Chapter3
557 Words
Chapter Three: The Portrait Room
Rain lashed against the windows the next morning, painting the manor in muted gray light. Evelyn had barely slept—her mind was too tangled with the memory of the whispered warning and the Duke’s piercing gaze.
Still, she rose and dressed, her steps taking her away from the west wing and toward the only place she hadn’t yet explored: the northern corridor, just beyond the old chapel. Mary had warned her it was rarely used.
Which made Evelyn all the more curious.
The corridor was lined with tall arched windows, most of them fogged or cracked with age. The carpet beneath her feet was threadbare, and the walls were covered in oil paintings—portraits, each older than the last. Some were regal, others ghostly pale. All were marked by the same distinctive eyes: cold, steel-gray.
She stopped at the end of the hall, where a massive canvas hung draped in dusty velvet.
The air around it felt heavier.
A voice behind her made her jump. “That room is not for guests.”
Alaric.
She turned, heart pounding. He stood in the doorway, damp from the rain, his dark coat still clinging to him. Shadows pooled around his eyes, and he looked… tired.
“It was unlocked,” she said quietly. “I thought—”
“You thought wrong.” His tone was sharper than she expected, but underneath it, there was something else. Not anger—fear.
She took a step forward. “Why is it covered?”
He hesitated.
Then, to her surprise, he moved past her and reached for the velvet.
With one swift motion, he pulled it aside.
The portrait revealed was of a man who looked exactly like Alaric—but different. Crueler. His eyes, though the same stormy gray, were hollow. Lifeless.
“My great-grandfather,” Alaric said. “The last Duke before me.”
Evelyn stared. “You look just like him.”
“I pray I’m nothing like him.”
Silence stretched between them. Rain tapped gently against the windows, as if listening.
“What happened to him?” she asked.
His jaw clenched. “He destroyed this family. Ruined our name. Died in disgrace. The house has never forgotten.”
Evelyn’s breath caught. “The house?”
Alaric looked away. “You’d do well not to ask too many questions, Miss Hart.”
“Then stop giving me reasons to.”
That made him glance at her again—really look. His expression softened, just a fraction.
“You are… brave,” he murmured.
“Or foolish,” she replied.
His eyes lingered on her lips.
And for a moment, the distance between them didn’t feel so wide.
But then he stepped back. “You should return to the east wing.”
“You didn’t answer me,” she said, voice low. “About the note.”
His gaze darkened. “What note?”
She faltered. “The one I found… warning me about you.”
Alaric stiffened.
“Who wrote it?” she pressed.
“I don’t know,” he said quietly. “But you’re not the first to receive one.”
And then he turned, disappearing into the corridor once more—leaving Evelyn alone with the portrait, and a thousand questions pressing against her chest like ghosts.
- Writer
