CHAPTER 4
1157 Words
The Breath Before the Storm
“Some doors, she knew that once it was opened, it could never be closed again.”
The chapel door made noises on its rusty hinges. The door was so loud that it made Anya feel like she had been slapped. She pressed herself tight against the old pew, trying to hide herself. Her heart was beating so fast in her chest, it felt so loud Julian would probably hear it before he even set foot inside.
The person walked in and stopped at the doorway. Silence thickened, unbearable.
Then
“Father Benedict?” a voice called. Not Julian’s, but deep, rough, tinged with weariness. “Are you still here?”
A workman, not her husband.
Anya held her hand over her mouth, desperate to stop the sob gathering up her throat. She was so relieved she could’ve just collapsed. Charles squeezed her other hand, really gently, like he was reminding her, Hey, you are here, you are safe, do not go floating off just yet.
David slipped from the shadows, answering easily, “Only locking up, sir. The Father has retired.” His voice carried calm authority, practiced.
The man muttered something about the hour and shuffled away, boots fading into the night. The chapel door settled shut once more.
Only then did Anya breathe again. Her whole body trembled. She had come so close, one more moment, one different voice, and everything would have been lost.
Charles studied her, his kind eyes grave. “You see now why we must be careful. Julian is not the only threat, but he is the greatest one of them all.”
Anya nodded, tears flowing down her cheeks. “If he ever knew…”
“He must not,” Charles said firmly. “Not until you are strong enough to face him with truth in your hand.”
Her voice cracked. “But what if I’m never strong enough?”
Charles put his hand inside his coat and brought out a small leather case, worn at the edges. He opened it with care and put a photograph across the pew.
Anya’s hand hovered before she dared to touch it. The image was sepia, faded but clear enough. A woman with the same eyes Anya saw in her own mirror. Clara Beaumont. Her hair was pulled back, eyes gentle but sharp like she could see right past time and straight into her daughter’s soul.
The photograph was blurry as Anya’s tears fell onto it. She held it tight to her chest, unable to speak a word.
Charles’s voice softened. “She was gentle, but strong. She sang to you every night, a song our family carried for generations. That is why it haunts you. It is not just a lullaby Anya, it is a memory.”
The name got choked up in her throat, like a secret she was not ready to expose. Annabelle. It sat there, hanging on the edge of her tongue almost real, not quite hers. She just could not say it out loud. Not yet. But, man, it buzzed on her lips, itching to escape.
Charles leaned in, hugged her gently in a comforting way. Sort of fatherly, like he wanted to keep her from drifting off, but didn’t want to hold her too tight.
. “Take this. Keep it hidden. When you look at it, remember that you are not alone. You belong to a name greater than the one Julian gave you.”
Her fingers clutched the photograph as though it were breath itself.
David reappeared at the door, tense but quiet. “The street is clear. You must go before the hour grows later.”
Anya stood up weakly onto her legs, her shawl clutched tight around her. She glanced once more at Charles, desperate and grateful all at once. “Will I see you again?”
“You will,” Charles promised. “But only when it is safe. Until then, guard this secret as if you were guarding your life.”
She nodded her head but could not say anything
The walk back to the mansion was pure torture. Every time her foot steps the gravel it sounds like a gunshot. Shadows just kept moving ahead, taking up the path, making her get goosebumps. She could not shake the fear that Julian was right there, maybe about to grab her or maybe about to whisper something low and terrifying she would never forget..
But no one stopped her.
At last, the gates loomed. The mansion rose above like a dark sentinel, windows glittering faintly. Her cage. Her prison. And yet, for the first time, she carried something inside it that was entirely hers.
She slipped in through the servants’ entrance, heart hammering. The halls were quiet. She crept to her room, sliding the photograph beneath the lining of her jewelry box, hidden beside the folded note from Sterling. Two fragile pieces of truth.
That was the only time she was able to law down on her bed, pressing her face into the pillow, her body shaking with silent sobs. Relief, fear and hope all tangled until she could not separate them anymore.
The next morning, Julian’s study room door opened. He greets her with a smile that looked like kindness but felt unreal.
“Anya,” he said, rising to pour her tea himself, an unusual gesture. “I worry for you. Last night, you seemed… unsettled. Did you sleep well?”
She forced her lips into a smile. “I slept.”
His eyes flicked to her, sharp and searching. “Good. You know I only want you well.” He handed her the cup, his fingers brushing hers a touch so light it chilled her.
She sipped, her hands trembling slightly.
Julian watched. “It troubles me, sometimes, how much you wander in your thoughts. Imagination can be dangerous. It can lead a woman to believe things that are not real.”
Her stomach twisted. Did he know? Had someone seen her leave?
Julian leaned closer, his voice soft, intimate, dangerous. “I depend on you, Anya. Your loyalty is everything. And you depend on me, don’t you?”
Her throat felt tight as she nodded. “Yes, Julian.”
His smile returned, polished and perfect. “Good. Then we understand each other.”
But as his hand lingered on hers, Anya’s mind was not with him. It was on the photograph hidden upstairs, on the lullaby humming faintly in her memory, on the name she was not ready to speak aloud yet.
For the first time, his words did not feel like the truth. They felt like chains. And she had begun to see the key.
Julian subtly warns Anya he will not tolerate secrets, his suspicion sharpening. But Anya now holds proof of her true identity and though still terrified, she feels the first quiet stirrings of rebellion inside her.
- Writer
