Chapter 2

Violet tightened her shawl around her shoulders as she stepped out onto the grounds of the Halloway estate. The late morning air was crisp, laced with the scent of damp earth and aged stone. The mansion loomed behind her, its presence casting a long shadow across the frost-kissed grass.

She had spent the early part of the morning familiarizing herself with the layout of the house—at least, the parts she was permitted to access. Though grand in its design, the estate felt hollow, its many corridors suffocating in their silence. Despite the family's wealth, there was an undeniable air of neglect in certain wings of the mansion, as though time had simply given up on preserving them. Dust settled thickly in corners, and certain rooms held furniture draped in white cloths, as if the house had forgotten it was still meant to be lived in.

Violet had seen enough for now. The grounds would be her next focus.

Stepping onto the stone path, she let her gaze wander across the expansive gardens. Once meticulously curated, they now stretched out wildly, reclaiming their space with unruly vines and overgrown hedges. She could almost picture what they had once been—a place of leisure and refinement—but now, the disrepair gave them an eerie beauty, like a forgotten relic of a different time.

The greenhouse caught her eye first. A large, domed structure at the far end of the garden, its glass panels dulled with grime and ivy curling over its frame. As she approached, she noticed the lock on the door was rusted, but the door itself was slightly ajar. With a gentle push, it creaked open, revealing a space trapped in time.

Inside, the air was thick and humid despite the cold outside. Leaves had turned brittle, and vines crawled unchecked over broken pots and shattered glass. In the center stood an old wrought-iron table, half-buried in dried leaves. A single teacup, cracked and stained, rested upon it, as if someone had once sat here and simply vanished.

Something about the sight sent a chill up her spine. She had the distinct feeling she was not meant to be here.

A rustle sounded behind her.

She spun, heart leaping to her throat.

Nothing. Just the wind disturbing the vines.

Exhaling, she turned back toward the entrance—only to find Clara standing in the doorway, watching her with wide, startled eyes.

"You shouldn't be in here," Clara said, voice barely above a whisper.

Violet straightened. "I was just exploring. The door was open."

Clara glanced around the greenhouse, her expression wary. "No one comes here anymore. Not since…" She trailed off, biting her lip. "Just—just don't stay long."

Before Violet could respond, Clara turned on her heel and disappeared back into the gardens.

Something in her tone unsettled Violet. It wasn't just an idle warning. It was fear.

Determined to push past the growing unease settling over her, Violet continued her exploration, this time moving toward the western side of the estate. She soon came upon an old stone bench, half-buried in ivy, overlooking what had once been a fountain. Now, it was nothing more than a basin of murky water, its centerpiece—a marble angel—chipped and worn by time.

Sitting down, she let out a breath, rubbing her hands together for warmth. This place was lonely. Beautiful, but lonely. She couldn't shake the feeling that tragedy had soaked into its very foundation.

A soft cough startled her.

Turning, she found Theodore standing a few feet away, hands in his pockets, watching her with an unreadable expression.

"You like wandering, don't you?" he remarked.

Violet hesitated before nodding. "I like to understand the place I'm in."

Theodore tilted his head slightly. "And what have you understood so far?"

She studied him. There was something both precise and deliberate in the way he spoke, like someone who measured his words carefully. "That this house has a lot of history," she said carefully. "And that not all of it is pleasant."

A slow smile tugged at his lips, but it didn't reach his eyes. "History rarely is."

There was a pause, a lingering silence between them. Then, in an almost offhanded manner, Theodore said, "You know about the deaths, don't you?"

Violet's breath hitched. "Mr. Halloway mentioned it. He said his daughter, Lysandra, was killed during a break-in. And that his wife fell ill afterward."

Theodore let out a quiet laugh, though there was no real amusement in it. "That's the story, yes."

Something in the way he said it made Violet's skin prickle. "What do you mean?"

He held her gaze for a moment before shaking his head. "Nothing. Just that stories are told in the way people want them to be remembered. Lysandra… she was difficult, you know. She never fit in with the rest of us. Always pushing, always prying. She liked to cause trouble. Some might say she enjoyed it." He exhaled sharply, as if remembering something unpleasant. "But that's what happens when someone is… different. The family doesn't forget. And they don't forgive."

Violet frowned, leaning slightly forward. "Different how?"

Theodore gave a small, humorless chuckle. "She never played by the rules. Always had something to say, always questioned things she shouldn't. She had a habit of making herself an enemy of the family. Especially our father."

Violet hesitated before asking, "Did you get along with her?"

Theodore's gaze flickered, just for a second, before he answered. "We had our moments. But Lysandra wasn't easy to be around. She made it difficult. For everyone."

Something in his tone made Violet uneasy. "And yet, it sounds like she was just trying to… exist as herself. Was that really so wrong?"

His jaw tightened. "In this house? Yes. Lysandra never knew when to stop. She wasn't just difficult—she was cruel. Especially to Clara. She made her life miserable, constantly belittling her, treating her like she didn't belong. She thrived on making others uncomfortable, on setting herself apart, on making enemies instead of allies. She liked conflict, and she didn't care who got hurt along the way."

Theodore exhaled sharply, his eyes narrowing slightly. "Yes, she made things difficult. For everyone. For herself most of all. You don't challenge Augustus Halloway without consequences. And she never learned that."

"Did you resent her for it?" Violet asked, her voice careful.

Theodore's expression didn't change, but there was something unreadable in his gaze. "Resent? No. But I understood why she was the way she was. She was restless, always searching for something. Maybe if she'd found it, things would've been different."

There was a weight to his words, something unspoken lurking beneath them. A brief silence stretched between them. Violet opened her mouth to push further, but Theodore stood abruptly.

"I should go. Enjoy your afternoon, Miss Rowe."

Violet watched as he strode away, the ghost of his words lingering in the cold air around her, leaving her alone with the quiet rustling of the ivy and the lingering sense that she was being warned—though she couldn't yet tell from what.

By the time dinner arrived, the weight of the day's unease had settled into Violet's bones. As it was Sunday, she had spent the day without lessons, left to her own thoughts and the echoes of the estate. The dining hall was just as it had been the previous night—cold, cavernous, and filled with an air of polite tension.

Clara and Theodore sat across from her, Everett and Felix further down the table. Ophelia had not yet arrived, and Augustus was seated at the head, his frail fingers toying with the edge of his silverware.

The silence stretched until the heavy doors opened, and Ophelia strode in, her expression tight. She slid into her chair, eyes briefly flicking toward Violet before she reached for her wine glass.

"Did you enjoy your first full day, Miss Rowe?" she asked, voice smooth but edged with something sharp.

Violet set down her fork. "It's a remarkable place."

"Remarkable," Ophelia mused. "That's one way to put it. Did you find anything… interesting?"

Violet met her gaze. "Only that there's a great deal of history here."

Ophelia smirked. "Oh, Miss Rowe. You have no idea."

"Ophelia," Augustus warned, his voice tired.

But Ophelia ignored him. "You should ask Theodore about Lysandra sometime," she continued, swirling the wine in her glass. "She always had a way of getting under your skin, didn't she, dear brother?"

Theodore's grip on his fork tightened. "Don't," he said, his voice low and firm. Felix shifted in his seat, glancing between Theodore and Ophelia with wary eyes, while Everett cleared his throat, a forced attempt to break the tension. But no one spoke. The air in the dining hall grew thick, pressing down on them all as Ophelia merely smirked, unbothered by the weight of her own words.

Ophelia's lips curled. "Touchy subject?"

"Ophelia!" Augustus snapped, slamming his hand against the table. The sudden force made the silverware clatter.

For a moment, silence reigned. Then Ophelia sighed and took a slow sip of her wine. "Apologies," she said, though there was no sincerity in her tone. "I forget myself."

Dinner resumed, but the tension did not fade. And as Violet glanced across the table at Theodore, she noticed his hands had turned white from the force of his grip.

She suddenly understood one thing clearly.

This house had secrets.

And Theodore Halloway was one of them.