#gerik

Beneath a perfectly bruised sky of storm clouds, loomed the Destler château in all it’s glory. The very same house the people of town whispered about—of the house that had long outlived its master. Even on its sunny days did it hold grim and gloom, that during the sunrise it still only looked old and grey like a dark cathedral you would read in those strange books.

The most astonishing thing about it though was the well kept gardens surrounding it in it’s large expanse of acres. The grass a lush green, shimmering with the morning dew. And the magnificent fragrance of the most red roses you would ever behold in the rose gardens that surrounded a deep darkened maze.

As the sun did attempt to rise through the grey clouds with its rays peeking through in thin strips. The air hung thick with warmth and humidity in the morning summer's kiss. The rose scent clashing with the wet-moss covered stones and the sweet sound of morning birds.

The estate’s manager, butler, servants, and some construction workers’ boots crunched against the gravel path, their voices a low hum of practicality, while they stood ready to greet the new guest. A luxurious, dark red landau carriage pulled by six, black, friesian horses sighed to a halt amid the gothic splendor before them.

One by one, three gentlemen descended, among them stood your father, a man of weathered hands and resolute eyes, and then his two elder sons of four trailing him like ducklings eager to inherit his legacy.

They were young, barely past boyhood, yet already schooled in the art of construction, their father’s craft etched into their futures. The trio moved with purpose, their breath misting in the chill as they discussed beams and mortar.

Only you remained within the shadowed interior, a young vision of elegance and beauty. The footman, ever dutiful, extended his gloved hand which you placed your fingers upon with grace. The blood-red tulle of your gown unfurled like a wound opening to the morning air, layers of crimson whispering gently against the breeze.

The matching hat sat low, its veil a delicate cage of lace that both concealed and revealed the tremor of curiosity in your eyes. Every eye turned. Every heart, whether they knew it or not, skipped a single, treacherous beat as they beheld you.

Your breath held as you took in the Destlers’ home. It was just as you imagined in all it’s gothic magnificence. The rumors of it being haunting was a little more over exaggerated though, in your opinion but it was the rumor of their being a ghost in the house that piqued your interest.

“Arthur!” The estates manager, Tangu, greeted with an eye smile and shake of hands. “Welcome, welcome! I assume the trip here wasn’t too troubling?”

“Not at all, it was quite pleasant actually. Being able to see the countryside is always refreshing.” Your father says gleefully after they greet one another.

“These are your sons are they?” Tangu asks as your father nods proudly.

Arthur swept his arm in a grand, welcoming arc. “My eldest sons, Rémi and Julian.”

The two young men stepped forward one after the other, offering firm handshakes and polite smiles that carried the easy confidence of youth tempered by good breeding. Only then did Tangu’s gaze drift past them and settle on you. He paused mid-motion, lips parting as though the sight of you had stolen the very words from his tongue.

“And who,” he murmured, voice low with wonder, “is this radiant creature?”

Arthur’s smile widened, pride and amusement flickering in his eyes. “My eldest daughter. She insisted on coming. Claimed nothing could keep her from satisfying that insatiable curiosity of hers.”

Tangu bowed over your laced gloved hand, pressing a lingering kiss to your knuckles before straightening. “Then we must not keep her waiting. Your things will be taken to the guest chambers at once.”

As if summoned by the sound of your arrival, the great doors of the château creaked wider. Down the stone steps she came. Madame Destler, the lady of the house, gliding like a feather duster given form.

Black silk clung to her from throat to wrist to hem, the same unrelieved mourning she had worn for sixteen long years, ever since her husband drew his final breath on the very night their son was due to be born.

The world believed the child had perished with her hope, carried away by the cruel weight of her grief. Yet high above the courtyard, behind a latticed window half-hidden by ivy, a pair of eyes watched every movement below. Sharp, alive, and burning with secrets no one else had any idea of.

Mr. Destler, was a mason of unparalleled renown in France. And your father had known Mr. and Mrs. Destler well, for years really, until the master of the house fell to his untimely death, and now, at the urgent summons of Mrs. Destler, he had come to honor an old debt for an old friend.

The widow’s letters spoke of an estate plagued by disrepair. It’s sagging rafters, leaking roofs, and walls that seemed to groan under the weight of their own history from years of neglect. As a favor to a friend long gone, he had agreed to oversee the renovations, bringing his sons, and you, along for the journey.

Arthur removed his top hat and inclined his head in a courtly bow. “Madame Destler. The years have been kinder to you than to any of us. You are as striking as ever.”

Madame Destler’s lips barely curved. “You always did flatter, Arthur,” she replied, her voice as cool and flat as the marble beneath their feet. “I trust your rooms will suit you. And thank you, truly, for making the journey. My husband held you in the highest regard. He would have been . . . grateful.”

Arthur’s smile did not falter; it never did as he was a gentle man. With a soft nod he accepted the welcome, and the family stepped across the threshold.

While the men drifted ahead, their voices low with talk of contracts and legacies, you lingered at the rear, letting the others pass. The entrance hall unfolded around you like a cathedral built for mourning rather than prayer. Your reflection stared up from the polished marble, clear enough to catch the uncertain flutter in your own eyes

Along the walls, stone angels stood in silent vigil, each cradling a bronze bowl where flames trembled like captive stars. Heavy drapes of midnight velvet framed tall windows, swallowing the dark areas in bruised gold.

Everything was grey and gilt, severe and perfect. The carvings on every pillar, every arch, looked sharp enough to cut longing itself into shape. Gothic, yes, but not cold; it was the kind of beauty that made the heart ache in recognition, as though the house had been waiting sixteen years for someone to walk through it and finally feel its loneliness.

You drew a slow breath, tasting wax and old roses, and realized, too late, that you were already in love with the place. With its details. With whatever story had carved it so exquisitely. And somewhere high above, behind a lattice of stone and silence, a gaze you could not see lingered on you just as helplessly. Following you.

The family gallery was a cavern of white marble and colder silences. Statues of long-dead Destlers stared down from their pedestals, each face carved with the same proud, strong jaw and serious expressions.

Madame Destler’s voice drifted on, a monotone litany about her husband’s bust, how the sculptor had caught the exact tilt of his head, the precise depth of his gaze, until the words blurred into a polite hum that begged for a yawn. You lifted a gloved hand to your lips, facing a way from view and let your attention wander.

Tucked behind a fluted column, half-forgotten, stood a smaller bust. An unnamed young man. The resemblance to the late Monsieur Destler was unmistakable, the same strong brow, the same wave in the hair, though softer, less severe.

Yet where the elder’s eyes had been carved to command, these looked out with a sorrow so quiet it seemed almost shy and adoring. You stepped closer without meaning to, drawn by the faint, downturned curve of the marble mouth.

Minutes slipped away. When you finally blinked back to yourself, the others had moved on; their footsteps echoed faintly from the corridor beyond. For one heartbeat your pulse stuttered, alone, in this mausoleum of stone strangers, then settled again. Curiosity, not fear, had always been your truest companion.

You reached out, the soft lace of your glove whispering against cold marble and brushed the statue’s cheek as though it might flinch. It did not, of course. With a small, secret smile you turned and followed the others.

The next room stole the breath you hadn’t realized you were holding. A library, no, a cathedral of books. Shelves soared three storeys high, ladders poised like sentinels along brass rails. The air was thick with the scent of aged paper and beeswax, a fragrance so perfectly itself that you closed your eyes for a moment just to breathe it in.

When you opened them again, you saw the ceiling in a fresco of night sky, indigo and star-drunk, with comets streaking across plaster heavens that moved with your wild imagination. Your fingers trailed along the spines, calfskin, morocco, vellum, titles in languages you only half-recognized. Delight rose in you like champagne.

You forgot the tour, almost forgetting the marble boy with the sad eyes, and forgot everything else but the delicious hush of turning pages no one had touched in years. You did not hear the soft creak of the balcony door above. Did not see the figure who stepped out from behind the gilded railing, half-hidden by shadows and the carved balustrade.

He leaned forward just enough for the gaslight to catch in his eyes, the very same eyes you had caressed in marble moments ago, now alive, now fixed on you with an intensity that made the vast room feel suddenly, breathlessly small. He watched you the way a drowning man watches the first glimpse of shore. In wonder, terror, and something fiercer threaded together.

You remained blissfully unaware, smiling at a volume of Baudelaire you had plucked from the shelf, while above you the lost son of the house stood trembling, afraid to move, afraid to breathe, afraid the dream would end if he so much as blinked. A sharp creak of floorboard shattered the hush. Up on the balcony the boy flinched, heart slamming against his ribs as Julian’s voice rang out behind you.

“Is it everything you dreamed of, sweet sister?” Julian teased, stepping from behind with that lopsided grin he wore whenever he expected a scream.

You didn’t even startle. Not a gasp, not a flinch. You simply turned, one brow arched in gentle mockery. “Really, Julian. You’ve tried that since we were children. When will you accept defeat?”

The boy above leaned forward, gripping the balustrade until the carved wood bit into his palms. Your voice drifted up like bells heard across water, so clear, amused, impossibly kind. It wrapped around him and squeezed.

Julian exhaled a laugh he couldn’t quite suppress. “You’re impossible. Nothing frightens you. You’re unnatural.”

“Or I’ve simply grown immune to six siblings who think ‘boo’ is high art,” you countered, sliding the Baudelaire back onto its shelf with reverent care.

Julian jerked his head toward the corridor. “Come on, wanderer. Father will notice you’re missing and send a search party. Again.”

You sighed, a soft, theatrical thing in the hidden boys mind, and followed, skirts whispering over the parquet. As you passed beneath the balcony you never once glanced up. Julian never noticed the extra shadow that lingered overhead either, watching until the last flicker of your hem vanished through the doorway.

Later, after endless corridors and a hundred polite murmurs of admiration, you were shown to your chamber. A maid curtseyed, promised hot water, and left you to the vast four-poster that looked as though it had waited centuries for someone to dream in it.

Then came the summons to supper.

The dining room swallowed sound the way any château swallows echoes. A table long enough for a royal court gleamed beneath a chandelier dripping with crystal and candlelight.

Silver caught firelight and threw it back in a thousand trembling shards. Fresh damask cloths, starched to knife-edged perfection, glowed like moonlight on snow. Even the air seemed polished in its warmth with beeswax and rosemary, bright with the scent of roasted chestnuts.

Night pressed against the tall windows, but inside it might as well have been noon in paradise. Golden light poured from every sconce, every candelabrum, pooling across the table until the whole room shimmered like a mirage.

You took your seat next to Julian, smoothing your napkin across your lap, unaware that at the far end of the table an extra place had been set, then quietly, discreetly removed only moments before the family entered. Unaware that somewhere beyond the velvet drapes, a heartbeat that had no business still beating thundered in time with yours.

The courses arrived in slow, stately procession. Consommé trembling in pristine porcelain cups, pheasant glazed with Armagnac, tiny sorbets served in silver shells to cleanse the palate. Conversation circled the same well-worn paths of estimates for the east-wing roof, the cost of re-gilding the morning parlor, whether the late Monsieur Destler would have approved of damask or brocade for the new draperies.

Madame Destler spoke of her husband’s tastes as though he had merely stepped out for a cigar and might return at any moment to correct the color of the wallpaper. You ate quietly, letting the talk wash over you like distant rain. Julian, seated to your left, could never resist mischief. An elbow found your ribs, once, twice, accompanied by a whispered.

“Still alive over there, statue girl?”

You answered the third nudge with the sharp heel of your slipper against his instep. He grunted, loud enough to slice through the murmur of adult voices. Every head turned.

Julian recovered with the speed of long practice. “Pardon,” he said, flashing his most charming smile. “I was only admiring the carving around the hearth. Mr. Destler truly had an eye for genius.”

Madame Destler’s severe mouth softened by a fraction. “He did,” she began.

And off she went again how he had personally chosen the marble, how the stonemason had wept when the work was unveiled. The table settled back into the familiar rhythm of her reminiscence.

Across from you, Rémi caught your eye. One eyebrow ascended in majestic disapproval, a silent bombastic reprimand that required no words. You pressed your lips together to trap the laugh threatening to escape; Julian did the same beside you, shoulders shaking with suppressed mirth. For a moment the three of you were children again, allied against the endless solemnity of grown-ups.

Julian nudged once more in a promise that later he would limp theatrically and blame you for the bruise. While at the head of the table, Madame Destler’s voice rose and fell like a requiem. And yet no one noticed the faint draft that stirred the candles, nor the shadow that hesitated just beyond the doorway. Tall, motionless, drinking in the sight of laughter he had never been allowed to join.

Though, no one except you, perhaps, who felt the strangest prickling at the nape of your neck, as though someone had brushed an invisible finger along your skin. You would turn in that direction only to find no one every time.

The maids had only just drawn the curtains and turned down the counterpane when they left you alone. The room was quiet except for the low pop of the fire and the soft ticking of a distant clock. You sat at the little rosewood vanity, loosening the last pins from your hair, letting it fall heavily down.

That was when you saw it.

There, on the corner of the vanity, lay the volume of Baudelaire you had held in the library hours earlier. The same cracked green leather, the same faint gold lettering along the spine. It had not been there when you entered the room; you were certain of it.

Your breath caught. A small crease formed between your brows as you reached for it, fingertips brushing the cover as though it might vanish. A gift? A kindness from a thoughtful servant who had noticed your longing glance? The explanation settled over you like a warm shawl, and the tension eased from your shoulders. You smiled.

Carrying the book to the vast bed, you slipped between linen sheets that smelled of lavender and wood. Your white nightgown spread around you in delicate folds, moonlight spilling through the gap in the drapes to silver the pages. You opened the book at random, and the words welcomed you like old friends.

Time blurred. The fire burned lower. Your eyelids grew heavy, the lines of verse swimming together until they dissolved into dreams. You never heard a secret door open, though it did just enough for a shadow to slide through.

You never saw the figure pause at the foot of the bed, motionless, drinking in the sight of you asleep with the book still cradled against your heart. Moonlight caught the curve of a cheek that had never known a mother’s kiss, the tremble of a mouth that had forgotten how to speak its own name.

He stood there a long while, afraid to breathe. Then, with infinite care, he reached out and drew the blanket higher over your shoulders, tucking the chill of the night away from your skin. His fingers lingered an inch above your hair, aching to touch, never daring.

At last, he retreated, melting back into the darkness beyond the door. The latch closed without a sound. You slept on, the book rising and falling with your gentle breath, dreaming of sorrowful eyes who watched over you in silence. Never guessing that those same ones had just done exactly that.