Without looking back, I rush back down the corridor, through the house and out the front doors.

I’ve got to breathe.

I’ve got to breathe.

I’ve got to breathe.

Sucking in air, I walk aimlessly around the house, over the cobblestone and down a pathway. I draw in long even breaths, trying to still my shaking hands, trying to gather myself together, trying to assure myself that I’m being silly.

There’s no reason to be afraid.

I’m being ridiculous.

This house might be strange and foreign, but it’s still a home. It just isn’t my home. It’s fine. I’ll get used to it.

I look behind me, and there’s nothing there.

There is no growl, there is no vibration in my ribs, there is nothing but for the dim twilight and the stars aching to burst from behind the clouds.

The house looms over me and I circle back, only to find myself in front of a large garage with gabled edges.

There are at least seven garage doors, all closed but one.

To my surprise, someone walks out of that door.

A boy.

A man.

His pants are dark gray and he’s wearing a hoodie, and he moves with grace. He slides among the shadows with ease, as though he belongs here, as though Whitley is his home too, even though I don’t know him, even though I feel like I do. I feel it I feel it I feel it.

“Hello,” I call out to him.

He stops moving, freezing in his tracks, but he doesn’t turn his head.

Something about that puts me on edge and I tense, because what if he’s not supposed to be here?

“Hello?” I repeat uneasily, and chills run up my spine, goose-bumps forming on my arms once again.

I back away, first one step, then another.

I blink,

And he’s gone.

I stare at the empty space, and shake my head, blinking hard.

He’s still gone.

He must’ve slipped between the buildings, but why?

I’m too nervous to find out, and so I turn to walk back to the house. As I do, two enormous shadows bound out of the trees and race toward me, panting and skidding to a halt in front of me.

I’m frozen as I stare at two of the biggest dogs I’ve ever seen.

“It’s okay,” I tell them, as they examine me with dark eyes. “I’m supposed to be here. I’m not an intruder.”

They stare at me.

I stare back.

Then one steps forward and nudges my hand, sliding his massive head beneath my palm like he knows me, like he’s not going to attack me.

“Castor!” Sabine yells from behind me. “Pollux!”

The dogs stand at attention, and when she yells Come, they do.

She looks at me. “I’m sorry if they got you muddy,” she tells me. “They’re the estate dogs. And as you can see, they aren’t always graceful.”

I follow her gaze and she’s staring at muddy paw-prints on my legs, and when did that happen?

“They’re fine,” I tell her, because they didn’t hurt me. In fact, even though they’re enormous, they have such sweet faces. Sabine acts like she knows what I’m thinking.

“They wouldn’t hurt anybody,” she tells me. “It’s their size that is intimidating.” She pauses. “They’d protect you with their lives, though.”

Me?

Before I can ask, she returns to the house and the dogs go with her. Down the path a ways, one of them pauses and turns to look at me, but then he continues on his way and I try to put my uneasiness to rest.

Why am I uneasy?

They’re just dogs.

And the guy I saw was just a gardener or something.

Nothing to be unnerved about.

Yet I’m still unsettled as I wash my face, so when I’m finished, I poke my head out into the hall. There’s nothing there.

With a sigh, I lock my bedroom door and I’m chilled from the wet English air. Glancing at the clock, I find it’s only six thirty. I can rest for a few minutes more, and I’m thankful for that.

Because clearly, jet lag has made me its bitch.

Chapter Twenty-Four

As I step into the grand foyer of Whitley, my feet have barely hit the floor when I feel the overwhelming sense of being stifled, of the coldness that permeates a person’s bones here. To put the feeling in perspective, my home in Oregon is a funeral home. Whitley is far, far worse.

Finn picks my hand, aware of my faltering steps. “You ok?” he whispers, his blue eyes searching mine. I nod.

Of course I’m lying. I’m not ok. Why would I be?

I stand in the foyer windows, staring across the moors. England has such haunting moors, such rolling, wet fields, such places that are conducive to melancholy. It makes me think of sadness, of Charlotte Bronte, of Jane Eyre.

I don’t know why I identify so much with Jane. She’s plain, and I know that I’m not. I have hair like fire, eyes like bright emeralds. I’m not being conceited in admitting that, because after all, physical attributes are things that we cannot help. I am pretty, but I didn’t earn it. I was simply born this way, a product of a beautiful mother. Internal traits though, they’re important and praiseworthy. Jane Eyre is fierce in spirit, and I like to believe that I am, too. Fierceness is much more commendable than my pretty face.

To be honest, I almost wish that I weren’t pretty. It makes me self-conscious. People tend to stare, and when they do, I always feel like they’re staring at me because they think I’m crazy.

Crazy

Crazy

Crazy.

Just like my brother.

It’s like a whisper, echoing through the rooms of Whitley, across the grounds, through the air. Everyone watches us, my brother and me, to see which one of us will crack.

“I’m going for a walk,” I tell Finn. His head snaps up.

“Alone? You’ll get lost.”

“No, I won’t. I’m just going to explore.”

“I’ll come too.”

“No. Go get something to eat. I just need a few minutes to breathe, Finn.”

He nods now because he understands that.

I slip outside, out the door, away from the doom of the house.

The breeze is slightly chilly as I make my way deep into the grounds. I’ve come to believe that it never truly warms up here. The rain makes the lawns lush, though. Green and full and colorful. It’s viridem. And green means life.

The cobbled path turns to pebbles as I get further away from the house, and after a minute, I come to a literal fork in the road. The path splits into two. One leads toward a wooded area, and the other leads to a beautiful stone building on the edge of the horizon, shrouded in mist and weeping trees.

It’s small and mysterious, beautiful and ancient. And of course I have to get a closer look. Without a second thought, I head down that path.

The closer I get, the more my curiosity grows.

I can smell the moss as I approach, that musty, dank smell that comes with a closed room or a wet space. And with that dark scent comes a very oppressive feeling. I feel it weighing on my shoulders as I open the heavy door, as I stare at the word SAVAGE inscribed in the wood, as I take my first tentative step into a room that hasn’t seen human life in what looks like years.

But it has seen death.

I’m standing in a mausoleum.

Growing up in a funeral home, I’m well versed in death. I know what it looks like, what it smells like, even what it tastes like in the air.

I’m surrounded by it here.

The floor is stone, but since it is deprived of light, soft green moss grows in places, and is soft under my feet. The walls are thick blocks of stone, and have various alcoves, filled with the remains of Savage family members. They go back for generations, and it makes me wonder how long the Savages have lived at Whitley.