The Wall Between Us

Chapter 4: Secrets in the Walls

Elara's POV

Mrs. Holloway showed me around the house with the efficiency of someone who had done it many times before, though I guessed most visitors didn’t see as much as I did. The interior was even more impressive than I expected. Each room had soaring ceilings, intricate woodwork, and architectural details that thrilled my architect's heart.

But there were strange features too. Some doors opened to walls. Windows had been bricked up from inside. Hallways ended abruptly or turned in ways that didn't match the outside appearance. I found myself mentally mapping the layout, trying to make sense of what I saw compared to what the outside suggested should be there.

"The house has changed over the years," Mrs. Holloway explained when I remarked on a particularly odd corridor that seemed to loop back on itself. "Different generations had different ideas about how to use the space."

"Are these changes reflected in any updated architectural plans?"

"I'm sure Mr. Veyron will show you any documentation he has."

Her tone implied the conversation was over, but I noticed how she quickly passed certain doorways without explanation and avoided looking at some family portraits on the walls.

The east wing, where I'd be staying, felt different from the rest of the house. It felt lighter, less oppressive. My rooms were on the second floor. I had a bedroom, a sitting room, and a small kitchenette that clearly had been updated recently. The furnishings were comfortable but not flashy, and the windows let in natural light.

"Dinner is served at seven in the small dining room," Mrs. Holloway said, placing my suitcase on the bed. "Though Mr. Veyron often works late and eats in his study."

"Does he live here alone?"

"For the most part. He has business associates who visit occasionally, but he prefers solitude."

She left me to settle in. I spent the next hour exploring my temporary home. The view from my bedroom window revealed the mansion's gardens or what had once been gardens. Now, they were a wild maze of overgrown pathways and neglected flower beds, beautiful in their untamed way.

As I unpacked, I heard piano music drifting from somewhere deep in the house. The melody was hauntingly beautiful, melancholy and complex, played by someone with genuine skill. It had to be Damien. I hadn’t pictured him as a musician, but it somehow suited his mysterious, brooding vibe.

The music stopped suddenly, leaving me feeling oddly bereft.

That evening, I made my way to the small dining room, following Mrs. Holloway's directions through a maze of corridors. I was beginning to understand why she had been so specific; this house could easily swallow someone who didn’t know where to go.

Damien was already there, standing by a window that overlooked the neglected gardens. He had changed from his earlier formal clothes into dark slacks and a white shirt with rolled-up sleeves, revealing more muscular forearms than I expected. The casual outfit should have made him more approachable, but it had the opposite effect.

"Did you have a chance to look at the architectural plans?" he asked without preamble.

"Some. The original 1890 blueprints are fascinating, but they don’t match what I saw during the tour. There are major differences."

He turned from the window, his expression carefully neutral. "What kind of differences?"

"Rooms that appear on the plans but don’t exist anymore. Spaces that exist now but aren’t shown on the original drawings. It looks like there have been significant modifications, but I didn’t see any updated plans.”

"The family has always been private about changes to the house."

Mrs. Holloway arrived with dinner: roasted chicken, vegetables that I assumed came from a garden on the property, and bread that smelled freshly baked. Simple food, prepared with obvious care.

"This is delicious," I said after my first bite. "Do you grow your own vegetables?"

"Mrs. Holloway maintains a kitchen garden," Damien said. "She’s been with the family for thirty years. The house wouldn’t work without her."

The housekeeper flushed at the praise but said nothing, disappearing into whatever part of the house she occupied.

"Thirty years," I repeated. "She must have seen a lot of changes."

"Yes."

His single word carried a weight that suggested the topic was closed, but I pressed on anyway. "What happened to the rest of the house? All those closed-up rooms?"

Damien set down his fork and looked directly at me. His eyes had darkened, almost appearing black in the candlelight. "Miss Hayes, I hired you to restore specific areas of this house, not to conduct an archaeological survey of family history. I trust that distinction is clear."

The gentle rebuke was unmistakable. I felt heat rising in my cheeks. "Of course. I'm sorry if I overstepped."

"You didn't overstep. Your curiosity is part of what makes you good at your job. But this house holds more than just architectural interest. Some doors are closed for good reasons."

"What kind of reasons?"

For a moment, I thought he might actually answer. His expression softened, and I caught a glimpse of something vulnerable beneath the controlled exterior. Then his mask slipped back into place.

"The kind that is none of your concern."

We finished the meal in relative silence, though I caught him watching me a few times when he thought I wasn't looking. There was something in his gaze that wasn’t quite curiosity or wariness. It felt more like he was trying to solve a puzzle, and I was the missing piece.

After dinner, he walked me partway back to the east wing, stopping where our paths diverged.

"Miss Hayes." His voice became formal again, distant. "I want to be very clear about something. This house can be dangerous for those who don’t respect its boundaries. I’d hate for anything to happen to you because you were too curious for your own good."

"Is that a threat?"

"It’s a warning. There’s a difference."

He turned to leave but paused. "The piano you heard earlier, I apologize if it disturbed you. I sometimes forget how sound carries in the old parts of the house."

"It didn’t disturb me. It was beautiful."

Something flickered across his face—maybe surprise or pleasure. "Good night, Miss Hayes."

"Good night."

I watched him disappear into the shadows of the main house, moving with the same predatory grace I had noticed earlier. Only when he was completely out of sight did I realize I had been holding my breath.

Back in my room, I spread the architectural plans across my sitting room table and studied them under a lamplight. The more I examined them, the more questions I had. The original house was designed as a complete unit, with every room serving a purpose and every corridor leading somewhere logical. But the current layout made no sense. Entire sections seemed to have been sealed off or rerouted, creating a maze where there should have been a graceful flow.

Someone had deliberately changed this house, and they’d gone to a lot of trouble to hide what they’d done.

The question was why.