CHAPTER 3
1175 Words
The Courtyard of Whispers
“She did not even notice how she had been practically holding her breath this whole time until she finally made it past the mansion gates.”
The night slapped her awake seriously. Stepping outside felt like gasping after being underwater way too long. The air bit at her, all chilly and full of weird city smells: smoke, warm bread, whatever the folks hawked out there on the street. Anya just froze, clutching her shawl like it was going to save her from something, her heart beat heavily in a way she can hear it in her ears.
Honestly, part of her wanted her to just turn around, go back inside, lock every door behind her, and play the good girl under Julian’s watchful eyes.
Like she had never even thought about sneaking out in the first place.
But her feet would not move backwards. They carried her forward, trembling steps onto the cobblestones, into the sound of wheels and laughter, into life.
Every passerby made her shrink into her shawl. Every shadow whispered Julian. But no one stopped her. No hand yanked her back. For the first time in years, she was outside his cage and the sheer strangeness of it nearly undid her.
When the spire of St. Cecilia’s came into view, her throat tightened. She had passed the chapel once before, in a carriage, Julian dismissing it as “a relic for beggars and dreamers.”Now it was rising out of the shadows, almost like some secret hideout built by the night.
She slipped into the courtyard beam, icy air hit her lungs and she froze for a sec. Ivy had totally taken over the arches, twisting everywhere. That fountain in the middle was bone dry but still gorgeous in its own way, with those stone angels looking all tired and soft around the edges.
“Mrs. Vance?”
She turned.
A man was standing at the edge of the courtyard, half-shadowed. Not threatening his posture was calm, his eyes steady, even gentle. He was not wear any expensive clothes, only a dark coat and gloves, but there was something reassuring in his presence.
“I am David,” he said, bowing his head. “Mr. Sterling sent me. Please, this way.”
Her hands twisted the fringe of her shawl. “You’re certain it’s safe?”
“As safe as can be, given your circumstances.” His voice held no mockery, only quiet respect. “But I understand your fear. Come, Mrs. Vance. He waits in the side chapel.”
Every step dragged a little more, her shoes heavy as though filled with stones, but she carried on.
The chapel felt different from the mansion, softer somehow.
It felt like she was away from the smell of polish and wealth; over here it was candlewax, wood, and quiet warmth, like being wrapped in an old quilt.
Sunlight passed through the glass window, spreading colors across the floor in playful splashes of red and blue. The whole place felt alive and was having a quiet, steady presence
And there he was. Charles Sterling.
He looked at her not as an asset, not as a puppet, but as if she were a person, as though he saw something in her worth seeing. His eyes softened, almost unbearably kind.
“Mrs. Vance,” he greeted quietly. “Thank you for coming.”
Her throat was dry. “If Julian knew”
“He doesn’t,” Charles interrupted gently. “And for your sake, he must not. Please. Sit.”
Her legs almost gave out as she dropped onto the pew like, she had just collapsed right there. She grabbed the locket at her neck, squeezing it tight, like it was some kind of magical shield.
“Please, can I ask you something?” He said. “Do you ever get that feeling? Like… the life you’re living, it doesn’t really belong to you?”
The question broke something inside her. She pressed her hand against her mouth, fighting tears. “Every day,” she whispered. “I feel like I’m… wearing someone else’s skin. I have flashes of songs, a woman’s voice, a face I can never see. But Julian says it’s nonsense. He says I’m too fragile and always have fantasies.”
Charles leaned forward and said with his voice low with compassion. “You are not having a fantasy. You are remembering.”
Her breath hitched. “Remembering what?”
He gestured gently. “May I?” His eyes fell to the locket.
She reluctantly removed the chain over her head and set it in his palm. Watching him open it felt like handing over her heart to open.
When he saw the portrait, his expression changed to grief, recognition, something raw. His voice cracked. “Clara Beaumont.”
The name meant nothing and everything at once. “Who is she?” Anya’s voice trembled.
“My cousin,” he said softly. “Gone for more than twenty years. And with her… her infant daughter.” He raised his head and their eyes met, and Anya’s breath stopped at the certainty in it. “You are her. Annabelle Beaumont.”
Her pulse increased and sounded in her ears. She shook her head, half in disbelief, half in fear. “No. That’s impossible. I’ve never been”
“You’ve never been allowed to know,” Charles corrected gently. “Your inheritance, your very name, was taken from you. And Julian” He stopped, his jaw tightening. “He benefits from your silence.”
Anya’s hands shook. Annabelle. The name felt so precious on her tongue, like something sacred and stolen. “I do not even know who I am anymore.”
“You are not alone,” Charles said, “You are my family. And you have a right to choose your life, not merely endure it.”
The word choose made her flinch. No one had spoken it to her in years. Choice was something Julian had erased, like dust wiped from glass.
Tears flowed from her eyes . For one breathless moment, she felt the weight of possibility pressing down on her terrifying, exhilarating, real.
Then the echo of footsteps shattered it.
Slow, deliberate. Heavy boots striking the courtyard stones outside.
Her blood froze.
Charles stilled, his eyes darting to David, who slipped soundlessly toward the door.
“Who would come here now?” Anya whispered, her voice strangled with fear.
Charles’s expression darkened. “Someone who followed you.”
The footsteps drew closer in a familiar and certain manner, carrying the presence of someone she knew so well.
Julian.
Anya’s fingers clutched Charles’s sleeve in panic. The fragile glimpse of hope she had been given looks like it is about to be taken away before it could even begin.
The boots stopped just outside the chapel.
The door creaked.
Anya has just begun to feel the shock of belonging, of identity, of being seen and now Julian himself stands on the threshold of discovering everything.
- Writer
