Chapter 32

“You’ve brought back life into the place,” Melody exclaims, her voice awestruck as we admire the opulent ballroom filling up with guests for the gala. “Growing up here, it always felt like a mausoleum, no sign of life. But now…now we’re talking.”

There was a disturbance earlier in the day, and some of the staff went to assist while Melody and I helped to finish the setup for the event.

It’s the first public affair the Anderson Estate has hosted since the early nineteen hundreds. The press is salivating at the event hailed as more exclusive than the Met Gala and the usual crème de la crème event of the year, the annual Christmas Ball at The Orchid. That Ball was unprecedentedly canceled this year for this occasion.

I smile, marveling at the soaring, intricate coffered ceilings, the two enormous three-tiered crystal chandeliers lit up by real candles, the flames casting dancing shadows on the walls and the ceiling. A towering twenty-foot Christmas tree is tucked away in the corner and the sea of stark white from the storm outside the windows acts as a backdrop.

“You did all the hard work—you and your mom.”

“Under your impeccable leadership, Your Grace.” She sweeps her hand in a mocking bow and I grin.

“Technically, you’re supposed to curtsy. You’re a woman. Also, I’m not a duchess, I’m a marchioness. So, it should be ‘my lady’ instead.” Thank you, Millie and Grace, for that interesting factoid.

“Ugh! You’d think after growing up here for almost thirty years, I’d know this stuff. ”

Laughing, I nudge her on the side as Morris walks in, his eyes roving around the ballroom before landing on Agnes. He frowns as he stalks toward her.

“What’s going on with Agnes and Morris? They don’t look happy with each other. I mean, Agnes isn’t exactly the warm and fuzzy type,” I murmur, staring at the housekeeper and Morris in some sort of heated discussion in the corner, a flush creeping up the old man’s neck.

Melody shrugs. “I have no clue, but my money would be on Agnes being the problem. Morris gets along with everyone—he’s like the old grandpa we all want to have. Agnes, on the other hand…” She doesn’t finish the sentence, but she doesn’t need to. The woman is as cold as the Arctic.

Morris throws his hand in the air before turning around and stomping off, his limp much more pronounced.

“Why doesn’t Morris retire? His leg looks like it’s hurting him a lot,” I ask.

Melody sighs. “Trust me, Sir Linus and Sir Maxwell have both asked him to retire, saying he can just stay here in the estate and enjoy his remaining years, but he refuses. I think he wants to feel useful. The Andersons are like the only family he has left.”

“What do you mean?”

“His parents and older sister, Ruth, used to work for the family. Now, mind you, this was way before my time. But from what Mom told me, Ruth was ten years older than Morris and the two were very close, but she died young.”

Melody looks at me and whispers, “They said she disappeared one day and was found dead. The killer was never found.”

I gasp. “What? How horrible!”

Melody nods. “It gets even worse. Apparently, their parents were so overcome with grief that in a span of a year, they both died, leaving Morris alone. I think he was,” she scrunches her brows, “fifteen or sixteen at the time? ”

My heart aches for the old butler. What a young age to lose everyone you love. “So he’s been here ever since? Never married?”

“Yeah. I think he’s stuck—like he can’t move on if his family can’t either. It’s really sad. Luckily, the Andersons are good employers. They treat him like family.”

I nod. I should talk to him more, give him some company then. I know how it feels to be alone in the world…and my parents, as problematic as they are, are still alive.

We make our way around the ballroom and finish the final touch ups—adjusting the white tablecloths at the tables spaced throughout or relighting candles that have snuffed out in the twelve-candle candelabras serving as centerpieces.

The gothic atmosphere of the house lends to an air of mystery and romance, and I intend to play it up as a nod to the gala name: The Anderson Legacy Ball. It may have been a bit on the nose to name the gala after the family. However, Lana said that with all the swirling press about Fleur Entertainment’s leadership and Maxwell’s mental health, it’d be a good thing to associate a charity ball with the family name.

My phone buzzes in the pocket of my gown and I take it out, absentmindedly swiping it open.

Cole

Merry Christmas, Belle. I’m sorry I can’t come to your gala and it took me so long to respond.

The three dots appear and I wait for him to finish his thoughts.

Cole

The holiday season is a period of mourning for my family because this used to be my cousin’s favorite time of the year, but she’s no longer with us.

Oh, Cole. My fingers fly across the keyboard as I reply.

Belle

I understand. I’m sorry this is a difficult time for you. I hope you find a spark of happiness in the dark hours. Merry Christmas.

Cole

Thanks. Remember what I said before. You deserve better, Belle. Just remember that.

I frown, unsure how to respond.

“Wraithmoor Abbey back to its former glory!” Melody whistles under her breath after making her way back to my side.

“Wraithmoor Abbey?”

The name echoes in my mind. Goosebumps prickle my arms as I remember what Eleanor, the shopkeeper, told me when I picked up the necklace I’m wearing around my neck now.

“You didn’t know?” She quirks her brow. “I can’t believe no one has told you before. This place used to be called Wraithmoor Abbey. They changed the name after Sir Linus’s wife passed away.”

Melody leans in, clearly noting the guests funneling in through the double doors. “They say the place is haunted because it was built on top of a torn down church.”

It was burned. The church was burned down. I shiver, remembering what Eleanor said that day. I can’t believe I’ve been living atop a graveyard this entire time.

Melody prattles on, oblivious to my quickening breaths and rising panic. “And you know what they say, don’t tear down houses of worship and most definitely don’t build on top of them.”

Suddenly, everything makes sense. The groaning and creaking of the mansion at odd hours in the night, the cries of the wind, the strange sounds of doors slamming and windows rattling. Then there’s Agnes’s grim face when she told me not to ask questions I didn’t want answers to.

Stop it, Belle. You don’t believe in this stuff .

“Do you know why they changed the name?” I can’t help but ask, even as my hands grow clammy.

“Well, from what I heard—”

“Belle, you’ve outdone yourself!” Grace squeals as she approaches us with Steven in tow. “Look at this place! Everything…sparkles!”

Steven chuckles, shaking his head at his fiancée’s excitement, the love shining clearly in his eyes as he tugs her close to him. The two of them have endured some dramatic ups and downs worthy of a daytime soap opera. I’m so happy things turned out well for them.

“Belle, how are things going?” Steven asks. He sounds casual, but a muscle is pulsing in his jaw. Something has clearly unsettled him and he’s worried.

“We’re good down here. Is everything okay? There was a disturbance earlier, right?”

“A tree branch blew in by the storm and broke one of the windows in Maxwell’s study.”

I gasp. “Is everyone okay? Is Maxwell okay?” My feet move toward the ballroom doors before I finish asking my question.

“He’s fine, Belle. They’re cleaning up. Rex had some scrapes, all minor flesh wounds, and the staff is patching up the damage as we speak.”

“Good, good.” I blow out a breath. “Never a dull moment around here, huh?”

But then, a thought occurs to me, one that sends my frayed nerves haywire again. “Did you say a tree branch broke through the windows of his study?”

It can’t be. That’s impossible. I look outside the windows, seeing the winter storm surging around us. A branch. A storm. Broken windows. Melody’s story the afternoon in the kitchen floats to my mind.

Steven nods.

Grace frowns, her eyes whipping between the two of us. “What’s wrong? ”

“There are no trees outside his study. It’s on the fourth floor,” Melody whispers, clearly rattled, her skin leached of color. “Oh God, it’s happening again.” Her eyes dart to me in panic. “Excuse me, I need to talk to Mom.”

Without another word, she dashes out of the ballroom, leaving us in a tensed silence. Nausea bubbles inside me as my breathing quickens. Dread crawls up my skin. Stop it, Belle. You don’t believe in the curse. This is ridiculous. It’s just a freak accident.

“Uh, what’s going on? Why did she run off when I arrived?”

I jump, my heart seizing, and turn around, finding Taylor staring at us in a glorious black ball gown, reminding me of the black swan in Swan Lake . “Geez! You scared me, Tay!”

“What the hell is going on? You look like you’ve seen a ghost or something.”

“Not sure…something feels off.” Grace pulls Taylor into our group and explains the events of the past few minutes.

“So, do they think it’s a ghost? An apparition?” Taylor whisper shouts—she’s not exactly known for her subtlety.

“Seriously, ghosts? What are you, five?” a gravelly voice asks and I see Charles sauntering toward us, his blond hair gleaming gold under the candlelight, the CEO of the Bank of Columbia who is perpetually single yet claims he’s always looking for his true love.

“Only the ignorant mock things they don’t understand.” Taylor scowls at him and rolls her eyes.

“I swear, the age difference between us has never seemed greater. Do you need a pacifier?” Charles retorts before turning to Grace. “Millie just arrived, and she asked me to find you and Steven. Something about the Kingsleys calling to wish you guys a Merry Christmas.”

“Shit!” Steven takes out his phone and groans. “Five missed calls.” He tugs Grace toward the doors. “My parents and the video call. Adrian or Emily must’ve called Millie to remind us.”

“See you guys later!” I holler at the two of them as they follow Charles out of the ballroom .

I walk to the windows and stare at the maelstrom of white, the faint shadows of twisted tree branches clawing against the strong winds.

Wraithmoor Abbey. Silas’s letter. Broken hearts and lost loves. Grisly deaths spanning generations. The tree branch shattering a window. Could it all really be pure coincidence? Or could it be…the curse?

I shake myself, trying to dispel the slithering unease making its way up my spine. You don’t believe in curses, Belle. There has to be a logical explanation for everything.

There has to be, right?

But in this moment, I’m not really sure of anything anymore.