The Keeper

My first morning at Blackwood Hill began with the quiet hum of rain against the window and the distant call of gulls. For a brief moment, I forgot where I was. The bed was too soft, the air too clean. Then the memories crept in: the storm, the strange house, the voice at my door. I sat up, shivering, and wrapped myself in the knitted jumper I’d brought from home.

Breakfast was at seven, Mrs. Penrose had said. I checked the time—half past six. My mind, always restless, wandered through a hundred anxious questions. What exactly did an “estate assistant” do on a place like this? Would Alexander Ravenshade be there, silent and imposing as before?

The house was unnervingly quiet as I made my way downstairs. The hall was transformed by morning light, but the ancestral portraits seemed just as watchful. I found the dining room by following the rich smell of coffee and bread.

Mrs. Penrose was already there, arranging a simple meal on the long table. She nodded, her expression unreadable.

“Sleep well?” she asked, pouring coffee into a heavy China cup.

“As well as I ever do in a new place,” I admitted.

She placed a plate before me. Toast, butter, marmalade, and a poached egg. Comfort food, but arranged with military precision.

“Mr. Ravenshade keeps to a schedule,” she said. “You’ll find he appreciates punctuality. If you’re late, he notices.”

“Will he be joining us?” I asked, trying to sound casual.

She gave a thin smile. “He rarely eats with staff. You’ll see him when he’s ready.”

I ate in silence, aware of the clock ticking in the hall. When I finished, Mrs. Penrose slid a folded piece of paper across the table.

“Your duties,” she said. “And the rules.”

I unfolded the paper. The list was neat, written in a precise hand.

Duties:

Rules:

I read the rules again. Some made sense. Others felt pointed, oddly personal. I wondered if they were meant for me, or if every assistant received the same list.

“Is there a reason for the west wing?” I asked, trying to sound light.

Mrs. Penrose’s lips pressed into a thin line. “The master values his privacy. The west wing is off-limits. That is not to be questioned.”

I nodded and folded the paper, slipping it into my pocket.

The rest of the morning passed in a blur of tasks. The library was breath-taking—floor-to-ceiling shelves, the scent of old paper and wood polish. I lost myself in sorting titles, my fingers drifting over gold-lettered spines.

Every so often, I’d catch a flicker of movement in the hallway. Once, I looked up to find Alexander watching from the doorway, silent as a shadow. His gaze was unreadable, but I felt it linger on me, as if he was memorizing every detail.

“Good morning, Miss Hamilton,” he said at last.

“Good morning, Mr. Ravenshade,” I replied, standing straighter.

He stepped inside, scanning the room. “You like books?”

“I do. They’re a kind of company, I suppose.”

He nodded. His eyes were stormy, but not unkind. “You’ll find this house has many secrets, Miss Hamilton. Some are best left alone.”

Before I could answer, he was gone, leaving only an unsettled feeling in his wake.

By mid-afternoon, the rain had stopped. I wandered through the gardens, noting the wild tangle of roses, the neatness of the paths. A sense of being watched crept over me, prickling the back of my neck.

Later, I helped Mrs. Penrose tally accounts in the kitchen. She worked in silence, only speaking to correct a figure or clarify a name.

As evening fell, the house grew colder, shadows lengthening in every corner. I returned to my room, exhausted but restless. I found myself glancing at the list of rules again. The west wing, the locked doors, the sense that everything here was part of a larger game.

That night, as I lay listening to the wind outside, I felt the weight of the house pressing in. I wanted to understand it, to understand him. But at Blackwood Hill, secrets seemed more common than answers.

And as I drifted to sleep, I knew it was only a matter of time before I broke one of the rules.