Be My Spell

Chapter Three

The silent, smooth-riding mechanics of the black car felt less like a vehicle and more like a sensory deprivation chamber. For three hours, Phoebe had watched the wild, rugged greenery of the Scottish countryside blur past her tinted window, gradually giving way to the imposing, dark-stone architecture of Edinburgh’s outer borders. Her old, battered leather suitcase sat in the trunk, a lone, rattling object against the pristine carpeted interior.

She caught her reflection in the glass. Her deep, soft brown eyes looked wide, swallowed by an anxiety she was desperately trying to mask with a calm expression. Her skin, fair with a light sun-kissed warmth from years of foraging in open fields, looked pale in the cool light. She adjusted the practical, hurried knot she’d tied her hair into before leaving, but the thick, unruly waves of her natural auburn hair were already staging a rebellion. A few rich, ember-toned strands escaped, framing her face. She looked exactly like what she was, a countryside herbalist plucked from a world of mud and marigolds, hurtling toward an empire built on code and concrete.

The car slowed, the tyres crunching over heavy gravel as it turned off the main road. Phoebe leaned forward, her breath fogging the glass as the massive iron gates of Blackthorn House swung open with a silent, automated precision.

The estate rose out of the grey Scottish mist like a monument to absolute order. It was beautiful, undeniably so, but it was a beauty that felt profoundly lonely. Built from dark, weathered stone, the house featured a severe architecture, a striking blend of traditional Gothic lines and sharp, modern glass extensions that cut through the ancient facade. Towering pine woods encroached from the perimeter, their branches swaying heavily in the low wind under a dull sky.

There was no sign of neglect here. The sweeping lawns that were perfectly manicured, and the ancient stone walls were pristine. Yet, as the car glided to a halt in the sweeping courtyard, Phoebe felt a distinct chill. The estate was silent, orderly, almost sterile. It reflected a life that was thoroughly maintained but entirely unlived in, a house far too grand for the souls residing within it.

Beautiful, Phoebe thought, her fingers tightening around the strap of her canvas bag. But lord, it feels like a museum after hours.

The chauffeur opened her door, and the sharp, damp Edinburgh air immediately bit at her cheeks. She stepped out, her sturdy, slightly muddy leather boots making a loud thwack against the immaculate gravel.

Before she could even lift her suitcase, the massive front door of the house groaned open, revealing a short, fiercely solid woman in a crisp charcoal apron.

"Step inside out of that damp, lass, before your hair takes on a life of its own," a sharp, gravelly voice called out.

This was Agnes MacLeod. The long-serving housekeeper stood with her arms crossed, her eyes sharp and impossibly bright behind silver-rimmed spectacles. She looked impossible to intimidate, but as Phoebe climbed the stone steps, Agnes’s expression softened into an observant, maternal curiosity.

"Phoebe Axel, I presume?" Agnes asked, her sharp tongue belied by the gentle way she took Phoebe’s damp coat. "You look like a gust of wind could tip you over, and you’ve brought half the countryside with you, I see."

Phoebe looked down and winced slightly. On the pristine, dark wood floor of the great entrance hall, her boots had already left two distinct, damp patches of earth. "I am so sorry," Phoebe said, her natural warmth instantly flushing her cheeks, making her subtle freckles darken. "I tried to scrape them at the station, but Oakhaven mud is remarkably loyal."

Agnes let out a short, bark-like sound that Phoebe realised with relief was a laugh. "Ach, don't apologise to me, child. It’s the first sign of life this entryway has seen in months. The floorboards have forgotten what dirt feels like. Come, let’s get you settled before the master of the house finds us. The house has been entirely too quiet since Mrs Ross passed away last year. It needs a bit of shaking up."

The mention of the late matriarch hung in the air, a heavy reminder of the phantom presence that had orchestrated this entire arrangement. Before Phoebe could ask more, a sound echoed from the high gallery above.

It was the steady, unhurried click of leather-soled shoes against stone.

"Agnes," a voice called out. It wasn't loud, but it possessed a commanding, resonant quality that made the air in the great hall feel instantly heavier, more still. "Is that our archivist?"

Phoebe turned, her breath catching in her throat before her mind could even fully process the man descending the sweeping stone staircase.

Calder Ross did not enter a room dramatically; he simply commanded it by existing within it. He possessed the striking, refined presence of old Scottish lineage, his features sharp and sculpted, an aristocratic jawline, a straight nose, and high cheekbones. His skin had a naturally cool undertone, utterly unblemished, and his expression was a masterclass in absolute control.

He wore a dark, structured charcoal coat over a charcoal knit sweater, nothing too loud, everything impeccably tailored and intentional. His dark brown hair, almost black in the dim light of the hall, was neatly styled, though a single strand fell slightly forward over his forehead, suggesting a long day of work. But it was his eyes that stopped Phoebe completely. They were a deep, piercing grey-green, exactly like storm clouds over the North Sea. They were entirely unreadable, analysing her within a fraction of a second.

When Calder reached the foot of the stairs, the room seemed to grow quieter. His presence was a physical weight, a stark contrast to Phoebe’s vibrant, expressive energy. He looked at her, his eyes lingering on her thick, chaotic auburn hair that glowed like warm embers against her pale skin, before tracking down to the small, muddy prints on his floor.

"Welcome to Blackthorn House, Miss Axel," Calder said, stepping forward. He extended a hand, his movement precise.