I spent much of the morning in the study, cataloguing letters and bills under Mrs. Penrose’s watchful eye. She had a way of making even silence feel like an instruction. The desk was covered in neat piles, and she handed me each envelope as if passing along a secret. I logged the correspondence in a ledger, careful to copy every date and name exactly as she dictated. When I asked about the blue-sealed letter, her hand closed over it so quickly I almost flinched. She tucked it away in a drawer and locked it with a silver key she wore around her neck.
Afterward, I went into the kitchen for tea. The air was thick with the scent of baking bread and stewed apples. I was grateful for the simple rhythm of work: washing up, drying plates, jotting down the grocery list Mrs. Penrose recited from memory. I wondered how she kept so much order in her head and if she ever let herself rest.
Around midday, I took the chance to escape outside. The garden was soggy from last night’s rain, but the sun was pushing through, lighting up the last roses on the bushes. I grabbed a pair of shears and walked the paths between the flower beds, snipping deadheads and gathering a few perfect blooms for the drawing room. The roses were pale, almost translucent in the light, their scent sharp and a little wild. I let the thorns prick my fingers without complaint, enjoying the sting. It felt honest.
I heard someone approaching and turned to see Alexander coming down the path, a mug of coffee in hand. He looked different outdoors, his posture less rigid, his eyes softer in the daylight.
“You’re brave, taking on those thorns,” he said, nodding toward the bushes. “Most people give up after the first scratch.”
I smiled, tucking a lock of hair behind my ear. “My gran always said you have to respect roses if you want them to flourish. She taught me how to prune them when I was small. I didn’t appreciate it at the time, but now I’m grateful.”
He crouched beside me, examining one of the blooms. “Did you live with her?”
“For a while, after my father left,” I said, surprised at my own honesty. “She was the one who kept everything together.”
He nodded, as if he understood. For a moment, neither of us spoke. The only sounds were the bees buzzing and the distant caw of a crow. I wanted to ask him about his family, about the people in the portraits lining the halls, but instead we talked about the garden—the best time to trim roses, how the sea salt in the air made everything grow a little wild.
Our conversation felt easy, almost comfortable. When he left, he gave me a quick smile, and I caught myself smiling back.
I took the roses inside and arranged them in a crystal vase for the drawing room. The act of placing each stem just so was oddly calming. I noticed how the sunlight caught in the glass, how the petals seemed to glow. For a few moments, the house felt almost welcoming.
After lunch, I helped Mrs. Penrose with the accounts. She worked quickly, her hands steady even as mine fumbled with the ledger. I asked her about some of the names on the bills, but she only gave short, practical answers. I got the sense she’d been doing this job for so long she could run the estate in her sleep.
Later, I wandered upstairs, intending to lose myself in a book. As I passed the west wing, I stopped. Music drifted through the closed door, soft and deliberate. I recognized the melody instantly—“Song from a Secret Garden.” My father used to play it on the piano at home, his fingers moving with a kind of gentleness I rarely saw in him. He hadn’t been a talkative man, but when he played, I always felt like I understood him. It was one of the few times I felt truly close to him.
I leaned against the wall, letting the music fill the empty hallway. The notes brought back a flood of memories: Sunday afternoons, the sound of rain on the windows, the way my father would look over his shoulder and wink at me as he played. After he left, I’d tried to avoid that song. It hurt too much. But now, hearing it in this strange house, I felt both comforted and exposed, as if the house itself had reached inside me and found something hidden.
I wiped my eyes, annoyed at myself for getting emotional over a song. But I couldn’t help it. Music has a way of sneaking past all the barriers we build. I stayed in the hallway until the last note faded, then turned away, my heart aching with a mix of longing and gratitude.
Back in my room, I tried to read, but the words wouldn’t stick. I kept thinking about my father, about all the things we’d never said, and how music had always been our secret language. I wondered if Alexander played for the same reason—to say things he couldn’t put into words.
I wrote about it in my journal, describing every detail: the sound of the keys, the way the melody lingered, the sharp twist of memory in my chest. I wondered if anyone else in the house had noticed, or if the music was meant only for me.
That night, I arranged the last of the roses in a vase by my bed. Their scent filled the room, grounding me. Before I turned out the light, I hummed a few bars of the song, letting it carry me into sleep. For the first time since arriving at Blackwood Hill, I dreamed of home—not the place, but the feeling. And it made me believe, just a little, that even in a house full of secrets, I might find some piece of myself again.