on his health.

Still, if we get a big enough payment up front, the treatment might buy us time.

Of course, ultimately, I'll be the one who has to draft the concepts, the plans.

I'm the one who has to be responsible.

I'm also the one who'll ruin the shop's reputation if I disappoint one of the richest families on the eastern seaboard.

Ugh.

My heart turns into a knotted ball.

I try to remember my counting exercises, my breathing, as I make it to the bottom of the hill where the wooded lane opens up toward the town square.

I've been dealing with this since childhood. It used to be a lot worse.

When I was a little girl, I couldn't do anything on my own at all. I was homeschooled, and my few attempts to play with other kids usually went horribly wrong. I'd wind up wheezing on the ground while the little jerks just laughed and pointed and called me names. Sometimes they even played keep-away with my little wheeled oxygen tank.

Sometimes, just going up the stairs would drop me on my knees.

I'm managing better now.

But some days—like today—my anxiety short-circuits my lungs.

And I realize I'm about to fall headfirst into an attack when I reach the town square.

No time to scream.

There's just a sunlit glimmer before my vision blurs. The striking bronze statue of the first Arrendell, rearing up in the center of the square.

Coughing, I scramble for my purse, fishing for my inhaler, but it's already too late.

My fingers go numb.

My vision darkens.

My legs disappear under me, and my lungs flap as I gasp helplessly.

Too late, too late.

Everything goes dark as my brain stops working and the ground comes crashing up.