Chapter Text
August 1990
A fly buzzed lazily against the window. Chrissy wet a fingertip and flicked it against a page of her magazine, feeling just as lazy in the August heat.
The car hummed along down the highway, her seat vibrating gently under her as she shifted sideways. Her elbow brushed the roll of Oreos that sat mostly untouched in the cup holder between them, crinkling against the edge of a spread-out map of the Hudson Valley. She smoothed the pages of her Cosmo against her knees.
Ten Ways to Find a Lover. Love Scenes That Sizzled On AND Off Screen! Interview with Gloria Steinem (God, her mother hated Gloria Steinem). I Was a High-Fashion Model. Divorcing Your Mother — Finally!
Chrissy’s mouth quirked upwards and she flipped ahead to the last article. Finally. A little advice was always helpful. Jason’s hand sneaked over from the driver’s seat and brushed against her own.
“Anything good in there?” He sounded doubtful and amused. His hand raised hers to his mouth and he gave it a light, playful kiss. Chrissy pursed her lips and tried to sound offended without giggling. “There’s a Gloria Steinem column,” she intoned in a she-hoped-dignified voice. “And…the sex quizzes,” she added with a blush.
“Oh nooooo, the quizzes,” Jason said, touching his fingers dramatically to his lips. “Okay, go on then. How are we doing?”
How Deep is Your Love: Can It Survive a Getaway Together?
“Well. This one is actually about…if it’s too soon to go on vacation together?” Chrissy and Jason exchanged quick glances, gentle and smirking.
“Hope not,” Jason sighed. “Or this is going to be the world’s most awkward honeymoon.”
The narrow road that branched off the highway twisted its way through trees until it emptied out in a small town — smaller even than Hawkins — with quiet, scuffed-looking streets. A grocery store, a post office, a small park. Library. Mechanic. Diner. And then a Thanks for Visiting Edgewood sign. Well okay then, Chrissy thought. Tiny.
Jason turned onto an uphill dirt road at the edge of town that started bumpy and got bumpier, choppy with tire tracks and potholes. “Seriously?” Chrissy murmured as she gripped the door handle to keep from bouncing, and Jason grimaced an apology. “Sorry,” he said, “almost there, babe. It’s worth it, I swear.” The location of their honeymoon was top secret, known to Jason and completely unknown to Chrissy. The surprise of it all had seemed a lot more romantic when they’d agreed on it, on the afternoon they took turns taping up moving boxes in their old Murray Hill place. Now it just seemed weird and inconvenient. She didn’t know anything at all, other than the one word Jason had given her — Ardenbrae.
She noticed the road was overgrown at the edges, vines and small flowers she didn’t know the names of spilling over the edges and getting crunched under the tires of the car. The woods were thicker here, crowding the road on either side like deep green curtains. In another five minutes they pulled up in a clearing, where the tree curtains parted to give Chrissy her first good look at the mysterious Ardenbrae.
Okay. So Ardenbrae turned out to be a house, if you could call something that size a house. It loomed and cast deep blue shadows over the patchy lawn, and was incredibly tall and old-fashioned with multiple high, pointy roofs. Chrissy and her freshly-minted degree in communications couldn’t summon the architectural words and what-do-you-call-its to describe this house. It was the kind of building that had more than one peak because it was actually made up of a few smaller buildings — wings, was that the right term? — clustered together, with an impressive square tower in the center. Vines, the same ones that had choked the path, growing halfway up the sides of the grey brick walls. Crumbling stone in just a few places, like a book with its corners worn away. It looked, Chrissy thought with a six-year-old’s awe, like a castle. With arched windows and the crinkly edge at the top of the tower that she’d always put on castle drawings as a kid, it was straight out of a fairy tale. The creepy Grimm’s kind, maybe. But still. Fancy.
The weirdest thing about Ardenbrae — which to be honest was really saying something — was the modern-looking building tacked onto the side of it. A whole glass-and-steel wing made the building look awkwardly lopsided, protruding horizontally from one side of the castle like it had sprouted there. There was a sharp line where one ended and the other began. On one side the 20th century, Chrissy thought, on the other side the 16th.
“It’s actually from the late 1800s, not like, medieval times or anything,” Jason said, reading her mind. “I mean, they didn’t have castles here, obviously. Just some millionaire’s idea of a castle. Some investors bought it a couple of years back and started building that —“ he gestured to the sleek, boxy addition with its flat roof and floor to ceiling windows “— to make it more modern. Isn’t it cool?”
They shouldered their bags inside after Jason unlocked the door. The modern plate-glass door at the side, not the heavy iron-bolted one in the central tower, which actually felt a little disappointing. Wasn’t the whole point of honeymooning in a castle that it be, you know, castle-y?
“Jason,” Chrissy said slowly, her bag sliding to the floor. “There’s no one else here. Shouldn’t there be a concierge, or a host, or…” She wheeled around to find him smiling with all his perfect white teeth on display, eyes uncertain.
“You like it, though, right?” Jason tugged absently on the bottom of his shirt, then did it again. His voice was soft, boyish. “You like it here? Special, right?”
“It’s…I don’t know yet. It’s pretty?” So, it was some kind of medieval-themed bed and breakfast, maybe? Chrissy squinted down the nearest dark hallway like a social director and bellhop might be about to show up any second with a clipboard and luggage cart. “It’s like a fairy tale.”
“Yes!” Jason bounded over and took her hands excitedly. “Yes, okay, exactly. That’s exactly what I thought when I first saw the place.”
He’d been here before?
“Like it was magic,” Jason continued. He pulled her close and bent close to her ear, brushing her hair away. “Babe. It’s ours.”
Chrissy let out a laugh all at once that sounded like a great big cartoon HA!! and then — “wait, for the weekend?”
“For every weekend. It’s ours. I — we, bought it.”
Bought it. We bought it. A castle, in the middle of nowhere. Where. Why. How. How could you buy a castle? How could you buy an entire building, land, a home, without talking about it first with your wife? Your wife. Each thought barreled past her without stopping, like the rush of the briefly-glimpsed cars on the downtown A express — whoosh whoosh whoosh.
Chrissy settled on how?
With the massive payoff from an investment his uncle in finance had tipped him off about in the spring, plus — of course, Chrissy realized, feeling stupid and slow — most of what they had set aside for the honeymoon in the first place. “It was at auction,” Jason whispered, his voice scratchy but still excited. “A steal, you can’t believe how cheap. We can afford it.”
“I don’t want it, Jason!” Chrissy howled this and shrugged off his heavy hands from her shoulders. “We were — we were going to go house hunting after this! Together!” Apartment-hunting was more like it, for another tiny place to rent rather than a home to buy, but still. Jason’s face floated in front of her, square jaw hanging soft and vulnerable in shock. Was that really surprise on his face? How had he been expecting this whole bombshell to go? Chrissy turned on her heel and left him stammering at her back.
Bought it. A steal.
It was three full days before she spoke again, beyond annoyed grunts when she came out from watching Wings and Designing Women behind her locked bedroom door to forage cold cereal or toast or whatever for her next meal.
Because fuck him, that’s why.
The deliciously nasty word rumbled around in her brain, the one she would allow herself to think but never say. Fuck him and his bullshit masculine lord-of-the-manor fantasy castle and their ruined honeymoon.
And what exactly, Jason, was Chrissy supposed to do in a small town after the honeymoon was over? Wander the manor like a bored ghost with a candelabra? This wasn’t the 1800s anymore. She had a degree in communications, for God’s sake. You couldn’t just move to the middle of fucking nowhere and assume that — ugghhhhh forget it.
Chrissy stormed to the kitchen and poured herself yet another bowl of Grapenuts and, after hesitating for a moment, a brimming glass of buttery chardonnay. A classic pairing if ever she saw one.
In the meantime, constant rain settled in outside, and solid grey mist crept all the way up from the ground to the windows. A truck arrived one morning and unloaded all the moving boxes she and Jason had carefully packed together, along with all their furniture. Taking a break from scowling at folksy Nantucket airlines and sassy Southern decorators, Chrissy emerged from the bedroom one afternoon to find a congealed bowl of mac and cheese outside her door — in fact, her foot nearly ended up in it. There was a water glass with a few drooping wildflowers nearby as well.
How many times had they shared late night dinners of gooey instant Kraft, sitting cross-legged on her dorm floor? Chrissy had lost count.
She almost softened towards him then, but remembered that wait yes that’s right her new husband had bought an entire house without even asking her. Chrissy decided to let him squirm for another day, and dumped the ruined mac and cheese in the disposal. Tried not to think about all the meals she’d ground up in a garbage disposal over the years but — well, anyway. That was difficult. She glanced at their old couch and coffee table as she stalked by, looking small and threadbare and not nearly enough to fill up the vast and sophisticated house.
Jason found her that afternoon looking out the window at the slick, foggy world outside. He set a cautious palm on her back like he was trying not to spook a horse. “I’m sorry,” he started. “I should never…we should have talked. It all happened so fast, the agents sold me so hard on the history of it all, I just got obsessed. And it felt romantic.” Jason huffed a little laugh. Romantic.
Chrissy sighed and turned fully, making his hand drop from her back. “Jason. I’m going to be mad. For a while.” Jason stared sheepishly. His face, a messy portrait in agonized red and purple splotchiness. His eyes, pleading. Chrissy savored it all like a mean and selfish little treat. Later that night she’d probably be awake in bed, lying next to him for the first time so far on their honeymoon, wondering what was wrong with her that she could even think like that. She already knew she’d churn the thought over and over in her mind until she felt acidic and nauseous. Chrissy dreaded the feeling of throwing up but could feel the future indentations of cold tile on her knees.
But for now, she released him. “This isn’t how I wanted to spend our first week as married people, though. I want…I miss you.” Jason’s eyes went soft and wide then and he lifted her hand to kiss her knuckles. Fine. Maybe it would be okay. She’d let him convince her.
“I want to explore,” Chrissy heard her own voice say out loud.
The modern end of the house was three large square bedrooms, a living room and study, and a beautiful sleek kitchen. But Chrissy’s impatience buzzed at her brain like an insistent fly. She wanted to wander the rooms of the antique wing — wasn’t that the whole point? She lived in a castle. A grand archway led to the chilly grey stone halls beyond, framed in maybe-mahogany and wallpapered in faded patterns. Gas lanterns lined the walls and carved wooden doorways led to elegant, empty room after room. On the inside, Ardenbrae really was less a medieval stronghold and more just an old-fashioned house. But still, it took her breath away. An enormous tarnished chandelier — Chrissy gasped when she saw it — dangled near the grand stairwell, looking twice as wide as her own arms could stretch.
Jason was right, it was probably some rich 1800s family’s royal fantasy, but still. It was all a little surreal. She felt wrong and alien, a casual outsider stumbling around in tapered Jordache and a t-shirt instead of a flounced nightgown.
It took a full morning just to explore the endless ground floor, with Jason trailing further and further behind. Chrissy’s itchy, impatient feet kept leaving him poking around in corners and dusty libraries that were still half full of ancient-looking books. “Go ahead,” he kept waving her on. “Right behind you.” When Chrissy ended up back at the grand stairs in the tower entrance, Jason was nowhere behind her, but she continued up the steps like something behind her navel was tugging her. With every step the air dropped a few degrees — which, that was kind of weird, wasn’t it? Wasn’t cool air supposed to flow downwards? Also, it was August. But the tower was definitely more chilly and damp than any other part of the house.
The walls were plain, old-fashioned stone in the upper tower floors, no peeling floral or velvet striped paper here. Just one elegantly-fitted grey brick after another. Once Chrissy thought she heard a voice call out Chris? from below, but she zipped her lips. Let him wait, it wouldn’t hurt him to be on the back foot for a minute. How does that feel, Jase? After four years together, she knew his every tone and microinflection.
She could wait it out until he sounded really worried.
Jason had picked her out in their first month at NYU, had spotted her across a room and knew her immediately by her tightly curled bangs as a fellow small-town Indiana kid. Which, sure, Chrissy was. They dated for all of college, then got married, which was basically what she would have done if she’d never left Hawkins in the first place. Marriage at twenty-two was the most small town dream she could think of. But they were also still disgustingly in love, and that feeling curled around her like a protective blanket. There was no way to stay mad at Jason when he might take her by the hand any minute and remind her how pretty she was and that he was “the luckiest guy in the world.” Chrissy knew her petty meanness would fade in another day or two, Jason would warm her up with his blue eyes and filthy whispering at her ear making her giggle, but in the meantime it would just —
(her fingers had brushed the damp wall just then and god god GOD)
— horror clenched her brain as she pulled back covered in a handful of sticky, spiderwebby strands. Automatically she scrubbed the mess against the leg of her jeans and then jerked sideways because — ughhh what are you doing it’s still on you oh god!
Chrissy thrashed, twisted and flapped her way into the opposite clammy wall, thudding against a closed door and scrabbling at the knob to push it open. She swung, panting, into a murky room that she desperately hoped was spiderless. When she had stopped squeaking and hopping up and down and her eyes adjusted, Chrissy saw the space for what it was. A bedroom, grand and dusty. The only room she had seen so far that was still full of furniture, with an old-fashioned canopy bed draped in curtains. A set of carved wooden tables and a matching wardrobe cabinet, a chair with scrolled arms, and a huge fireplace. She let out a breath and wandered, touching each thing softly and trailing powdery white dust under her fingertips. The air felt a little uneasy in here, the same as the rest of the tower, but Chrissy’s curiosity was stronger than the creeps it gave her. Ignoring the tingling feeling in her fingertips, she kept walking and touching.
Chrissy approached the wardrobe and swung it open with a horrible creak, that awed little six-year-old inside her wondering — all right, hoping — maybe there’d be something to wear inside. Something elegant, a dress or a high-necked nightgown? Even just a feathered hat. Just for fun. A lady-of-the-manor costume, since she was apparently stuck in the 19th or the 16th century for good, whichever it was.
The cabinet was dark and felt disappointingly empty. Something snagged against her hand when she groped along a high shelf she could barely reach. A hard edge. Chrissy brought her hand back down holding a small leather-bound book. She stroked the open pages and read, realizing what she held.
I dreamed of this place before I ever laid eyes on it, as strange a fact as that is to admit. The rolling grounds, the carved stone, the imposing doorways. I felt I knew them somehow, in my deepest thoughts, like something remembered after awakening. Truly the strangest feeling. Something about Ardenbrae seems…
A diary. She was holding a diary. Chrissy clutched it to her chest like a treasure and stumbled out of the unnerving bedroom, back down dozens of stone stairs to her husband.
It rained for three more full days. Outside, the weather was warm enough to keep a sweaty film of condensation over the glass — steaming up the windows , Chrissy thought with a smirk. Typical honeymoon behavior. Her prediction that Jason would charm her with his sweet aw shucks ma’am Hoosierness was right on, and by the night of the mac and cheese morning she let herself be pulled back into bed. After their reunion they spent most of their time half-dressed, lazily exploring every horizontal surface in every last room in the house. It felt like Jason could undress her at a moment’s notice, by curving a hand around her hip or stroking a finger down her back. Chrissy would shiver and open up for him, her lips wrapped eagerly around his and her thighs straddling his waist, or else one leg thrown up over his shoulder the way they both liked. Coming down from the height of an orgasm she’d always look around and think, here we are at home. Home. She was Mrs. Carver. The Carvers lived in a castle.
And actually, it wasn’t every room. Not really.
Chrissy and Jason had done it in the hallways and the kitchen, in the conservatory and their own bedroom. But there was one room they never went in, which was that grand, furnished bedroom on the third floor of the tower. That whole wing of the house, the chilly tower most of all, just felt…unpleasant. Definitely unsexy. Too quiet, like the walls absorbed everything into a muffled, cotton-soft silence. You could only stand it for so long before you had to get out.
After the rain cleared on the third day, Chrissy rushed immediately outside to let warm sunlight touch her skin. The air inside the house had started to feel a little thick and stifling. She threw the car keys into Jason’s hand and tugged him toward the Volvo.
“Jase. Please. Just a little trip into town, I’m going nuts from castle fever,” she said, not loving the babyish way her voice went high-pitched at the end.
“Hey, we’ve been having fun up here, haven’t we?”
“Oh, yeah. Absolutely! I just —“ she fluttered her eyelashes recklessly and scrambled for a reason “— there was that cute antique store we saw on the first day, back downtown. Also, you know we’re basically down to a box of instant mac and a couple of apples. Getting scurvy isn’t sexy.”
Jason laughed, running a hand through his golden hair and leaving it spiky. “Okay, okay. Scurvy’s bad. Happy wife, happy life.” He mock-sighed and kissed the bridge of her nose. The road down the hill was even bumpier than Chrissy remembered, probably from the rain, and with every muddy skid and jolt over the sharp rocks she wondered if they’d made a mistake. Weirdly, the further down the hill they drove, the more dry the ground seemed. In fact, in town it didn’t look like it had rained at all.
Downtown Edgewood was cuter than she remembered, and the antique store was downright adorable. Chrissy skipped excitedly between vintage linens and gold-framed landscapes, looking for something that might warm the chilly place up and add a little personality. Lace felt like a little too much, and fussy ceramic animals were way too granny for her taste, but maybe a couple of velvet throw pillows? She stepped closer to stroke them and a brass lamp caught her eye, tall and curvaceous. She hefted it in one hand, wondering if it would be nice to add a few things to the creeptastic tower bedroom. After digging into the first few entries in the dusty journal — it was so cozy and intimate — Chrissy was starting to feel less and less of the prickling on her neck whenever she thought about that dark, hushed room. The mysterious writer, also a newlywed, had clearly poured her heart and soul and all her endearing anxieties into the ink on every page, and she was starting to think of her as a kind of friend. In Chrissy’s imagination, the writer’s skirts swished alongside her scuffed sneakers as she walked.
She’d never feel comfortable enough to suggest actually living and sleeping in the tower bedroom, but a few nice antiques might make it feel a little more bright and cheery. More like the beautiful room it must have been once. Not her usual style, but maybe something the journal writer would have liked. There was no name signed anywhere in the small leather book, Chrissy wished she knew it.
She searched the nearby tables hopefully for a matching brass lamp, before spotting something else. The edge of a flowing ivory sleeve stuck out from behind a rack of vintage cocktail dresses, edged in silky ribbon. A nightgown, swishy and romantic. Chrissy smoothed it on the hanger and gave it a curious look, wondering if maybe her journal writer had worn something just like —
“Chris.”
Chrissy turned and saw Jason’s thumb and pointer finger framing his chin sternly under a faded top hat. Clowning with a straight face was a Jason specialty. Former high school athletes never stopped loving a spotlight, and Jason in particular was always jockeying for Future Funny Dad cred. He had made her little cousins Emmy and Melissa laugh until their pigtails shook — and they were gonna pee themselves, stop it! — every family holiday in Hawkins, by being Blind Man Driving or Clueless Lion Tamer Jason or Idiot Villain About to Step Off a Cliff and so on.
Now he twirled an invisible mustache and tipped his threadbare hat to Chrissy at a precarious angle.
“The lord of the house needs a hat.”
She giggled and groaned, reaching for one of the glittering cocktail dresses. “The lady of the house says you look like Abe Lincoln.” Chrissy pressed it against herself, smoothing the gold sequins and squirming in a little shimmy. “Happy Birthdaaayy, Mister President…” she cooed breathily, rolling her eyes.
Jason twirled the top hat onto the nearest table and caught her wrist playfully to spin her closer. He held a string of fat pearls to his neck and clutched at them, scandalized. “Not Marilyn!” He gasped this warmly against her ear, in a pretty decent Laura Cunningham falsetto. “A little modesty, young lady, we didn’t raise you to be some kind of…of… Godless , shameless hussy!”
“Hussy?” Chrissy squealed this in a whisper, twisting to face him.
“Pretty one.”
“Flirt.”
Jason upturned his palms like it’s true, then caught her lips in a warm peck. Chrissy hummed against them. She pulled away and slipped the flowing white nightgown off its hanger. “What do you think about this one, Mr. Carver?”
He frowned and took a step back. “Oh Grandmother, what big teeth you have!”
Chrissy’s mouth crimped downwards. Big teeth was always a phrase she was a little sensitive to. “It’s pretty!”
“Totally pretty! Granny chic. Or for your Phantom of the Opera audition?”
She groaned and dropped the hanger like it had singed her fingers. “You know what? Forget it.”
“Aw, Chris, it’s okay. Sorry. It’s…pretty.” Jason always snorted a little whenever he lied. “You really want it?”
“I was just looking, anyway.” Chrissy deflected, hoisting the tarnished brass lamp like a trophy. “Look what I found, though!”
Checking out took some time while Winnie, the sweet old shopkeeper, cooed over them — ohhhh the cutest little newlyweds would you just look at you — and did everything but pinch their cheeks. “We wondered who was going to move into the old place,” the grandmotherly woman gushed warmly. “It’s been empty for too long.” Something uneasy flickered over her face for just a second. Just her imagination, Chrissy decided.
Bustling out the door with their arms loaded with folded quilts, pillows and the awkward brass lamp, she and Jason bumped their way backwards out the double glass doors. Chrissy was mid-sentence and in the middle of hitching everything up to keep it wedged in her arms when something solid smacked against her back. She dropped half of what she was holding and audibly oof’ ed, whirling around.
“Shit,” said the solid thing. “Sorry, sorry. Hey.” He — it was a he — reached down to pick up her things like Jason didn’t even exist. He piled them back in her arms. “You okay?”
The he thing was a man, a youngish man their own age. He scrunched his nose and tipped his head to the right, looking at her. His hand was warm and rough on her forearm.
“I’m so sorry, I should have been looking —“
The youngish man laughed a little. “Guess we’re even then, huh?” His eyes were almost black. He wore dark leather. Hair, shaggy and long, brushed his shoulders. He was still touching her.
“Hey man,” Jason’s voice broke in, putting on some version of his Future Dad voice but with his handsome jaw flexed. The long-haired man’s hand fell away from Chrissy’s arm. “Maybe just, you know, eyes on the road from now on, huh?” Jason looked at the spot on Chrissy’s arm like he expected to see a burn.
“Yeah, cool. Didn’t mean to, uh, scare you.” The leather guy’s eyes flicked right back to Chrissy’s. “Um. Carry on,” he added, waving at the sidewalk ahead of them like he was giving a tour.
Chrissy felt her face loosen into a little smile. “Thanks, have a good —“
“Okay, okay. Thanks.” Jason’s arm came up, his broad wingspan covering her back. “You have a good one.” He urged her onwards to the Volvo.
Chrissy pulled her car door open and glanced back towards the antique shop, expecting the young guy to be gone — inside? Did somebody like that buy antiques? Surprisingly, he was still there, leaning back with one bent leg braced against the wall, in no hurry.
“Weirdo.” Jason shook his head a little and brought the car’s engine to life. “You sure you’re okay?”
“No biggie!” Chrissy’s chirpy ohmygod totally high school cheer captain voice reanimated like a ghost inside her chest.
The man’s shaggy head dipped to light a cigarette. His sleeves were pushed up now, and Chrissy noticed a dusting of dark hair and inky shapes sketched underneath. He stood out like a tattoo himself against his plain surroundings, a dark irregular shape etched on unmarked skin, or like a blot of splattered ink on a smooth white page. He didn’t make sense here in Edgewood. Chrissy could have sworn his black eyes swiveled to her window. He watched the car without any particular expression as they drove away.
That night, Chrissy lay stretched out on her stomach across their bed, propped on her elbows and biting a thumb. The young newlyweds from The Big City. They were going to be the weirdos themselves here in Edgewood, probably for a long time. She ignored the thought and rolled onto her back, treating herself to another entry in the journal. She was working her way through the little leather book like a juicy novel.
Our very small household staff has been a pleasant surprise and a balm to my worried nerves. Mrs. Alcott the housekeeper is especially warm and so patient with me, and Watson the butler is kindly as well. There is a third man I have yet to meet, a groundskeeper who lives in a cottage at the edge of our woods. Mrs. Alcott assures me that he mostly keeps to himself, and so our introduction may yet be some time in the far future.
To be perfectly frank, it would not bother me at all if it were put off indefinitely. Does that sound ungracious? It’s only that I glimpsed the man on our first day at Ardenbrae and his demeanor seemed altogether rough and menacing. He cuts a wild and dark figure, perfectly suited to living alone in the forest. Truly, I would not be at all surprised to see flowers wilt in his path and animals regularly flee his approach! There we go, now that really did sound ungracious. Country living is hard on the manners.
It is perhaps a matter not a matter of great importance, however.
I am certain our very different paths will rarely cross, perhaps never.
March 1902
Birds trilled in lazy afternoon voices, unseen in the trees above. To say that the road below, like all paths twisting their way up a mountainside, was primitive would be using an overly mild word. This particular road was pockmarked with holes, overgrown and choked with ivy and primroses, with swells of vines spilling out at the edges that nearly swallowed the path below them.
Their carriage jolted unsteadily along deep grooves and rough stones, causing enough turbulence to make even the simplest activity such as reading or writing quite impossible. A small leather-bound journal and pen slid and tumbled helplessly from Christine’s lap to the floorboards, as she supported herself on the window ledge to keep from falling. Jason reached across and put a sympathetic hand on her knee.
“Not much longer, darling,” he said in an apologetic tone like warm honey. “The road is dreadful, I’m afraid.”
Christine exhaled a breath through her nose and laced white-gloved fingers through the broad ones he had laid on the blue silk of her traveling dress. It was fine. It would all be fine. She straightened her back and nodded towards Jason with an indulgent smile, then bent to retrieve her journal. “I am sure it will be worth it when we finally reach Ardenbrae —“ the carriage lurched over a particularly deep hole, she swayed and fought the terrible urge to throw up “— your stories have, have… no thank you dear I’m fine… have made the place seem like such a grand adventure.” Her stomach rolled, carriage wheel-style.
Jason’s worried face brightened at her words, and he launched into another long description of the beauty of the grounds and the stone-walled grandeur of their new home. Christine tried to let her mind drift peacefully as she admired the warm golden sunlight on the contours of his face. He really was quite attractive, she thought approvingly, masculine and square-jawed. She could have made a much worse match. Their engagement had spanned a very socially acceptable six months, and yet the planning of it all had seemed such a whirlwind — Mrs. Carver waging wars over seating charts and flowers, and Mrs. Cunningham launching counter-attacks over refreshments and string quartets — that it was hard to believe it was all over. She wondered how long it would be before she stopped thinking of the city as home and started picturing Ardenbrae instead.
The delicate arches of her feet still ached from the cobblestones of Manhattan. In fact, if she concentrated, Christine could summon an echo of many carriages clattering all at once, the rustle of silk skirts brushing against one another on the pavement. Perfume, horses, burnt sugar aromas and the oily reek of fried oysters from street carts crept into her memories of swishing down crowded sidewalks, pressed tightly arm-in-arm with her mother. Mrs. Phillip Cunningham was tiny yet formidable, barely an inch taller than Christine herself and yet always able to part the sea of people before them through sheer force of will.
For better or worse, her mother had steered her like a ship, and the woman had sobbed real tears at their train departure that morning. Both at their leaving, and at her immense pride in having successfully launched the U.S.S. Christine into matrimony.
Marrying Jason had been a stroke of luck that she had instantly jumped at. He was handsome, good-natured, and — the vulgar truth had to be admitted — the inheritor of a vast and wealthy estate in the mountains. Above all else, marrying Jason offered Christine freedom from her mother’s overwhelming nature and nurture, without which she was breathing freely for the first time in many years. Across the carriage Jason was still carrying on, and her head nodded frequently whenever her newly-minted husband paused for breath, but to be honest, she wasn’t paying much attention. Christine simply let his enthusiasm and soothing tone wash over her like a balm, easing both the gnawing worry and nausea in her stomach.
Jason’s voice took on a harsher and more clipped tone with the carriage driver, who had suddenly brought the horses up short. The older man’s face was florid and pink-cheeked, his voice twanged like the rest of the country folk in town.
“Beg your pardon sir, but this horse is surely about to throw a shoe, what with all this mess.” The driver gestured to the rocks and then the harnessed chestnut mare, who stood twitching her irritable legs and stamping. “We’d be wise to seek help before we’re stranded altogether. The groundskeeper’s cottage is just at the edge of those trees there, it may be that he…” His reedy voice trailed off in her ears as Christine glimpsed a shingled roof and simple doorway, a wisp of smoke curling above.
At her side, Jason relented to the driver’s urging. Unwilling and annoyed, he descended to follow the older man to the small house in the trees. The distant door swung open and a figure that Christine had to squint to see emerged from inside.
She sucked in a sharp breath — the man who answered was wiry and tall, dressed in black with irregular waves of hair hanging loose. The planes of his face were flat and lined, half-shadowed in the dim light and flickering in the firelight within. She couldn’t releasing a tiny gasp, this man was perhaps the wildest person she’d ever seen. He leaned in the doorway, unmoving. His brow was creased above narrowed eyes aimed downwards at Jason and the carriage driver, his mouth curved in an irregular line. He looked…feral as a creature, Christine thought shakily.
Dark and sharp, an angry face. The face of a devil.
She shuddered and hoped the stranger wouldn’t join them.
“Move on, for God’s sake.” Jason’s raised voice carried sharply through the trees, and when she opened her eyes the distant cottage door was once again shut. Her husband — of only three days, Christine reminded herself in amazement — mounted the carriage steps and barked at the driver. Now as red-faced as the older man, he shook his head before clearing his features from angered to gentle.
“The light is fading and Mrs. Carver will be exhausted from the journey,” he added with an overly corrected politeness. “Never mind the horse, we don’t stop again until Ardenbrae is in sight.”
Relief bathed Christine’s body in warmth, followed by a cold flash of dread. Ardenbrae. Mrs. Carver. No longer Christine Cunningham. In all the heady rush of matrimony and those first few feverish evenings as a wedded couple, she had pushed aside the thought that she was now the lady of a grand house. How young and stupid she would soon feel. A place this size would have maids and butlers and a cook. And footmen, she had quite forgotten footmen! And a groom! And — oh dear — a housekeeper. Along with who knew how many other members of staff. The former queen of her own gilded social scene now found herself quite on the back foot, weak and foolish in the face of this so-called grand adventure.
It had seemed like an excellent idea, once.
The Cunninghams were modestly wealthy but not well-endowed. Her mother’s brash lessons in domestic life had extended as far as how to dress for society and how to appear fascinating to men and how to entertain strangers even when one does not particularly want to. Christine had planned to marry a merchant or a banker and spend her days giddily socializing with the same dozen girls she’d known all her life, now with husbands. The running of a vast country estate was unimaginable.
And yet. The carriage rattled on.
Christine silently knotted her hands into her skirt in despair — how exactly did you coordinate a daily menu and the movements of a team of servants? Parties and balls? What if the housekeeper figured out she was little more than a silly, overly confident young girl? She longed for the simple bliss of their honeymoon, three glamorous nights of privacy and champagne at the Waldorf-Astoria. Just herself and Jason, where there had been nothing much else to do but lounge in a luxurious bed, until it was time to dress for dinner or a night at the theatre.
Now, here on a bumpy uphill carriage ride, the comforts of the city were gradually dissolving into rural reality. The sky was a ribbon of blue above them, growing narrower as the sun set and the dark trees drew closer. Christine sat rubbing her hand idly over the worn leather of the carriage armrest, then picked at a loose button in the tufted velvet. Jason seemed to have fallen into some private reverie and she felt nearly alone. Ahead of them, the horses clip-clopped towards the unknown.
“I spent several summers here when I was young, you know, with old Uncle Archibald,” Jason remarked dreamily from the gloom. “Riding horses and poking around in the forest and jumping off the stone walls of the gardens, typical boy things. I suppose I ran rather wild, really.” He paused thoughtfully. “It was the happiest time of my life.”
“I can almost imagine you as a young menace,” Christine replied, in her most practiced carefree tone. “An unholy little terror in short pants.”
“Ahhh,” Jason abruptly sat forward and leaned toward the open windows, rubbing his hands together. “Yes… yes! This is that bend in the path, I recognize it. Keep your eyes forward, we’ll see it in another minute. Ahh, Christine! This is more excited than I’ve ever been, sharing this with you.” His eyes gleamed.
More even than on our wedding day? But Christine dismissed that as an ungracious thought.
Jason’s eyes flicked towards the vines and flowers creeping into the road and his gaze darkened. “My God, but it’s overgrown,” he muttered, and then something like groundskeeper as he shook his head. Christine thought of firelight and shadows, and a sharp, angular face. The memory shuddered icily down her spine.
“Sir, the house!” The driver hailed them as the grey stones of Ardenbrae loomed into view. The carriage rattled across an expansive gravel drive into the shadow of the house, which rose high over it. Ardenbrae was nothing less than a complete shock. It was like something from a dream, or a nightmare — nightmare, now why on earth should she think that? — or an old fairy tale. The house was formed in the shape of a castle, a Gothic masterpiece, out of place in this era or any other since the 16th century. Peaked windows crisscrossed the front facade, behind each of which Christine fancied a vision of a delicate princess or cruel stepmother. Twisting vines encroached on the entire bottom half of the building. Christine wished these looked somewhat less sinister in the twilight.
Gardens sprawled around the east wing — for the massive house had at least two wings, possibly even more hidden away. A rounded archway of stone brick led away down the drive, to the carriage house and stables. At the center of it all stood the most astonishing thing, a tower. Impossibly tall, squared at the corners and notched at the top as if ready for medieval archers.
A castle, right here in modern upstate New York. She lived in a castle now. Something else occurred to Christine, an uncanny tugging at her mind of something half-remembered. Familiarity?
Something about Ardenbrae felt…familiar.
Jason lent her a hand as they dismounted the carriage, and she clutched at his fingers and squeezed them for a long desperate moment. This felt like a last chance, a line being crossed. “Jason, I —” Christine paused on the verge of simply confessing everything.
I’m so nervous I might be sick.
I’m nothing but a silly debutante.
Help me, for God’s sake, help me.
But his boyish face grinned and shone so hopefully that she pulled back. It was months too late to ask for help. The only way forward was through the fire.
Miss Cunningham was young and silly. Mrs. Carver would be strong and brave.
“We’ll meet the household staff, and then go inside and freshen up. I should have mentioned something to you, forgive me…” His voice dropped to a whisper as an older woman and two men approached in starched uniforms. “There are very few staff at the moment. They all…well. It’s been nearly empty since old Archibald died. Almost everyone left afterwards.”
Mrs. Alcott the housekeeper and Mr. Watson the butler, as well as a cook named Sanderson, dipped their heads in nods of welcome. There were no maids or footmen at all, not a single valet or groom in sight. Christine’s relief was so immediate that she felt she wanted to rush in and hug them. No legion of strangers whose formal manners would shame her own, only a few kindly-looking faces. Here was all the courage she needed. “How lovely to meet you,” she gushed, shaking each of their hands.
Mrs. Alcott’s face creased in a smile, her eyes twinkling. “Aye ma’am,” she said, in a voice that belonged to the country villages of southern England. “It’s surely a welcome sight to meet the both of you, as well.”
On their third morning of life at Ardenbrae, Christine rolled over onto her elbows and regarded the sleeping face of her new husband. Husband, the word still dreamily caressed her brain like silk. I have a wonderful husband. Jason slept like a boy, his hair pushed up from his smooth, unlined face, and one arm flung out in abandon.
The room was bright, sunlight poured in through the mullioned windows from high in the sky. For the third morning in a row, Christine realized they had slept in until a scandalously late hour — had they held breakfast downstairs, and what would Mrs. Alcott say? Some feeling she couldn’t quite name made it strangely difficult to wake here in their bedroom. It was like being wrapped in cotton wool, muffled and silent as if the sounds of birdsong and the movements in the house below couldn’t reach through the stone walls. Maybe just a reaction to country quiet after the constant shouts and clip-clop hustle bustle of street noise from New York City.
But maybe not.
Jason shifted next to her but didn’t open his eyes. “You’re staring again, wife.” He yawned. “Should let a man brush his hair first, at least, if you’re going to stare all morning.”
Christine smiled and curled against him, letting herself be taken in by his warm arms. “It’s late. We’ll have missed breakfast, and I’m starving.” She twisted to face him and brushed a kiss against his nose. “And you promised to show me the gardens today.”
“And I will, but first…” his fingers tickled her ribs, then danced slowly downwards, “first I have something else I promised to show you.”
They were much, much later for breakfast after that. Christine’s cheeks burned as they made their way to the breakfast table, still piled high with toast and jam, small sausages, and a fragrant tureen of buttery eggs. She began an apology to the housekeeper, who shushed her with a wave.
“Never wake newlyweds,” Mrs. Alcott said with a wink as she slipped a biscuit with honey into Christine’s plate. “That’s a rule I’ll never be breaking. You rise at whatever hour you please.” Christine blushed and stifled a laugh into her napkin.
The grounds, even in their sorry neglected state, took Christine’s breath away. She delighted in the sprawling lawns, the formal stone terrace with hedges and fountains, the charming paths that twisted away into the canopy of trees. Her heart leaped at her first sight of the old garden that lay just beyond the parlor windows, with its romantic little arbors and hidden enclaves with carved stone benches. The flower beds were shaped in the form of hearts — for the late Archibald’s wife, Jason explained, although she had died suddenly before the house was finished.
“It was all for Arden, supposedly, the house and the gardens, all of it.” Jason paused to take in the view. The garden around them was choked with overgrown and withered rose bushes. “My aunt, although I never met her. She died before I was even born. It was a shame.”
“He must have been so heartbroken.”
“Uncle Arch named the house for Aunt Arden, of course. It must have been difficult to live here without her, though. I would never want to do the same.” Jason pulled her closer and laid a kiss on top of her head.
“Plus, a house named Christinebrae just wouldn’t have the right ring to it, I guess.”
Christine resolved to spend time restoring the gardens to beauty, picturing them lively with roses and lilacs. She had a vision of herself draped over its stone benches with her nose buried in a novel, or else passionately scribbling in her journal. She hadn’t the first clue about gardening, of course, beyond the idea that soil and sunshine were required, but perhaps Mrs. Alcott could teach her? Christine stubbornly would not even let herself think of asking the strange, frightening groundskeeper.
“Imagine what the gardens would look like alive, the way he wanted them to be for her. With flowers and butterflies. It could be the sweetest little spot.” She ducked dreamily under an arbor choked with the ugly, half-dead vines.
“It’s a sweet picture, birdie.” Jason had the habit of comparing her to a sparrow or some other tiny, fluttering thing. “Plenty of light on this side of the house. The best of the grounds are here to the east and south, there’s nothing worth anything to the north.”
“Why, what’s up there?” Christine’s curiosity tingled.
“Nothing but rocks, I’m afraid. It’s a bit treacherous from what I remember. Steep.” A strange look passed over his face, some unreadable expression she didn’t like. His voice stiffened. “Promise me you won’t go up that way without me, little sparrow.”
“Oh, well, you know how sparrows can be —“ Her dismissive wave and tinkling laugh was cut short by Jason.
“Promise me.”
The look on his face was so unnerving. She promised.
A week had passed before the first dark cloud dampened their growing happiness. Christine was running panicked through the halls of the east wing, stumbling on unseen obstacles with her hands scraping the stone walls as she struggled for balance. Something was chasing her. Christine, it rasped. It’s time, it’s time, it’s —
Christine woke twisted in the sheets, soaked with perspiration, and choked out a sob. She reached instinctively for Jason’s warmth, but the bed next to her was cold and empty. Steadying herself with a hand over her own heart, she repeated — it was just a dream, it was a dream, a dream a dream a dream. Never mind that it had felt so real. No rasping whisper echoed here in the utter silence of the bedroom. For once the lack of sound felt comforting, like a soft blanket she could tuck herself under and hide away.
Eventually she rose and dressed quickly in the mirror — giving thanks as always for the lack of the fidgety assistance of a maid — and descended the tower steps to look for Jason. She thought once again of Priscilla, her mother’s ladies maid, who had always pinched Christine’s waist and brushed her hair briskly while dressing her. Priscilla would have sniffed at the simpler country dresses she was starting to prefer here, silently suggesting that a well-bred young lady ought to dress in finer styles. Her finer things were in fact stored away in a closet wrapped in tissue, the silk and seed pearls and flounces waiting for whenever she would next make a visit back to her old city life. Here at Ardenbrae she had discovered a surprising level of comfort — the unfussy cotton dresses of the country let her take a full breath without a corset for the first time in ages. And Jason always smiled at her as though she were lovely, no matter what she wore.
“You look like a lady poet,” he remarked on that morning’s old-fashioned ivory dress and stretched out his arm to catch her waist, pulling her into his lap at the breakfast table. “My little romantic authoress. Speaking of which…”
He pulled out a small leather journal and put it in her hand. “For your beautiful thoughts,” he elaborated. “For your stories.” Christine cooed delightedly and brushed the soft leather cover with her hand.
“Thank you, love. My old book was nearly filled to the end, there’s been so much to write about in the last few months…”
“Yes, and don’t think I didn’t notice that —“
How? Had he been reading it? She bit her lip and considered finding a better hiding place.
“— but it will be nice to have a fresh one, won’t it? A new beginning here at Ardenbrae.”
Christine raised a fine-stemmed glass of orange juice. Surely he was just trying to encourage her. “To our new beginning.”
“I won’t be able to join you again this morning, birdie,” Jason began hesitantly. He brushed a kiss against her wrist. “I’ll need to spend some time at work. Our estate lawyer sent up detailed accounts and well…it looks like Archibald left the place in a terrible mess.” He shook his head, foreboding.
“Oh. Oh yes, of course, that will be fine. Of course.” She wished she could stop repeating words like a silly girl. “Whatever you need to do. I’ll be alright, of course.” Silly again.
“You might take your new journal out into the garden? Put down some more of those pretty little thoughts.”
“That sounds perfect.”
Outside the grounds were awash with sunlight, seeming to sparkle in the sun. The first blush of spring warmed the air, and the garden was an enticing place to spend the morning. Except that, once pen was held to paper, Christine’s mind was restless. Words would not come. She tried shifting her position on the stone bench, took a short and pacing walk, even considered sitting straight down on the grass. It was no use.
Impatiently, she picked up the copy of Jane Eyre she had swiped from the library, though she had read it many times already. Jane’s plight didn’t move her as it usually did, and the gloomy Gothic descriptions of Thornfield Hall made her feel squirmy and uncomfortable. She watched the progress of a single ant on the stone balustrade beside her, spindly legs struggling to climb over a vine. At least he had something important to do.
Damn this, she thought, rolling the satisfying word secretly around in her mouth. Damn it all. Christine brushed herself off and marched bravely straight out into the grounds.
The path that branched to the left led to the lawns and ornamental ponds that she and Jason had already explored, and the one straight ahead led to the woods and clearing where they had held yesterday’s picnic. Impatience crept back in. She took a furtive glance to the right, where a carriage trail led behind the house and to the north of the property. She thought of Jason’s warning, but also of the heavy oak door of his office, closed up tight. Surely just a little walk was fine, just a very short peek. What he didn’t know couldn’t…
Just a very short peek.
Under the thick canopy of trees, the sunlight became dappled then faded away quickly. A fine mist actually began to appear around her feet. The path curved back towards the house, and she hesitated for a moment before stepping out into the woods themselves. Christine Cunningham, the silly debutante, wasn’t here anymore. Brave Mrs. Carver was here in her place, and she had the right to explore her own grounds. Didn’t she? Christine lifted the hem of her simple cotton skirt and gathered it at her knees, admitting that it would probably have been better if she had a cloak.
The chill and damp in the air grew with every step deeper into the forest. A hush in the air grew steadily around her as well, although she didn’t notice until the birdsong and low rattle of insects was gone completely. The mist seemed to thicken and curl around her shoulders, settling like a damp and unwelcome cloak. She looked uncertainly to the left and right and contemplated abandoning her adventure, when a sound crept towards her out of the white gloom. No, perhaps not quite a sound, but something like a muffled ringing in her ears. A feeling that she ought to continue walking — and with each step afterwards she began to feel a little more relaxed. Something irresistible was waiting, somewhere. It pulled her insistently like a tug behind her navel.
A warmth so convincing it might have been a voice in her head urged her, this way this way this way, just a little further.
The loud rustle in the bushes made her gasp and spin, startling her out of her trance. She expected a chittering squirrel or rabbit to burst forward, but startled back when a wiry grey snout emerged from the undergrowth. The enormous dog ambled towards her with a slowly wagging tail, then sniffed her hand casually. Christine relaxed her shoulders and petted its lumbering head, which reached as high as her waist.
“And whose are you?” She had just finished wondering this aloud when faint whistling came through the trees. The man in black emerged a moment later.
“There you are, you ungrateful beast.” The groundskeeper snorted towards the dog, not acknowledging Christine. “Find your own breakfast, then.”
“Good morning,” she said awkwardly, wondering how to begin when he was treating her much like someone would treat a tree or rock. His dark eyes swiveled upwards to hers. They were rounder in person, fringed in softer lashes than expected. His face was still stony. She still didn’t know his name.
“I’m so sorry, I’m…I’m afraid we haven’t been introduced yet. I’m Christine Carver.” Her bright debutante smile slid easily back into place, and she extended a confident hand. Brave Mrs. Carver! Yes!
“Edward.” This was said without malice, but without further comment either.
“I’ve just been exploring, and I’m afraid I don’t quite —”
“You know you’ll want to avoid anything to the left of here,” he said, tilting his head casually that way as though they were already in the middle of a conversation. “Unless you’d like to explore the bottom of a hundred foot drop.”
Christine shivered. “Really? A hundred…” she trailed off. A cliff? A ravine? Jason had made it sound like no more than a steep hill.
“Best stick to your garden,” Edward remarked. His voice might have been attempting warmth, although it had a rusty edge like he hadn’t tried to sound kindly in some time. “This isn’t really the place for playing explorer. Someone should have mentioned the ridge to you.”
“Playing expl—…excuse me.” Christine stiffened and drew herself up to full height, wishing it were higher. She felt as though she were a child being patted on the head. “These are my grounds. And I’d…I’d like to see how exactly they’ve been kept.” She emphasized the last word to the groundskeeper. Brave Mrs. Carver was a grown woman, lady of the manor. To hell with this.
The dark-haired man blinked twice, slowly. “Suit yourself. Enjoy the view. Hope you can fly, your most exalted ladyship.” This was said with a sardonic, overly-flourished bow, then Edward walked on abruptly.
Christine gazed at the groundskeeper’s back, and at his horse-sized grey dog as it bounded away through the brush. The incredible rudeness stung her eyes and made her skin prickle. How had she managed to earn his distaste so quickly? The black-clad man disappeared into the trees and Christine turned in the other direction, furiously stifling a tear and an unladylike snort. Ridge or no ridge, to hell with him.
She continued in the direction she had started, picking her way carefully as the rocky ground began to slope gently downward. The hushed voice in her head didn’t return, but the sense of urgency did, drawing her further to the left with insatiable curiosity. She’d see the ridge’s crest before it appeared, she was sure, she wasn’t some silly child who would wander straight over a cliff. She just wanted to take a look. Needed to, somehow. Perhaps the man wasn’t even telling the truth, maybe he just took delight in working people up. Christine remembered his harsh expression, accentuated in the cottage’s firelight, and Jason’s anger afterwards. Yes, that was it. He was just that sort of person.
A soft sound behind her perked up her ears, much softer than the rustling in the brush earlier. Something like a foot lightly snapping a twig. Another like the snuffling of a snout pushing bushes aside. It seemed she was being followed. She made a point of veering further to the left, clearing her throat deliberately. Why should he follow her after all that performance back there? Surely he didn’t actually care. Christine began to hum A Bird in a Gilded Cage, the last song she had waltzed to at the Worthington holiday cotillion last December. It felt appropriate.
“I’m quite alright,” she said conversationally out loud. “There’s no need.”
The rustling stopped when she stopped, picked up again when she walked on. She tried to ignore it and focus on the pleasant hum in her head, a tingling that became warmer as she grew even more daring and veered northward. The idea that the groundskeeper was following her kept intruding, though. “I said I’m alright!” She groaned and spun impulsively to exclaim this.
“Are you deaf?”
Her boots crunched a few more steps over loose gravel — then the sharp edge of the ridge appeared just past her toes, materializing out of the swirling mist like the end of the world. Christine skidded helplessly towards it for one terrifying moment, then righted herself with a hand flung to her chest. Her heartbeat thundered in her ears and a rush of blood flushed her face. It was fine, she was fine fine fine.
Fine. So he had been right. But she wouldn’t give him the satisfaction.
“You can go home now. I’m not going to fling myself over a cliff.” Christine muttered this through gritted teeth, then stomped back to the house without pausing to listen for any footsteps. The enchantment of the morning felt clouded over, ruined and full of shame. Upstairs, she flung herself on the bed and didn’t rise until lunch time.
Dearest diary, an uncanny morning indeed. Full of surprises and rudeness!
There is someone here I won’t need to speak of again, since I will be taking great pains to make sure our paths never cross again. Some people just can’t be in polite society, it seems.
The cliff’s edge beyond the house is an uncomfortable discovery, because no one thought to mention it at all. Not the staff, not Jason who spent so many summers here, no one breathed a word. I’ll never let anyone know how close I came to “exploring the bottom of a hundred foot drop,” to quote that nameless person we will not speak of, or I’ll never be allowed to walk alone on the grounds again. That feeling in my head was the queerest sensation, though. Like I’d like to keep on going, no matter what lay ahead. Maybe the forest should be avoided, after all.
Especially if that one is in the habit of strolling there.
To be honest, it isn’t the first uncanny sensation I’ve felt at Ardenbrae though, is it? I dreamed of this place before I ever laid eyes on it, as strange a fact as that is to admit. The rolling grounds, the carved stone, the imposing doorways. I felt I knew them somehow, in my deepest thoughts, like something remembered after awakening. Truly the strangest feeling. Something about Ardenbrae seems…