Chapter 3
1188 Words
The morning after her wedding dawned gray, heavy with mist.
Evelyn sat alone in the breakfast salon, tracing circles in her untouched tea. Across the courtyard, servants hurried in silence, their faces downcast. Her husband was nowhere to be seen.
Lord Alaric had vanished before dawn, leaving only a note on her pillow:
Attend the household accounts. I shall return before nightfall.
No tenderness. No promise. Only duty.
Yet his absence filled the manor like a ghost.
She wandered through the corridors to occupy her restless thoughts. The portraits lining the hall watched her noble faces long dead, each bearing the sharp Du Val cheekbones and the same icy eyes. But there was one door she always passed quickly: the iron-bound one at the far end of the north corridor. The West Wing.
His rule echoed in her mind: Do not enter.
That alone made her hand tremble on the latch.
By midday, the sky had turned to pearl. The servants had retreated to the kitchens. Evelyn found herself standing once more before the forbidden door.
The brass knob was cold beneath her fingers. She hesitated only a breath before turning it.
The lock clicked open quietly, as if it had been waiting for her.
Dust motes swirled in the thin light that filtered through the cracked shutters. The air smelled faintly of lavender and smoke.
The chamber beyond was a mausoleum of beauty: silk gowns draped across a fainting couch, wilted roses in crystal vases, music sheets yellowed with age. Everything preserved as though its mistress might return at any moment.
And there, dominating the far wall, hung the portrait.
Evelyn gasped.
The woman in the painting wore a gown of silver lace, her golden hair swept up, her eyes a deep green touched with sorrow. The crescent-and-rose pendant gleamed at her throat.
It was Evelyn’s own face.
Her knees nearly buckled. She staggered closer, heart hammering. The brushstrokes were delicate, alive, every line echoing her features exactly. Even the small freckle near her left ear—she had never noticed it until now.
Beneath the frame, a brass plaque read:
Lady Seraphine du Val (1889 – 1909)
The Light of Valcourt
Evelyn reached out. The moment her fingertips brushed the paint, the room trembled.
The scent of roses sharpened to smoke. A whisper fluttered through the air—soft, feminine, familiar.
“You came back too soon.”
Evelyn spun around. “Who’s there?”
No answer. Only the rustle of curtains in a wind that shouldn’t have been there.
Her pulse raced. “Seraphine?”
The whisper returned, closer this time, threading through her mind.
“He doesn’t remember the fire… but I do.”
The floor tilted. Images flooded her vision—flashes of another life: a wedding veil, a ring burning hot against her skin, Alaric’s eyes filled with panic as flames devoured the ballroom.
“Run!”
She stumbled backward, clutching her head. The visions vanished, leaving her gasping.
“Lady Du Val?”
The voice was real this time. Evelyn turned to find Mrs. Clay, the housekeeper, standing at the threshold, her face ashen.
“You shouldn’t be here,” the older woman whispered, glancing fearfully at the portrait. “His lordship forbade it.”
“I had to see her,” Evelyn said. “She—she looks exactly like me.”
Mrs. Clay’s eyes filled with pity. “Aye. That’s what frightens us all.”
“Tell me about her,” Evelyn urged.
The woman hesitated, wringing her hands. “Lady Seraphine was kind. Too kind for this house. She and his lordship were to be wed, but on the night of their vows, the manor caught fire. They found her pendant in the ashes… and his lordship was never the same again.”
“He survived?”
Mrs. Clay nodded. “Barely. He swore the fire was an accident, yet some said they heard shouting before the blaze. Others claimed she screamed his name.”
Evelyn’s stomach twisted. “Do you believe he—?”
“I believe grief can turn a heart to ice.” Mrs. Clay’s gaze softened. “But there’s more. The night before the wedding, a stranger came to Valcourt _a priest or a scholar, none remember. He brought a book bound in red leather. After that, Lady Seraphine was never seen beyond these halls again until the fire.”
A red book. Evelyn’s breath hitched. She had seen such a volume once in her dreams, its pages filled with strange symbols that glowed like embers.
Before she could ask more, a door slammed somewhere below.
Mrs. Clay paled. “He’s home.”
Alaric’s footsteps echoed up the stairwell—measured, deliberate. Evelyn’s pulse quickened.
The housekeeper fled, leaving her alone in the forbidden chamber.
Evelyn turned to close the door, but Alaric’s voice stopped her.
“Disobedience suits you poorly, Lady Du Val.”
He stood in the doorway, rain dripping from his coat, eyes like storm clouds.
“I told you not to enter this wing.”
She straightened her shoulders, forcing her voice steady. “You told me not to speak of Seraphine. You said nothing about her room.”
His jaw clenched. “And now you understand why.”
“I understand nothing,” she shot back. “Why do I remember her life? Her death? Why does this portrait bear my face?”
Alaric’s expression faltered—only for a heartbeat. “Because the world enjoys cruel tricks.”
“Then tell me the truth!”
“The truth,” he said, stepping closer, “is buried with her.”
His eyes flicked to the pendant at her throat, the one she’d awoken wearing. For the first time, his voice softened. “Where did you get that?”
“I don’t know,” she whispered. “It appeared the day your letter came.”
Color drained from his face. “Then the curse has awakened.”
Her breath caught. “Curse?”
But he only turned away, his voice rough. “Leave this room, Evelyn. Whatever memory you’ve stirred—let it die again.”
That night, the manor shivered beneath another storm. Evelyn could not sleep. The portrait’s eyes haunted her every blink.
She lit a candle and returned to her writing desk, opening her journal. Her hand moved without thought, sketching the symbol carved into the pendant a crescent entwined with a rose.
When she finished, she realized she’d drawn something else within it: a sigil of fire.
The candle guttered. A gust of wind flung open her window, scattering papers across the floor. Among them, a single page she didn’t remember writing:
“The heir must burn to be reborn.”
Her heart froze.
Down the corridor, a door creaked open by itself.
Evelyn lifted the candle, her shadow long and trembling.
The voice came again, soft as a sigh.
“Remember me… before he forgets you too.”
The flame flickered out.
Darkness swallowed the room.
And somewhere deep within the West Wing, the portrait of Lady Seraphine began to weep tears of ash.
- Writer
