Chapter Text
Simon
“Are you going to stand there all day gawking, or what?”
I’ve half a mind to stay rooted to this spot for the next hour or so, honestly. And not just to irritate Dev, though that would be a bonus.
It’s just… this is Pitch Manor. It’s like I’m standing at the drawbridge of an evil overlord’s castle or something.
While I was at Watford, all the Mage had to say about the Pitches were tales of their treachery. Which I suppose seems a bit off now that I think about it in context, what with their history with the school and everything. Maybe that was the point? Anyway, they weren’t the sort of people who ever wanted anything to do with me, and I never wanted anything to do with them.
I was shocked stupid when I got an email from one of them asking after my fees. I think it would have been more reasonable to get a text from Father Christmas than to get an email from Dev Pitch. (How did he even hear about me? I mean, hear about me as a contractor. Not as a former schoolmate or the fallen Chosen One, or whatever they’re calling me these days.)
Penny near had a fit when I told her. “The library, Simon,” she said on a sigh. I must’ve looked a bit daft, because she rolled her eyes and explained herself. “They have a huge library. Tons of forbidden texts. The Mage hated it.” She had this…I don’t know, this look in her eyes— probably like me when I’m presented with one of Gran’s cakes. Practically frothing. “You have to take the job.”
“I do not,” I replied immediately. “It’s Pitch fucking Manor. I’m not going there. It’s probably booby-trapped! This is probably some plot to get rid of ‘The Mage’s Heir.’” (I’m not the Mage’s heir. Not still. But I’m not sure anyone’s explained that to the Pitches. Or if they’d believe it. Or care.)
Anyway, Penny wouldn’t leave off it. “Everything else aside, Simon,” she said, “this could be what your career needs. A big job like this.”
A “big job like this” was part of the reason I didn’t want to take it. I’ve only just started doing solo contractor work. I was still employed by the same construction company that I got my start with, even. The solo stuff was on the side. Freelance for a bit of extra. Nothing like this.
I can’t stop staring at the place. Like, look at those turrets! Are they expecting an invasion? Do they need a good vantage point from which to throw fireballs? And there’s an unnecessary quantity of iron filigree. I mean, does the place have a bloody dungeon?
(“You’ll get to work on a piece of architectural history,” Penny said.) (I really need to stop quoting Penny in my head.)
I’m sweating, for Circe’s sake, and I have to try and wipe my palms on my jeans when Dev’s not looking. Which is hard, because he’s glaring at me, pretty much without blinking. Wanker.
But Dev (I’m not calling him Mr. Pitch, because he seems to think I should, and fuck that) is paying me a fairly large sum of money to do this job. I guess I’m a good deal because I don’t scare easy, and I already know they’re mages. It’s definitely not because he wants me here.
He emailed me, though, so he can stuff it.
I’m still trying to decide if this is a trap.
(It could be a trap. This place looks like it should be teeming with traps.)
It also looks haunted. But in a gimmicky way. Like, it’s too obviously haunted to be haunted. (But I hear it really is haunted.) That’s why Dev had to deign to pick me up at the train station, himself. Couldn’t even send a servant to do it. (Do people still have servants? If anyone would, it’s the Pitches, I’d wager.) No one else will drive all the way to the front door, on account of the ghosts.
Ghosts, though, are the least of my worries.
Dev had emailed me photos of the property damage, back when I said I was interested in the job. Someone lit a fire after the Humdrum sucked all the magic out of Hampshire. Well. After I did, I guess.
Didn’t mean to.
Anyway.
Someone lit a fire in one of the bedrooms. I suppose Pitches are pyros. Even without their magic.
I rang him on the phone after I saw the photos. “I’ll need to see if I can find a crew,” I told him.
“Just you,” he said.
“You serious?” Dev was out of his mind if he thought I could do a job that size on my own. “It would take me ages on my own. I’ll need a—“
“Did I say there was a rush?” he snapped. He sounded tired. And rude. Maybe annoyed. (He sounded like Dev Pitch is what I mean.) “No. I didn’t. Because there isn’t. Take your sweet time for all I care. You can even stay on the property. Room and board covered. It’s a fucking dream job, Chosen One, just take it.”
Sure it is—says Dev fucking Pitch. “Yeah, uh, I appreciate the generosity,” I said, trying to sound… I don’t know. Diplomatic. (I miss my sword.) “But I have a flat here, in London, and a full time job. I can’t—“
“Mr. Snow,” he said, and I swear he managed to make “Mr. Snow” sound like an insult. “Just tell me the number. We’ll pay it. I’d like to get off the goddamn phone.”
“Fine,” I said, because what else could I say to that? “I’ll email you an estimate.” (I copied that line from my boss. It’s his go-to stalling tactic.)
I’m glad I said it, too, because after I told Penny, she told her mum, and Professor Bunce called me next. Turns out she’s a bit of a shark. I think she’s still off about the fact that I didn’t want any of the Mage’s money. And, apparently, she has no problem taking that out on the Pitch family coffers.
Which is how I got here. Getting paid an obscenely large amount of money to do a job I’m not even sure I’m qualified for, inside a haunted mansion, within a dead spot, in Hampshire. Merlin.
“Right,” I finally say, and square my shoulders like I’m about to enter a manticore’s den. “I’m good. Lead the way.”
~~~
I shouldn’t have been surprised that Dev was eager to get out of there now that he’d delivered me successfully. But I really thought he’d do a bit more than give me the keys to the house, the detached garage, and the truck he’d used to drive me here. (It’s a rental.)
“The kitchen is stocked, and the number for the grocery orders is in the butler’s pantry,” he told me. “Charge it to the house.” (I wasn’t about to tell him I had no clue what a butler’s pantry was. Is it different from a regular pantry?)
I offered to give him a ride back, but he sneered at me like I was incredibly thick for thinking he didn’t have an escape plan in place, already. Then he hauled a motorcycle out of the back of the truck. Not without some ridiculously excessive effort, and, I think, some damage to one of the two vehicles. Maybe both. Heard some scraping.
Nearly crushed his own foot doing it, too, but he’d prefer that to accepting my help, I think. Fine by me.
Finally, he righted the thing and climbed on, revved it like he was making some sort of statement about his levels of testosterone, and took off.
I was glad to see him go, I think, except for that he hadn’t even bothered to give me a tour of the house proper.
I’m going to get lost in there. And then I’ll probably end up in some kind of labyrinth meant to trap unwanted visitors and starve to death.
Nah. Penny would find me. Probably.
After a quick inspection of the garage—it’s going to be the best place for me to set up shop, I think, and store supplies and equipment—I head into the house via a side door.
I descend some stairs and find myself at the end of a long, boring hallway. White-washed walls, vinyl tile flooring… This has to be the domain of those servants I’m pretty sure they used to have. It’s just a hallway with doors. Nothing fancy.
It quickly becomes one of my favourite areas of the house, though, because that’s where I find the kitchen. Merlin, what a kitchen! I’m not a cook, but this kitchen may inspire me to become one. And the fridge is fair bursting with food! My mouth actually starts to water at the sight of a fat steak just waiting for me. The freezer’s well stocked, too. I’m going to eat like a king. (Provided their wifi works and I can learn how to cook without adding more fire damage to the house.)
The rest of the downstairs isn’t as exciting. But I do find out what a butler’s pantry is, only because I find a phone number on a sticky next to a land line phone that says “Grocer” on it. Apparently, it’s a fancy closet for silverware and dishware and the like.
I make myself an epic sandwich, finding courage in deli ham and sharp cheddar, then brace myself for what lays ahead, up the stairs at the end of the hall.
This is where I find Pitch Manor proper. It’s… Well, it’s exactly like I expected it to be, which is a bit surprising, considering I was imagining something out of a film. All fancy candelabras and polished marble, covered in plush carpets. The Mage used to say the Pitches were steeped and boiled in tradition.
He may have been right about that. That one thing, at least. This place looks like “Tradition” is the name of their decorator.
I cut through a dining room that could seat half of parliament, and end up in some vast open area at the base of a (ridiculously) grand staircase. I think it’s technically the foyer, though the front door seems leagues away.
There are several corridors that split off from here, and it’s like they’re overgrown with shadows. Hell’s spells, there are even eyes in the dark. They’re from portraits, but I still feel like I’m being watched. And very much not welcomed.
(“Pitch black,” I mutter out loud, just to say it and get it out of the way.)
I wonder if I should, I don’t know, trail a string behind me as I wander through the place? I settle for taking pictures. I start at the edge of the room, finding landmarks to note at the corners of each corridor.
Near jump out of my skin when my mobile rings. It’s Penny. I was supposed to call her.
“You didn’t call me,” she says as a greeting.
Merlin, she sounds like her mum. “I know, I’m sorry. The train was late and Dev Pitch was waiting to drive me.”
“Oh. Simon.” I think I’m forgiven on account of time served already. “So you’re there? What’s it like?”
“I…” I hesitate. She knows I signed an NDA before I came here, because she made me go through it with her line by line, before I was allowed to even touch a pen. She’s always been brilliant, but now that she’s actually studying law at Uni, she’s downright scary. She’ll push that contract to its every limit. And me. But that’s a given.
“It’s… um. Dark.”
“…Dark?”
“Yeah,” I say, warming up to the descriptor. “Dark. Like, dark wood, dark panelling, dark hallways. I think maybe the lights were magic, because it’s—“ I stop as I find a light switch and flip it. The lights come on, but it’s like a torch under the covers. The dark is still there, just waiting for the batteries to fail. “Never mind. I found the electrics. Dev said the house was modernised.”
I’m glad at least this much has been fitted to Normal standards as well as magickal. I don’t want to even think about trying to make my way through this place by torchlight. Or candlelight.
“Surely it’s more than just dark,” she says, impatient.
“Surely,” I say with a smile. “The kitchen is massive.”
I can hear her rolling her eyes. “Si-mon.”
“Sorry, I haven’t found the library, yet. I’m in the foyer.” I look around for things to describe to her. “The chandelier is immense. And… there’s a rug.” She makes a frustrated noise and I sigh. “Well, I don’t know what else to say, Pen. You saw the same pictures I did. It looks like that. Just. All over.”
“Never take up a career as a novelist, Simon. You’d be hopeless.”
I snort. “Can you honestly imagine me writing words for a living, Pen? I think the literary world is safe.”
There’s a brief pause, then, “Call me if you find anything interesting?”
“Yeah. ‘Course. You heard from Shep?”
She brightens. “He’s coming back to London soon.”
To propose to her, if we’re all lucky. She goes a bit barmy whenever he has to return to America because of his visa expiring.
“Good,” I say, meaning it. “Tell him I said hello.”
“You should text him, Simon. He’d love to have someone new to convince that Bigfoot is real.” She says it like he’s successfully convinced her. (That’ll never happen. They enjoy arguing about it too much.)
I would remind her how I’m rubbish at texting, but then she might suggest I call him. That’d be a risky venture—Shepard doesn’t know how to end a conversation. “Yeah,” I say instead, “I will. Thanks, Pen.”
“If you don’t check in now and then, I’m coming after you.”
“You mean you’ll come after the library.”
“Simon Snow, you know full well I’m quite capable when it comes to multitasking!”
I grin, and we say our goodbyes.
I hit “End” and the silence descends immediately. For a second I’m half-convinced the lights have dimmed a bit, too. I’m suddenly lonely. Excessively. Like Penny never called in the first place.
I’ll be damned if I’m going to let some empty air and even emptier shadows get to me, though. Instead I turn around in the foyer, mentally clocking the open area. Then I slowly, carefully extend my wings.
My smile widens along with my wingspan. Merlin’s beard, there’s room enough in here for me to spread my wings completely—and turn around! For a moment, everything gloomy is dispelled as I do exactly that. It feels so bloody good to be able to stretch them out after having them folded tightly against my back for so long. It’s so freeing to stretch and move for a minute, letting go of my near constant worry I’ll collide with something.
I lash my tail about too, just for good measure. Because I can.
Honestly, the ability to do this is what convinced me to go ahead and send the labour estimate to Dev. Shepard pointed out that if I worked in a magician’s house, I wouldn’t have to keep my wings hidden. And working alone meant I could stretch them out however I liked. I can never do that at a Normal construction site.
I flap them a few times to work out the remaining kinks, but then remember I am on the job.
Should have asked Dev for a map to the damage. All I know is it’s in one of the bedrooms. And it’s (apparently) been recognised and marked for historical preservation or something. At least Dev told me I could use whatever modern materials I wanted to; just needs to look authentic, I guess. And match the rest of the room, of course.
That’s what I’m good at, though. Or at least I think I must be, based on some of my more recent assignments. (My boss was sorry to see me go, which was nice. He’d taken a look at the estimate I cooked up, though, so he knew how much the job is worth. Told me, “Good luck and Godspeed.”) (I hope there’s still a job left for me when I get back, just in case this all goes sideways, and my freelance remodelling career is over before it’s even started.)
Bedrooms are upstairs. I know that much at least.
Right, then.
I fold my wings in and try my best to wrangle my tail into submission. It doesn’t really work of course, but I’m still not ready to stuff it down my trousers, either.
“Don’t break anything,” I tell it. As if it will listen. (It won’t.)
With a deep breath, I head up the stairs, my hand trailing along the smooth finish of the banister railing as I go. Well. At first.
My hand catches and I look down and do a double take. There are statues of naked ladies on the stairs. On the stairs. Merlin and Morgana. Children live here normally, don’t they?
I can’t stop myself from wondering if that’s a bit off. Naked lady statues with kids around. Or maybe it so extremely traditional that it’s actually doubled back on itself and has become progressive? Snakes alive, this is not worth actual effort to figure out.
I cast about for distraction. There’s plenty on offer, but I’m not sure any of it is an improvement.
For starters, the lights in the arms of those naked ladies barely cut through the gloom. It’s like… it’s like the dark has heft to it. Weight. Those poor ladies are more like Atlas than lamp-bearers. I’d help. If I could.
Not even one bloody window, though. I know full well it’s bright outside. No rain, nor many clouds. Beautiful weather, but you’d never know it in here. In here’s like a vampire’s lair. Like nothing in here could ever grow or thrive. Just. Stay the same. In the dark. Forever.
Could be funny if it didn’t have my nerves on alert. Even the walls are a joke. They’re covered in blood-red fabric hangings that suck up the light.
It’s not just the children, now— I can’t believe any people lived here. Like, at all. Ever. Voluntarily.
Maybe it was different when there was magic, still. Maybe everything was brighter. That has to be it. Maybe back then the lights didn’t flicker constantly. Now it’s like they’re fighting the darkness itself.
There’s a landing halfway up the stairs, before they split into two sets going in opposite directions, and on the wall is a big portrait of an austere woman. Not a word I think I normally use, austere, but it’s what came to mind as soon as I looked up at her.
She has this way of looking down her nose, like she’s aware of my presence and she already disapproves. I think she would be beautiful is she wasn’t looking at me like that.
The hair at the back of my neck stands up, and I force my gaze away from the lady. I dart up the stairs, taking them two-by-two, eager to get out of her sight. (I swear I can feel her watching me the entire way, though. It’s proper creepy.)
At the top there’s another long hallway. It looks like it’s the same in this wing of the house as it is in the other. I take pictures. (I’m not willing to get lost in this monstrosity of a house, no matter what Dev is paying me.)
I feel a bit like a field photographer by the time I’m ready to actually walk down the hallway, deeper into this part of the house.
It’s nothing like the hallway downstairs, with the kitchen. This one is covered in a thick carpet that muffles my steps, and it’s lined with even more portraits.
Generations of Pitches, most like.
My wings tuck in even tighter as I walk down the hall. I want to look back, check to see if the hallway is actually getting narrower, or if that’s just me. (Actually, I think it’s the portraits. Why does it feel like they’re all staring at me? Like they’re crowding in?)
Some part of me keeps expecting one of these portraits to come to life. Or for a hidebehind to slip out. Or… something. A ghost, maybe. A ghoul? Would be on brand, at least.
Christ. I really need to stop this. This is the sort of thing I could never really explain to my therapist. Well. I tried. She kept saying I had an overactive imagination because of the trauma I endured as a child. (Her favourite thing to talk about.)
Like, yeah, okay, I know. I was fighting magickal creatures before I even hit puberty. It’s funny how situational awareness turned into paranoia as soon as I lost my magic. (And my life’s purpose.)
Can’t say I regret cancelling those last two appointments. Or that I have absolutely no plans to reschedule.
I try to ignore the portraits, but they’re not returning the favour. Hell. They’re just looking at me.
“Sod off,” I murmur to one of the worst ones. Some gent from long ago. Centuries or decades, it’s hard to tell. Everyone looks stuffed and gussied in these pictures.
Never thought I’d miss going off. But I miss it now. I miss knowing I had that last resort. And I miss the Sword of Mages. Being able to call it.
I can’t believe I let Penny talk me into leaving my Excalibur with Jamie. I mean, I’ve come to the House of Pitch completely unarmed. That was stupid.
Feels stupid now, is what I mean.
I keep feeling stupid when I realise I’ve been completely distracted from what I was meant to be doing. I double-back (which I don’t enjoy, because now I recognise some of these portrait Pitches) and stop at each door.
I make myself turn the knobs, and push the doors open, wincing whenever a door so much as creaks. It shouldn’t be hard to duck into each of these rooms to see if they contain fire damage, but it is. They’re all so bloody dark, so shut up and shut in.
This is different than just being alone. I spent plenty of time alone at Watford. I was the only one without a roommate. But even then, I knew there were guys on the floor below me, and I didn’t have to spend more time at the top of that tower than was necessary for, like, sleeping.
This is different. I’m alone, but also…not. Because my senses are absofuckinglutely sure that I’m not alone, but I can’t find any proof to support that. I can’t even pinpoint which of my senses is setting off the alarms. All I hear is silence. I smell dust, and old polish, a hint of mildew in some of the rooms, but no fire. The air is empty. There’s nothing to hold onto. And all I can see is this house. The portraits, and the absence of light.
There’s little that seems to changes room to room. I get brief impressions of large, ornate furniture, and usually a dull gleam of tarnishing metal from a hanging light fixture. Nearly had a heart attack when I found one room whose furniture had been all covered up in white sheets. (Yeah, okay, I thought ghost for a second, but who wouldn’t?)
I’m using my nose as much as my eyes at this point, thanks to this ruthlessly pervasive darkness. The fire damage isn’t old—I’ll smell it. I know that scent, don’t I? Of course I do.
But Merlin, Morgana, and Methuselah, I don’t want to do this twice. I don’t want to go back down that hallway, cross past the lady in the portrait, and go up the stairs to the other side of the house, just to do this all again.
At least, I don’t until I reach the end of the hall and turn the corner.
I stop short, gulping a little at the door suddenly before me. There’s a bloody great dragon carved into the mantel, and it looks… stuck. (And angry about it.) Like it wants to move, wants to glare and spit fire, but can’t.
No, wait, it can still glare. Everything in this house possesses an uncanny ability to glare, it seems. I swear an actual chill goes up my spine this time, though.
I make a decision of the executive variety that I can check that room later. If all the others turn up nothing.
I turn around, though it’s hard to put that dragon to my back, and am faced with another door. This one is a lot less foreboding, with a regular mantel and a well-worn brass door handle.
For some reason, I raise my fist to knock, but catch myself. I turn the handle instead, and slowly push the door open.
I know with my first inhalation that this is the room I’m searching for. It’s a relief, and I feel a measure of sanctuary as soon as I step inside.
The acrid scent of burnt wood and plaster is impossible to miss, and there’s a thickness to the air that makes my nose itch. Ash, probably. I’ll need to air this room out, or wear a mask. (That’s the first work-related thought I’ve had in what feels like ages, and that’s a relief, too.) I can’t tell anything else about the room, yet, except that there’s a tiny sliver of light to the left that indicates the presence of a window. I hope.
My relief is short-lived, though. I fumble around, fingers searching the wall for a light switch. Once found, I flip it. There’s a bright flash and I duck instinctively, one of my wings coming up to act as a shield.
It takes me an embarrassingly long amount of time to realise one of the light bulbs burned out. Of course. Because the room needed just a little less light.
But there is light. Thank magic. I’m able to make my way through the room, though the furniture still resembles shapeless behemoths in the shadows rather than the expected bed or chest of drawers. At least until I get to the window.
I yank the curtains back, coughing and swiping at the air as a heavy layer of dust and ash is dislodged from the movement.
It’s worth it. The light streams in from outside like sunshine after a storm, and dispels much of the darkness that has been all but crawling my back since I climbed those stairs.
I blink a few times as the dust begins to resettle, then turn around to look at the room in the daylight.
The first thing to grab my attention is the bed.
It’s enormous.
It’s enormous, and it has gargoyles on it.
The bed has actual gargoyles carved into it.
Are they supposed to protect the sleeper from nightmares or guarantee them?
Thick green velvet drapes hang from the bed’s canopy. For the first time in forever, I crack a smile. I can’t help it, really. Because…well, according to the Pitches, it seems, there’s no way to ever have too much darkness. Even when you’re surrounded by judgemental portraits and carved gargoyles, and there’s a homicidal dragon just across the way.
I shake my head and consider the rest of the room. The reason the furniture didn’t offer familiar outlines is simple—it’s been covered with sheets. That’s good, though, considering the ash still circulating in the air.
That draws my attention to the whole point of my presence, here: the fire damage. It’s pretty obvious, now that there’s light. I knew from the pictures Dev sent that it wasn’t near the fireplace, but I’m still curious as to how this one section, and this one section only, became engulfed in flame.
I pull my t-shirt up over my nose and look at the damage a little more closely, moving carefully in case there’s unseen structural damage.
It’s in a corner of the room that’s hidden from view from much of the rest of the room by the giant bed. (The darkest corner. Of course.) I can see from lingering discoloration in the wallpaper that the armoire, now crowded up against what I assume is a dresser, was probably here prior to the damage. A marble-topped nightstand still sits beside the bed, but appears to have escaped unscathed.
I’m not an expert on fire, or fire damage. I’m sure this is some sort of arson, but that’s not really my job to determine. I’m a bit confused by the fact that some part of me is impressed by the controlled way the fire had to have burned, though. Maybe it’s just because I could never control my own power? (The power I thought was mine…)
The wallpaper has peeled back at the edges of the damage, acting almost like an outline of the heat’s impact, which is a smaller area than I’d expected. It’s just… a lot of the wall is blackened on either side of the corner, with some chunks having fallen through where the two walls join.
What gets me is the lack of smoke damage. A fire like this should have left the entire bloody room ruined from the smoke. But the only damage done is to this very specific, relatively small section of the room. Same with water damage. How did they put the fire out without loads more water damage?
The heat required to blacken and burn through several feet of wood framing, though… The polish on the bed frame should be melted, pocked from burst bubbles. But it’s smooth and perfect.
I’m not an expert on fire damage. I’m not. I know enough to know this is weird, though.
I slowly lower the collar of my t-shirt. Because I don’t actually need to cover my mouth. I should. Need to, that is. There’s no such thing as a clean house fire.
But I smell burnt wood. Heated brick. I don’t smell chemicals. I’m not even coughing, now that the dust’s settled.
I mean, yeah, it’s going to take a lot more than a coat of paint, and I’ll have to figure out how I’m going to match this obviously original wallpaper, but it’s not impossible. (The printing isn’t uniform like it would be on modern wallpaper. I won’t be able to just order more from the original manufacturer. That’s okay. I like the challenge. It’s not the same as a chimera or a harpy, but I suppose that’s a good thing, as I didn’t bring my sword.)
The damage isn’t so deep it’s structural. Well, not dangerously, at least. It’s gotten into the bones, but it’s not widespread enough to be a real threat. The room still feels strong, though. (Not sure how I came to that conclusion really, since a lot of the damage is still hidden from sight, but I’ve rarely been wrong at other sites. I think I’m just good at knowing when I’m in danger and when I’m not.)
My thinking starts to shift and I’m not thinking in words so much, anymore. It’s more like pictures, with a sort of “Step 1, step 2, step 3” vibe. Actually, maybe it is like the chimera. Only instead of letting battle experience carry me from one blow to the next, I’m actually picturing how I’m going to start pulling out the charred-up bits of this wall to get a better look at the damage within it. (I know the pieces all have names, but I don’t think of the names, I just know them and what to do with them.)
My gaze shifts up, to the ceiling. The fire was kept from spreading pretty well, I think, but it got a proper climb in, first. I’m going to have to see where it all got through.
I cross the room to the window and look out so I can match my view of the inside with my previous view from outside. I think I know where I am, relative to the rest of the house. That’s good.
So, I have a little less mystery, and a little more of a mission. The questions I have now actually have answers. I can figure this out, which feels good to know. Like maybe the house isn’t trying to creep me all the way out the door and back down the drive.
When I turn around to leave, I notice the fireplace in a way I hadn’t, before. It’s grand (of course), with more gargoyles carved into the mantle (can’t have too many of those), and a finish that somehow gleams even through a coat of ash and dust. It’s massive, too. (How cold does it get in Hampshire that they need to be able to roast a pig in one of the bedrooms?)
It isn’t the size or the gargoyles that actually caught my attention, though. It’s the discolouration of the wallpaper just over the mantle. It’s obvious a picture used to hang there. Hung there for a good long while. Maybe it was damaged in the fire? No, that’s unlikely given the distance and lack of surrounding damage.
Doesn’t really matter, I suppose. It’s just so obvious, now that I’ve seen it. Being aware of the missing pieces makes the room feel… I don’t know. Unbalanced? Maybe… unfinished? No, not unfinished. Uncomfortable, at least.
The blank spot on the wall isn’t part of my job, right?
I take one more look around the room, then glance out the window again, getting my fill of daylight, and double checking my location. Then I head back into the hall, pointedly not looking at the room across the way as I go.
???
There’s someone here.
