‘We have to review today’s work,’ Eve said, trying to keep the yawn from her voice.
‘Go to bed – we can do it tomorrow. You’re exhausted, I can tell.’
‘No, if you can keep to the schedule then I can also.’
‘It’s not a competition, Eve,’ Edward said. ‘You’re tired; I’m tired. We can go through these notes over breakfast tomorrow.’
‘Are you sure?’ The more he spoke about tiredness, the more tired she felt. As though he was brainwashing her into bed but for her benefit, not his.
‘I might then,’ said Eve reluctantly. Eve felt bad about abandoning the schedule on the first day, but she was sure they could get things back on track tomorrow.
She stood up and picked up her plate and glass, but Edward waved his hands at her.
‘Put those down, you’re a guest.’
‘I can do the dishes at least,’ she objected.
‘No, you can’t, you are here to help me save my writing career and put my words in the right order. That’s it.’
Eve wasn’t sure why but she felt disappointed in his answer. What did she want to be? More than that? The next Mrs Priest? His next editor?How ridiculous,she told herself.Grow up, Eve.
She put down the plate and glass.
‘Okay, well goodnight, Edward. See you in the morning.’
He stood and smiled at her. ‘Goodnight, Eve.’ And he gave a little sort of a bow, becoming a chivalrous lord in the wood-panelled dining room and making her wonder if she’d been momentarily transported back in time.
*
The wind howled around the house, waking Eve up with a fright.
There was more snow predicted for the week and even under the covers and with the heater on, Eve could feel the cold air cupping her face.
She turned her pillow over and snuggled down into the bed, closing her eyes tightly when a scream came echoing down the fireplace.
‘Jesus,’ she said and sat straight up.
She didn’t care what sort of gaslighting Edward was trying on her, that was not the wind.
She stepped out of bed, and pulled on a large, dark orange knitted jumper that once belonged to her father and that her mum had knitted. It was shapeless but so warm and cosy, it felt like being home. She slipped her feet into her sneakers and grabbed her phone.
Edward and Hilditch could say all they wanted about the wind, but she knew the difference between a human scream and a howling gale.
She opened her bedroom door and saw Edward’s door was closed. There was no chink of light from under the door and the rest of the house was silent.
There was a tower above this part of the house but she hadn’t seen a staircase leading up to it anywhere.
And then she remembered Hilditch and the wooden panel.
If the opening was the same as the snug then she could find out where that noise was coming from.
As she crept through the hallways, she silently prayed to the ghost of Charlotte Brontë.Please don’t let me find Mrs Priest in the attic, mad and ready for arson and my blood.
She turned the torch on from her phone and spotted the panel, running her hands over the wood until she found the knot, and then she pushed.
No going back now,she told herself and she pushed open the door.
Stone stairs, worn in the centre from the many years of feet traipsing to the tower.
