"The house had been waiting — with its doors unlocked, its secrets intact, and its mouth already open."
The village disappeared behind her like a forgotten whisper.
As Rhea Voss drove deeper into the Cotswolds, the road grew narrower, pressed between skeletal trees whose branches clutched at the sky like brittle fingers. The car's tires bumped over worn gravel, then dirt, until only the shriek of crows and the low hum of the engine reminded her she hadn't yet crossed into another century.
She slowed as the outer gates appeared—wrought iron, flanked by crumbling stone lions, one missing an eye. Her heart thudded once. Then again, louder. Not from nostalgia.
From warning.
It had been over a decade since she'd last seen this place. Yet the estate hadn't faded in her memory. If anything, it had calcified there. Like bone. Like rot.
She stepped out of the car, heels crunching on gravel, the wind catching the hem of her silk coat and flinging it behind her like a cloak. The air here smelled like moss and old decisions. Her perfume—Byredo's Bibliothèque—felt too clean, too expensive, too new for this place.
The Voss Estate loomed above her like a curse made of stone.
Four stories high. Roofs pitched like jagged teeth. Ivy spread across the walls like veins beneath skin. The windows didn't reflect her; they stared back. Arched. Silent. Familiar.
A house shouldn't look like it remembers you.
But this one did.
She wasn't alone.
Car door shut softly behind her, the sound dulled by mist and moss. Rhea turned.
Evie stood just beyond the gate, wrapped in a cardigan that looked borrowed from someone far softer. Her braid—tight and neat—hung over one shoulder like it had never known wind. One hand gripped the handle of a tiny floral tote bag. The other balanced a tin watering can as if they were the armor she had chosen for this war.
Her shoes were flats. Mud-stained already.
Her expression was hope.
"This is... wow," Evie said, breath fogging faintly in the cold air. "It looks bigger than I remember. Or maybe we were just smaller."
Rhea didn't answer.
She wasn't ready to hear wonder in anyone's voice.
Not about this place.
Not today.
Evie stepped closer, squinting up at the tall windows. "I told Cam this place would make the Addams Family jealous. He sent me a meme with a coffin in the foyer."
Rhea gave a faint breath of amusement, though nothing in her body relaxed.
"This house," she said, "eats things."
Evie blinked, caught off guard. "Rhea…"
But her sister didn't explain. Didn't need to. The estate itself did enough of the talking.
A gust of wind rolled through the trees, rattling the empty birdcage that hung crookedly from an old branch near the gate. It creaked once, then swung in silence.
Evie hugged the cardigan tighter.
The two of them stood before the doors together—two Voss girls, both raised by silence, memory, and the cold edge of inherited wealth.
Evie reached for the brass knocker, shaped like a lion's mouth.
She never touched it.
Because the door opened on its own.
The heavy doors creaked inward without touch.
Rhea blinked.
Standing in the entryway was a woman who looked like she had never left.
She wore a sharply pressed charcoal uniform, an antique brass pin at her collar, and a name tag that simply read: Agnes. Her posture was faultless. Her expression, ageless. The kind of face carved not by time but by obedience and the cold discipline of service.
She did not smile. But she did incline her head.
"Ms. Voss. Miss Evelyn. Welcome home."
Home.
The word landed with a chill that slid down Rhea's spine.
The air inside smelled faintly of lavender polish and firewood. Faint notes of beeswax. Everything gleamed—marble, brass, stained glass. Fresh cut lilies sat in a crystal vase atop the foyer table like they'd been arranged only moments ago. The kind of order that felt ceremonial. Not lived in.
"You still keep staff here?" Rhea asked, her voice a blade sheathed in civility.
Agnes didn't flinch. "The estate is always maintained, Miss. Mr. Vale saw to it personally during your absence."
Rhea's breath stuttered.
"Mr. Vale?" she repeated. As if the words might not mean what they clearly did.
Agnes tilted her head slightly, then added, "He is not currently on the grounds. But he is expected."
The name dropped into the space like a stone in deep water.
Lucien Vale.
Not a ghost, then. Not only.
Evie glanced up, curious. "He's still here?" she asked.
"He oversees many of the legacy arrangements on behalf of the Vale–Voss estate alliance," Agnes said plainly. "Some of the art restoration. The south wing repairs. The hothouse, of course."
Her tone was diplomatic. But the words felt like ownership.
As if Lucien hadn't just kept the house running.
As if he had never truly left.
Rhea didn't reply. She stepped past the threshold instead.
The floor felt too warm beneath her heels.
Agnes stepped aside without offering her arm. Rhea walked forward, her heels landing like punctuation on marble. The corridor stretched ahead—long, symmetrical, immaculate. Oil paintings lined the walls, newly cleaned. Chandeliers above glittered with a quiet ostentation, refracting light in golden shards that danced on polished stone.
But it wasn't the opulence that unsettled her.
It was the precision.
This house had not decayed. It had not sighed in her absence or allowed itself to rest.
It had been curated.
Cared for.
Watched.
Every flower was fresh. Every portrait dustless. Every corner whispering, we were expecting you.
Agnes moved ahead, gliding more than walking. "The master suite has been prepared for you, Ms. Voss. Your sister's room is directly opposite. I assumed you'd want to be near."
Rhea said nothing. Her voice would betray her.
She stepped through the archway into her childhood corridor.
The walls were the same color. The chandelier—lower, now—sparkled like it had been lit every evening in her absence. Her fingers twitched as she passed her grandmother's portrait. Still there. Still watching.
Agnes opened the door at the far end.
Rhea froze in the doorway.
Her room.
Not a room. Not one redone in her absence. Not staged to impress.
Her room.
The pale mint walls were the exact hue she'd once insisted upon at fifteen. The bed's iron frame had been repainted in the same chipped ivory. The emerald velvet duvet lay perfectly smoothed. Her favorite books—those she hadn't taken with her to university—lined the bottom shelf of the bookcase.
Her perfume bottle—the original one, nearly empty, decades old—stood untouched on the vanity.
Even the curtains.
Soft, sheer, embroidered with vinework—were the exact set her grandmother had sewn for her eighteenth birthday.
Everything was hers.
Everything had been kept.
Rhea stepped inside slowly.
It felt like walking into a preserved version of her own ghost.
She ran her hand along the edge of the bedframe. The corners had been polished.
This wasn't inheritance.
It was possession.
The house mocked her with its welcome. See? You belong here. You always did.
Her lips parted slightly, but no words came.
Behind her, Evie lingered in the doorway, arms curled around her tote bag. She stepped inside cautiously.
"It looks exactly like you," Evie said. "Like the room was waiting."
Rhea laughed under her breath—a brittle, humorless sound. "That's what scares me."
Evie crossed to the window seat and drew the curtain back slightly. "Do you remember that summer we spent hiding from Gran in here?"
Rhea turned her face away. "She found us anyway. She always did."
Evie sat gently, tucking her knees beneath her. "I think she loved this room too. She used to say it had a better view of the orchard."
Rhea didn't respond. Her eyes remained fixed on the vanity mirror, which reflected back a woman who looked far too poised to be scared.
But the fear was there. Curling beneath her ribs. Thickening behind her tongue.
Agnes cleared her throat lightly from the door.
"Dinner will be at seven. If you need anything, I will be down the hall."
Rhea nodded.
But the house... the house already knew what she needed.
And it had never stopped preparing.