Chapter 36

The last echo of carriage wheels faded, leaving behind the oppressive quiet of Blackwood Hall. Julia stood by the grand dining table, the clatter of clearing dishes a small, comforting disturbance in the vast silence. She met Elsie's gaze across the polished wood, a silent message passing between them. The time was now.

"Right," Julia murmured, her voice low, a conspiratorial whisper that felt strangely thrilling. "The kitchen."

Elsie nodded, her timid eyes alight with a newfound determination. "They'll be starting to clear the breakfast things, Miss Harrow. It's the shift change."

Julia knew the rhythm of the house now. The lull between the morning rush and the preparations for the midday meal. A brief window of opportunity. She had learned to observe, to listen, to piece together the unspoken routines of Blackwood Hall. It was a skill honed by necessity, by the constant, watchful eyes of Agnes and Finch.

"The morning parlor," Julia announced, a plan already forming in her mind. "Meet me there. I have an idea to ensure Agnes is… occupied."

Elsie's eyes widened slightly, a flicker of apprehension mixed with curiosity. "As you wish, Miss Harrow."

Julia walked, not ran, through the hushed corridors, her sensible shoes making barely a whisper on the ancestral rugs. The air, heavy with the scent of damp earth and old wood, seemed to cling to her. Shadows, long and theatrical, danced in the corners, even in the morning light filtering through the tall, arched windows. The house felt like a living entity, vast and breathing, its secrets exhaling into the quiet.

She entered the morning parlor, a room she rarely used, filled with delicate porcelain and polished, gleaming surfaces. It was here that the finest of Blackwood Hall's collection resided. Her gaze fell upon a slender, ornate vase, perched precariously on a small, unsteady side table near the window. Perfect.

With a deep breath, Julia extended her hand, her fingers brushing the vase. It wobbled, then, with a delicate, sickening lurch, toppled to the floor. The sound of porcelain shattering on the marble tiles echoed unnaturally loud in the silence.

"Oh, heavens!" Julia cried out, her voice a theatrical gasp. She quickly knelt, feigning distress, her face a mask of concern. "How dreadfully clumsy of me! Agnes! Miss Agnes, are you there? I fear I've had a terrible accident!" She made sure her voice carried, ringing through the silent hall.

The wait felt endless, punctuated only by the distant clatter from the kitchen. Then, a swish of dark skirts, and Agnes appeared in the doorway, her pale lips pressed into a tight line. Her eyes, as sharp as fractured glass, immediately fixed on the shattered vase.

"Miss Harrow!" Agnes exclaimed, her voice tight with disapproval. "What in heaven's name have you done?"

"Oh, Agnes, I am so terribly sorry!" Julia wailed, her performance surprisingly convincing. "My migraine, it came on so suddenly, and I reached for the curtain, and then… oh dear, the vase!" She clutched her head, wincing dramatically. "I feel quite faint. And now this dreadful mess."

Agnes huffed, her gaze still fixed on the shattered porcelain, a furious despair simmering beneath her rigid composure. "Honestly, Miss Harrow. You are more trouble than you are worth." But she bent, albeit stiffly, to inspect the damage, her attention entirely consumed. Julia suppressed a triumphant smile. One distraction secured.

Meanwhile, Elsie, seizing her opportunity, slipped away. She moved with a maid's practiced quietness, her uniform a grey blur in the dim corridors. She headed for Finch's study, a small, somber room off the main hall, usually filled with the scratching of his pen and the rustle of ledgers.

She knew his routine. Mid-morning, he was always here, meticulously logging inventories, his entire focus consumed by the precise columns of numbers. He was a creature of habit, and Elsie, through months of careful observation, had learned every single one.

She knocked, a timid, almost inaudible tap. "Mr. Finch?"

A gruff sound from within. "Enter."

Elsie pushed the door open just enough to reveal her worried face. "Mr. Finch, forgive the interruption, but Miss Harrow has just had a most unfortunate accident in the morning parlor. A vase… shattered." She paused, letting the implication hang in the air. "And she requires fresh linens for her room. Immediately. She's quite distressed."

Finch grunted, his pen scratching to a halt. "Linen? Why can't one of the other girls fetch it?"

"Ah, but it is a special set, Mr. Finch," Elsie continued, her voice earnest. "The fine embroidered ones, for when she is feeling unwell. I believe they are kept in the locked linen closet on the second floor. Only you have the key, sir." She knew this was a fabrication, a deliberate detour designed to pull him away from his ledger.

Finch sighed, a sound of heavy resignation. "Very well. A moment, girl." He rose, his rigid posture never faltering, and moved towards a large, heavy key ring hanging by the door. Elsie suppressed a triumphant flicker in her eyes. Two distractions.

While Agnes was supervising the cleanup of the shattered vase and Finch was grumbling his way to the linen closet, Elsie made her move. She darted into the main kitchen. It was, as she had anticipated, briefly deserted, the last of the breakfast staff having moved to the scullery for the daily washing of pots and pans.

The vast kitchen, usually bustling with activity, felt eerily still. The scent of cooking lingered, mingling with the sharp tang of soap and warm bread. Elsie moved like a phantom, her steps light and swift across the flagstone floor. She grabbed a fresh loaf of bread, still warm from the oven, a wedge of firm cheese, and three crisp apples. Her gaze then fell on a small, dark flask of broth, kept warm on the hob. Perfect.

She wrapped the provisions carefully in a clean servant's apron, tucking the bundle securely against her body. Then, with practiced ease, she slipped out of the kitchen's back door, her eyes scanning the small, enclosed courtyard. She quickly spotted an old, rarely used coal scuttle, tucked behind a stack of firewood. She lifted its heavy lid and placed the wrapped food inside, covering it with a thin layer of dust to camouflage it. A quick glance around confirmed no one had seen her.

Julia, meanwhile, had feigned recovery and excused herself, claiming she needed to rest after her "terrible fright." She knew Agnes would be too preoccupied with the vase and the thought of Julia's supposed frailty to question her immediate retreat. She moved through the house like a whisper, avoiding the main staircases, opting instead for the narrower, less-used servant corridors that snaked through the deeper parts of Blackwood Hall.

The silence here was even heavier, thicker, broken only by the distant murmur of the house settling, the creak of old wood, the gentle drip of rain outside. The air grew cooler, tinged with the scent of mildew and forgotten things. She reached the junction leading to the sealed East Wing corridor, her heart beginning to pound with anticipation.

Elsie was already there, waiting by the old coal scuttle, her face a pale oval in the dim light. She pushed the scuttle towards Julia, and Julia lifted the lid, her fingers brushing the wrapped warmth of the bread.

"The laundry chute," Elsie whispered, her voice barely audible. "It's the quickest way. No one uses it anymore, not since the new laundry was built downstairs." She gestured towards a narrow, almost invisible door, cleverly disguised to blend with the paneling. "It opens into the old linen room in the East Wing. It's always unlocked."

"The key, Elsie?" Julia asked, her voice hushed with urgency. "Do you have it?"

Elsie nodded, fumbling beneath her apron. "Yes, Miss Harrow. I took it back from Silas this morning when I went to see him." She produced a heavy iron key, its metal cold and smooth against Julia's palm. The key felt reassuringly solid.

Elsie's fingers fumbled with the latch, the metal groaning softly as she pulled the narrow door open. A rush of cool, stagnant air wafted out, carrying the faint scent of damp cloth and dust. Julia peered into the darkness beyond, a sense of nervous excitement fluttering in her chest.

Just as the door creaked fully open, a sound cut through the silence. A distinct, familiar cough. And then, a voice. Finch's voice. Nearby. Too nearby.

"—and ensure the delivery is logged, mind you, by midday," Finch's voice carried through the corridor, closer than they anticipated. He was returning from the linen closet, having concluded his inspection far sooner than Elsie had hoped. He was heading back to his study, passing perilously close to their hidden alcove.

Elsie's eyes snapped wide, fear flashing in their depths. "He's coming!" she whispered, pulling Julia back.

Julia reacted instantly, pulling Elsie with her. They ducked, pressing themselves flat into a narrow recess behind a tall, dust-covered cabinet, barely fitting into the cramped space. The wrapped food, still in the coal scuttle, was pulled in with them, its presence a bulky, incriminating secret. Julia held her breath, her heart hammering against her ribs, loud enough, she feared, to be heard.

Finch's heavy, deliberate footsteps grew louder, closer. The faint scent of his starch and something else, an old, papery smell, filled the air. He passed their hiding spot, his form a dark, imposing shadow against the dim light of the corridor. Julia squeezed her eyes shut, imagining his stern gaze, his watchful eyes that missed nothing.

A pause. Finch's footsteps stilled. Julia's heart lurched. Had he heard them? Did he sense their presence, two intruders lurking in the very walls of his master's house?

A floorboard, old and weary, gave a long, protesting groan just behind them. Julia's eyes flew open. It was a faint sound, but in the oppressive silence, it felt like a clap of thunder.

Finch paused for another agonizing moment. Julia could feel his presence, a cold, watchful weight just beyond their flimsy hiding place. She imagined him turning, his hand reaching for the cabinet, his eyes piercing through the shadows. The air felt thin, suffocating.

Then, to Julia's profound relief, his footsteps resumed. Slow, deliberate, and moving away. He continued down the corridor, towards his study. The silence rushed back in, heavier, deeper than before. Julia exhaled, a long, shuddering breath she hadn't realized she was holding. Her muscles ached from tension. They had barely, miraculously, avoided detection.

But the silence that followed Finch's departure felt fragile, laced with the unsettling knowledge of how close they had come. A shiver, colder than the damp air, traced its way down Julia's spine. The house, with its ancient secrets and watchful eyes, was a far more formidable opponent than she had ever imagined.