Chapter 2: Shadows Across the Threshold
Midnight in the east wing was a cathedral of absolute silence. I sat in the high-backed chair beside my mahogany writing desk, the room lit only by the dying embers of the hearth. My boots were off, resting silently on the Persian rug, and my eyes remained fixed on the heavy oak door leading to the corridor.
Jura's words—*the ghost in your room is someone you trust*—beat against my ribs like a trapped bird.
At precisely twelve-fifteen, the floorboards outside my door gave a faint, familiar groan. It was not the settling of old timber or the contraction of ancient beams in the night chill. It was the careful, measured weight of a human footfall. I stood slowly, my movements deliberate, avoiding the loose board near the wardrobe.
I turned the brass knob with agonizing slowness, pulling the door open by a mere two inches.
The hallway was bathed in the pale, blue wash of moonlight filtering through the high clerestory windows. Standing ten paces from my door was a solitary figure in a sharp black suit. Even in the dim light, the polished leather of his shoes caught a stray gleam of moonlight—high-gloss Oxfords with a distinctive tapered heel. Victor. He stood motionless, staring directly at my door handle, his hand resting casually inside his jacket pocket.
He thought I was asleep. He believed the grand estate muffled every secret beneath its velvet carpets and gilded moldings.
"Victor," I said softly, the name cutting cleanly through the corridor silence.
The figure stiffened. The silhouette did not flinch, but the shoulder muscles tightened beneath the fine wool suit. Victor turned his head fractionally, his pale face catching the moonlight, a thin, polite smile touching the corners of his mouth.
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"Ah, Julian. Up late working on the accounts, I see," Victor murmured, his voice velvety and entirely unruffled.
He didn't explain what he was doing outside my bedroom at midnight. He didn't need to. The polished shoes spoke with a louder eloquence than any excuse he could manufacture. The silence stretched between us, thick with unspoken accusations and the heavy realization that the locks on our doors were mere suggestions to the man who held the master keys.
