Chapter 7: Footsteps in the Dark
The blue room smelled of lavender and old paper, a sharp contrast to the damp chill of the rest of the estate. A small fire had been coaxed to life in the hearth, casting a warm, flickering glow across the high-ceilinged bedroom. Clara lay beneath a mountain of heavy velvet quilts, her reddish-brown braids spread across the crisp white pillowcase. Her eyes were wide, staring up at the ornate plaster molding on the ceiling where cherubs danced in silent frozen circles.
Outside the tall sash window, the wind howled through the overgrown oaks, scratching against the glass like restless fingers. Clara could not sleep. The adrenaline of the journey and the strange confrontation with Evelyn buzzed in her veins, keeping her mind hyper-aware of every creak and groan the old house made.
She sat up, pulling the quilt around her shoulders, and listened.
A soft, rhythmic sound echoed from the hallway outside her door. It wasn't the wind, and it wasn't the settling of old timber. It was the distinct sound of slow, measured footsteps pacing back and forth across the hallway floorboards.
Clara slipped out from beneath the heavy blankets, her bare feet touching the cold wooden floor with a muted patter. She wore a simple linen nightshirt Arthur had provided, the fabric clean and smelling faintly of dried lavender. Moving with practiced stealth, she crept toward the heavy oak door and turned the brass handle with agonizing slowness.
The hallway was shrouded in darkness, illuminated only by the pale sliver of moonlight cutting through a high arched window at the far end. A few yards away, a tall figure stood draped in black.
It was Evelyn. She held a silver candlestick in one hand, the single flame dancing and casting long, distorted shadows across the wallpaper. She was staring intently at a closed door directly across from Clara’s room—a door marked by a heavy iron padlock and a thick chain wrapped twice around the handle.
Clara held her breath, watching as Evelyn reached out with her free hand and gently touched the cold iron link of the chain. The old woman’s shoulders shook slightly, her head bowed in silent grief.
"You shouldn't be wandering the halls at night," Evelyn said softly without turning around, proving her senses were far sharper than her age suggested.
Clara stepped out of her doorway, the floorboards groaning slightly beneath her feet. She walked slowly toward the matriarch, stopping a few feet away from the chained door.
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"I couldn't sleep," Clara whispered. "And neither could you."
Evelyn lowered her hand, turning slowly to face the girl. The candlelight flickered across her pale, lined face, highlighting the deep sorrow etched into every feature. "This door leads to the nursery," Evelyn said, her voice barely audible. "The room where your mother spent her last night under this roof."
