Agnes Thorne, standing stiffly by the sideboard, reacted instantly. Her pale lips got thinner. "A walk, Miss Harrow? In this weather? The grounds are quite wet from last night's storm." Her voice was dismissive, with barely hidden disapproval. The very air in the room seemed to subtly thicken, agreeing with Agnes's unspoken objection. Even Finch seemed to give off a quiet, negative vibe.
"On the contrary, Miss Thorne," Silas smoothly interrupted, a hint of amusement in his amber eyes as he leaned back in his chair. "A brisk walk is exactly what Miss Harrow needs. Fresh air. To shake off the lingering… stale air… of this house." His gaze flickered meaningfully to Alistair, a direct challenge.
Agnes's head snapped towards Silas. "The air of Blackwood Hall is perfectly fine, Mr. Corwin. We've always thought it was… refreshing." Her voice was sharp.
"Refreshing?" Silas scoffed, a soft, dismissive sound. "It seems more like it sticks to you, like grave dust. A walk would do Miss Harrow good. A change of scenery." He turned to Julia, his smile encouraging. "Maybe even to see more of the local village, Miss Harrow? A charming little place, from what I remember."
Julia felt a rush of thanks towards Silas, like a desperate lifeline in this stifling air. "Indeed," Julia said, her voice firmer now, getting strength from Silas's backing. "A change would be very welcome. I feel… trapped." She met Agnes's disapproving glare head-on.
"Blackwood Hall has plenty of space for walks, Miss Harrow," Agnes shot back, her voice tightening. "The gardens are huge. There's no need to go outside the gates, especially for a lady of your… delicate health."
"My health is my business, Miss Thorne," Julia said, her patience running thin. "And a gentle walk outside isn't a huge effort. I just want to… see the outside world for a bit."
"The outside world can be… dangerous, Miss Harrow," Agnes insisted, her voice getting a new, almost frantic edge. "Especially for someone who isn't used to its… realities."
Silas chuckled, a low, knowing sound that got on Agnes's nerves. "Miss Thorne, are you saying the fresh air itself is risky? Or just that the local people are wild? I promise you, Miss Harrow can handle a country lane just fine." His tone was light, but his eyes held a firm challenge.
The argument, a tense dance of veiled accusations and subtle defiance, continued. Julia felt caught in the middle, yet also stronger because of Silas's steady support. He was fighting for her freedom, however small.
Finally, Alistair spoke. His voice was low, cutting through the rising tension with a dangerous calm. "This house," he said, his eyes fixed on Silas, cold and sharp, "was quite quiet before certain… people… arrived." His gaze flickered to Julia, a silent accusation. "However. If Miss Harrow insists on going out, then she will."
His eyes snapped back to Silas, a chilling warning. "But Mr. Corwin would do well to remember that Blackwood Hall has long arms. And that its protection goes far beyond these walls. He'd do well to stay close to the house, and not wander too far into places where he doesn't belong." Alistair paused, then added, his voice dripping with condescension, "And of course, Miss Harrow, I'll arrange for a carriage. With Mr. Finch accompanying you, for safety."
Julia bristled. A carriage? And Finch? She wanted to walk, to breathe the air, not be paraded around like a prisoner. "No, Lord Blackwood," she said, her voice firm, resolute. "A carriage isn't needed. I want to walk. And Silas is more than enough company." Her gaze met his, steady, daring him to say no.
Alistair's jaw tightened almost invisibly. A flicker of raw, clear anger crossed his eyes, quickly hidden by his controlled face. He breathed in slowly, a silent struggle. He'd given her an inch, and she was taking a mile. He wanted to rage, to make her obey, to remind her of her place. But to do that now, in front of Silas, would be a weakness.
"Very well, Miss Harrow," Alistair said, his voice flat, dangerously calm, each word precise, like chips of ice. "As you wish." He gave Silas a look that promised trouble later, then pushed back his chair, the scraping sound loud in the tense quiet. "Breakfast is over."
Silas gave Julia a triumphant, almost invisible smile. Julia felt a thrill of victory, quick but powerful.
Alistair got up, his gaze sweeping over both of them, then he walked out of the dining room without another word, Finch and Agnes following his silent, stiff exit. The tension in the room, though still there, seemed to lessen a bit. Elsie let out a quiet, shaky breath by the door. Agnes Thorne's lips were pressed into an even thinner line, her disapproval radiating from her.
Silas pushed back his own chair, standing. He turned to Julia, his amber eyes bright with a mischievous triumph. "Well," he said, his voice a low, secret whisper, "that was certainly… breakfast." He offered her his arm. "Shall we brave the great outdoors, Miss Harrow? Before the 'rot' spreads further?"
Julia held back a laugh, a giddy, defiant bubbling in her chest. She took his arm, feeling the solid warmth of his presence. "Indeed, Mr. Corwin," she said, her voice light, almost carefree. "Let's go."
---
They walked out of the dining room, leaving the heavy silence behind. Julia felt a sense of excitement, a fragile freedom. But as they stepped into the grand hall, she couldn't shake the feeling that Alistair's cold stare still followed them, a shadow stretching from the depths of Blackwood Hall. She hoped Elsie would be alright.
Silas led her past the manicured lawns and formal gardens, deeper into the estate. The path grew wilder, the trees thicker, the air cooler. It felt like stepping into another world, away from the stifling house.
"Where are we going?" Julia asked, glancing at the tangled woods.
Silas grinned, a genuine, easy smile that erased some of the tension from his face. "A place Marian used to go. When the house got to be too much for her."
Julia's interest sparked. "A secret place?"
"Something like that," he said. "It's not really a secret, just… forgotten."
They walked for a while, the path growing narrower, overgrown with tangled roots and low-hanging branches. The quiet was profound here, broken only by birdsong and the rustle of leaves.
Then, through the dense trees, Julia saw it. A small, stone chapel, half-hidden by thick ivy and dark moss. The roof sagged in places, and some windows were empty holes, but it still held a silent dignity.
"The old chapel," Julia murmured. She'd heard rumors about it, how Marian used to seek refuge here.
"This is it," Silas said, stepping aside to let her enter. The air inside was cool, smelling of damp earth and old stone. Sunlight filtered through the gaps in the roof, making shifting patterns on the moss-covered floor.
It was ruined, but beautiful. A strange comfort settled over Julia. This place, touched by time and neglect, felt more real than anything in the perfect, suffocating Hall.
She sat on a fallen stone, tracing the moss with her finger. "So, this is where Marian came to escape?"
Silas sat beside her, his long legs stretched out. "Yes. She said it was the only place she could breathe." He paused, then looked at her. "You seem to understand that."
Julia nodded, a sigh escaping her. "More than I'd like to admit. My aunt's house in London… it felt a bit like this Hall, in its own way."
"Your aunt?" Silas asked, his voice soft. "After your parents died?"
Julia looked at the dappled light on the floor. "Yes. Aunt Evelyn took me in. She… she cared for me, in her own way. But her house was always so quiet. So proper. Every book had its place, every silence its meaning."
She remembered the endless lessons, the stern governess, the cold, grand rooms where laughter felt out of place. "I used to draw cathedrals when I couldn't sleep. Imagined their high ceilings, their open spaces. Anything to escape the feeling of being trapped."
Silas listened, his gaze unblinking. "I can imagine." He reached into his coat pocket. "Marian and I… we used to meet here. Before Alistair. Before everything changed."
He pulled out a crumpled, folded piece of paper. It looked well-worn, almost loved. "I wrote this… the night she died. Or thought I did." He handed it to her. "It's half-finished. A sonnet."
Julia took the paper, her fingers brushing his. The paper was rough, slightly damp. She unfolded it carefully. Silas's handwriting was elegant, precise. She began to read aloud, her voice soft, then trembling as she reached the lines about loss and things unseen.
"There's something in the last lines," Julia said, her voice catching, her eyes meeting his. "As if you're mourning someone who still breathes."
Silas's gaze was intense, unreadable. He reached out, his hand hovering near hers, then his thumb brushed lightly over her knuckles where she held the paper. A spark, a strange current, passed between them.
A sudden gust of wind rattled the broken windows, and thunder rumbled in the distance. The light in the chapel dimmed, turning a bruised purple.
"Looks like our reprieve is over," Silas said, his voice low, a hint of regret in his tone. He glanced at the sky. "We should go. Now. That's a storm brewing."
Julia looked at the darkening sky through the gaps in the roof. The silence of the chapel was suddenly replaced by the growing roar of the wind. "You're right," she said, quickly standing.
They hurried out of the chapel, the first heavy drops of rain beginning to fall. The wind whipped around them, tearing at her dress, pulling strands of hair across her face.
"Come on!" Silas urged, taking her hand. His grip was firm, warm, pulling her forward. They ran through the woods, the rain now pouring down, soaking them instantly. Branches lashed at them, mud splashed their shoes. The thunder grew louder, closer.
Julia gasped for breath, laughing a little, a wild, breathless sound swallowed by the storm. She was soaked, her hair plastered to her face, but a strange exhilaration filled her. They burst out of the woods, stumbling onto the path leading back to Blackwood Hall. The grand house loomed in the distance, dark and imposing against the stormy sky.
They ran towards it, breathless, soaked to the bone, a peculiar mix of cold and warmth settling over Julia. The Hall waited, silent and watchful.