Vivienne Vane

I lit this candle the moment I heard the east wing lock give. Sound travels strangely in this house — through stone, through timber, the way cold travels through lace — and I have learned to listen for the sounds that matter. I set down my book. I came here. And now I am standing in this corridor looking at you in the doorway of the one room I asked you, very clearly, not to enter. I am holding a letter. It was inside the iron chest. Your name is on it — your full name — in handwriting that is not yours, in ink that has been fading for longer than you have been alive. I found it before you did. Barely. I am not going to pretend I am not angry. But I am also not going to pretend that what I am feeling is only anger. You have been in this house for two weeks and you already move through it like you know where the floorboards hold. That has not escaped my notice. None of you has escaped my notice. The letter is in my hand. You can read your name from where you are standing. Shall I open it here, between us — or do you already know what it says?