Chapter 2: The Inheritance of Ice
The silence that followed Clara’s words felt heavier than the crystal chandeliers overhead. Evelyn did not lower her hand, though the empty glass began to tremble slightly against her black-clad wrist. She stared at the young girl, searching the familiar contours of Clara’s face for any sign of a trick, a cruel masquerade crafted by enemies who wished to tear open old wounds.
"This house remembers nothing," Evelyn said at last, her voice dropping an octave, losing its sharp edge and revealing a jagged weariness beneath. "It is stone and mortar, rotting from the inside out just like the family that built it. Speak plainly, child. How did you get past the iron gates? The estate has been sealed for a decade."
Clara shifted her weight, the wet fabric of her dark green dress clinging uncomfortably to her shivering legs. She reached up with a trembling hand and gently touched the small scratch on her left cheek, wincing slightly as her fingertips brushed the tender skin.
"The north gate was unlocked," Clara replied simply. "The ivy pulled the latch loose. Anyone could have walked in, if they were brave enough to brave the thorns."
"No one walks in here," Evelyn countered, stepping closer, her sharp eyes scanning the girl's ragged attire. "People avoid Blackwood Estate. They whisper about it in the village as if it were a plague house. Yet you walk through my doors, drenched and bleeding, wearing the colors of a season long forgotten."
Clara lowered her hand and met Evelyn’s gaze without flinching. She possessed a strange, quiet dignity that seemed entirely mismatched with her battered appearance. "The village talks because they are afraid of the past," Clara said softly. "I am not afraid of the past. It is the only thing I have left."
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Evelyn’s breath hitched. She looked away, her eyes drifting toward the heavy velvet curtains that blocked out the dying afternoon light. For a fleeting moment, the stern matriarch looked remarkably fragile, an old woman trapped inside a fortress of her own making. She lowered the glass slowly, setting it down on a nearby mahogany side table with a faint click that echoed through the quiet room.
"Come away from the drafts," Evelyn commanded, her tone softening into something resembling reluctant hospitality. "You are freezing, and pneumonia is a poor companion for whatever game you are playing."
