Chapter 4: Secrets in the Hall
The manor whispered at night.
Eleanor noticed it most when the fire had died low, and the halls were empty of servants. The wind tapped at the window panes, and floorboards creaked without footsteps. Sometimes, it sounded like a woman's breath just beyond the edge of hearing — not quite a voice, not quite a sigh.
It was enough to make her sleep with the candle still lit.
That night, after hearing Nathaniel's piano from the corridor, she could not rest. His music had stirred her too deeply, like someone had reached into her chest and touched the part she kept hidden from everyone else — even herself.
She rose from bed with bare feet and a shawl draped around her shoulders. The hour was late, but the need to move, to think, pressed too heavily on her chest. She tiptoed into the hall.
The lamps had been dimmed, but enough light remained to guide her through the corridor, past closed doors and tall windows draped in heavy velvet. She moved quietly, her footsteps muffled on the thick rug.
As she neared the east wing, something odd caught her eye.
A door was ajar — just slightly. One she hadn't noticed before.
Eleanor paused.
It was tucked between two portrait alcoves, its edges nearly swallowed by the dark paneling. A servant's passage, perhaps? Or a linen closet?
But curiosity flared in her like a spark.
She reached out and pushed it open.
Beyond was a narrow stair, spiraling down into shadow.
She hesitated.
The rational part of her said to turn back. This wasn't her house, and she had no business wandering it in the dead of night.
But something called her forward — something ancient and breathless.
She stepped inside and closed the door softly behind her.
---
The stair led to a narrow corridor lit by a single sconce. The air was cooler here, tinged with dust and earth. Eleanor followed the hallway, her fingers trailing along the cold stone wall.
At the end, a small door.
She opened it.
Inside was a room — circular and windowless — lined with old furniture covered in white cloths. A cracked mirror leaned against one wall, and in the center stood a writing desk, its wood stained dark with time. Dust danced in the light from a tiny overhead vent.
And resting on the desk...
A leather-bound journal.
Eleanor's pulse jumped. She stepped forward, brushing off the cover.
The initials J.A. were stamped in gold.
She hesitated, then opened it.
The handwriting inside was looping and hurried — a man's hand. Pages and pages of entries, some torn, others half-finished. Dates from over thirty years ago.
She flipped through quickly, her breath catching as she skimmed phrases.
> "She walks the rose paths again. Always after dusk."
"Catherine says the fountain's silence is a sign."
"I dream of drowning."
"She's slipping from me."
"Nathaniel must never know—"
Eleanor froze.
She read the last line again.
> "Nathaniel must never know."
Her heart pounded. The writer had known him. Thirty years ago?
That wasn't possible… unless—
She heard a sound.
Footsteps above. Then silence.
Eleanor slammed the journal shut and pressed it to her chest.
She needed to leave. Now.
---
Back in her room, she locked the door and sat on the bed, the journal hidden beneath a loose floorboard she discovered under the rug. Her mind raced.
The initials J.A.
The talk of dreams, of the fountain, of Catherine. And Nathaniel's name… scrawled in a line of dread and warning.
She hadn't imagined the weight he carried. Or the distance in his eyes when he spoke of memory and waiting.
But now, something far older and darker lingered beneath his presence at Ashvale.
A secret.
One someone had gone to great lengths to bury.
And Eleanor had just unearthed it.
---
The next morning, Eleanor joined Lady Catherine for breakfast as usual. The older woman was in a gray silk gown, sipping tea with perfect calm.
Eleanor sat across from her, trying to ignore the pounding in her ears.
"Did you sleep well?" her aunt asked, voice light and deceptive.
"Yes," Eleanor lied.
Lady Catherine gave her a slow, knowing look. "You walked last night."
Eleanor stiffened.
"I heard the servants speak of footsteps in the east corridor. You wouldn't happen to know anything about that?"
Eleanor lifted her chin. "I couldn't sleep. I needed air."
"Ashvale is full of drafts," Lady Catherine replied. "You'll catch more than thoughts wandering these halls."
Her tone held warning.
Eleanor said nothing.
The rest of the meal passed in silence.
---
Later that day, as she walked through the garden once again — this time alone — Eleanor spotted Nathaniel near the hedges, tending to a rose bush.
It struck her as unusual — someone like him doing something so ordinary.
He looked up as she approached.
"You vanished this morning," he said.
"I didn't feel like company."
He nodded, not offended. "Fair enough."
Eleanor stepped closer, fingers brushing a bloom near her. "Did you know someone named J.A.?"
Nathaniel blinked. "What?"
"A man. Connected to this house. He kept a journal."
A long pause.
Then, carefully: "Why are you asking me that?"
Eleanor met his gaze. "Because I think he knew you."
Nathaniel's expression darkened — just for a heartbeat. Then the mask returned.
"You're mistaken."
"I'm not," she whispered. "You know something. About this house. About why you're really here."
Nathaniel looked past her, toward the broken fountain in the distance.
Then softly, "There are things better left where they were buried, Eleanor."
She took a step closer. "And there are things that deserve to be known."
He looked back at her then — really looked — as if seeing her for the first time.
And in that moment, Eleanor understood two things clearly.
Nathaniel Blackmoor was not just a guest of Ashvale.
And whatever secret he carried, it was written into the very stones beneath their feet.