The morning sun spilled through the Bly windows like pale milk. Ivy sat at the kitchen table, tracing the rim of her teacup with one finger. Kate and Mrs. Grose were gone into town, leaving her with Flora, who was busy lining up her dolls in the drawing room.
Ivy felt restless. Something tugged at her, invisible threads pulling her deeper into the house, urging her to look, to discover. Without thinking, she climbed the old staircase and wandered toward the west wing—the part of the manor they rarely explored.
At the end of the dim hallway, she found a door slightly ajar. She nudged it. The old hinges groaned in protest.
Inside, the air was thick with dust. Sheets covered furniture like forgotten ghosts. A trunk sat beneath a foggy window, beneath an old wooden vanity. It felt… familiar. Even though she had never been here.
She knelt and lifted the lid. It wasn't locked.
Inside were items that had once belonged to a woman: a faded silk scarf, a small perfume bottle still carrying a floral scent, letters, and a leather-bound journal with initials on the cover: J.J.
Miss Jessel.
Ivy opened it.
"Today, he looked at me like I was his entire world. I forget who I was before him."
Her breath caught. She flipped another page.
"It scares me how much I want him. How much I need to be near him. He says no one understands us. Maybe he's right."
A photograph slipped out, hidden between pages. Two people smiled at the camera. A woman in a dark dress, her hair pinned back, eyes warm but tired. Beside her—a man, sharp features, wild eyes.
She stared at him. Something familiar lingered. Not the face—but the eyes. That same look Miles had given her the night he stood outside her door.
Ivy quickly shoved the photo back and closed the trunk.
That evening, after Flora was asleep, Ivy sat by the fire in the sitting room with Mrs. Grose. The flames cast soft flickers across the floor.
"Mrs. Grose," Ivy asked softly, "who was Miss Jessel?"
Mrs. Grose paused, knitting frozen in her hands.
"Why do you ask, dear?"
"I found her things. In the west wing."
A long sigh. "She was the governess before your sister. A kind girl. Too kind. She fell in love with someone… who didn't love her the way he should."
"Peter Quint?" Ivy asked, her voice low.
Mrs. Grose flinched. "Yes. He worked here once—the master's valet. Charming. Dangerous. He had a way with words… and with Miss Jessel."
"What happened to them?"
Mrs. Grose stared into the fire. "No one knows for sure. He died first. Then her. Some say he fell. Others… say she jumped. Miss Jessel was found in the lake."
Ivy shivered.
"They were in love?"
"If you can call it that," Mrs. Grose murmured. "It wasn't kind. It twisted her. Made her someone else."
Ivy thought of the journal, the way Miss Jessel wrote about being seen, about being needed. Somehow… it made sense.
"You stay away from that room, Ivy," Mrs. Grose said gently. "Some memories aren't meant to be stirred."
Ivy nodded. But her mind was already back there, buried in the pages.
That night, she lay on her bed, the leather journal in her hands. The room smelled faintly of perfume. She opened it randomly.
"When I'm not with him, the world feels empty. Like I'm waiting to breathe again."
A soft knock came at her door.
She jumped.
Miles stood there. Dark sweater, slacks, hair tousled as if he'd just come from the wind.
He glanced at the journal.
"Reading old secrets?"
Ivy hesitated. "I found it today. Miss Jessel's."
Without a word, he stepped inside. She didn't stop him.
"She was lonely," Ivy said.
"Most people here are," Miles replied softly. "This house… it makes you that way."
He took the journal gently from her hands and flipped through it.
"Do you think," he asked, eyes on hers, "that kind of love… is dangerous?"
"Yes," she whispered. "But maybe that's what makes it real."
Miles smiled slowly.
He didn't touch her. He didn't need to.
He already had her attention.
And Ivy didn't want to be anywhere else.