It hadn’t lingered long in their absence. The desire to lay pretence at the feet of its long-serving residents had passed. In ritual, the sun was overwhelmed by peremptory clouds, colourless, unmoving, and unyielding. The warmer climes of yesteryear lost to the plummeting temperatures that cultivated the perpetual winter of the Priory—a fitting gesture for the boys of winter.
Lady Hardacre had watched Nancy’s departure until she could bear it no more. Swiftly, less torturous than it had once been, the Priory took her for its own. She could reflect on the pain, the injustice of her lot, though it wasn’t a pain she desired to heal; to be free of it would mean her surrender, and that she wouldn’t do. The Priory would not see the utter demise of Lady Hardacre this year no more than it had in her own time.
Ghosts of war flittered across her vision as the vista beyond the window whitened. The uniforms had descended upon the Priory in a time of need: a country at war. Those poor souls had had no idea they’d entered a new battleground. They were simply casualties. There had been little triumph for the last few left within the walls of Hardacre. It had seen to that. Then, just as it had on so many occasions, it had fed on those hearts fuelled by fear, hatred, and greed. Its true desire was nothing so meagre as a tender heart.
Estelle sat at her desk, a great expanse of leather-topped mahogany which had once belonged to her father. The room overlooked the rear of the grounds, an equally barren landscape as the rest. Though here, the ruins dominated the view—the Priory that had once sat high on the horizon, vast stone arches were all that remained. Now, as the warm charade had been swiped away, there were crows, dozens of them. The sky was murderous with their black shapes against the now bleak white palette.
Lady Hardacre reached for the telephone and placed her forefinger in the round of the first digit. She pressed the handset to her ear and dialled the number three, followed by the next four numbers. Each time, the dial returned to its starting point—a point at the start, she mused. A moment in time when whatever evil lay at the foundations had begun its devouring hunger. She looked to the ruins. These grounds had once known peace, faith. God had sat here.
The call connected and shook her from her thoughts. ‘Hello,’ she said. ‘Mr Beamish?’
‘Lady Hardacre! I was about to call you.’
‘Is it done?’
‘Not quite, I’m saddened to say.’
‘She did not take it?’
‘No. But all is not lost.’
He paused. She understood his hesitations. It was a delicate matter, to fail now would cost them all dearly.
‘There was an… incident,’ he said. ‘It gives me hope.’
‘An incident?’
‘Mrs Hardacre found, let us say, a connection. She was quite overwhelmed by it.’
‘So, I was correct to hope then?’
‘There’s no doubt in my mind that there’s a special quality to her.’
‘So, I take it you have opened the envelope I sent you? Nancy gave it to you?’
‘She handed it to me as soon as she arrived. I’m afraid something has caused her a great reluctance. May I ask what happened this morning?’
‘I fear she understands the truth of it as we stand Mr Beamish… or as I do.’
‘I realise that, but I worry it’s getting to her, that the Priory is taking hold. If we wait any longer, we may be too late for her.’
‘I share your fears, Mr Beamish. Tonight, then.’
‘Tonight.’
‘Oh, before you go, my grandsons—did they give you any cause for concern?’ She pushed the handset to her other ear and stood to face the Priory ruins straight on. They appeared larger, taller, more imposing today. As it should be. ‘I thought they would have returned by this hour. There has been no word.’
‘The boys weren’t with Mrs Hardacre. She left them in Gloria’s care for a playdate with young Josie. It’ll do them good today as the sun is shining.’
There were only the black birds against white through Estelle’s window, but she imagined how it would be in Raynham; there would be sunshine. There were memories there—a childhood with friends; visits to the village shop, the library for a new book, or the post office to run errands—but those memories were often lost behind the plasterwork.
‘Gloria, you say?’
‘That’s right. Is there something wrong?’ Mr Beamish hovered on his last word.
Estelle felt every one of his thoughts as if he sat across the desk from her.
‘Do you think Gloria will… Never mind. Forgive my unnecessary concerns. In the circumstances, I take it you will do as my letter outlines?’
‘You can rely on me.’
‘Thank you, Mr Beamish.’ She replaced the receiver on its cradle, ending the call with a clunk.
Her eyes cast to the large expanse of wallpaper opposite her—a place where the colours and tones were richer, more vibrant than the rest, which had faded with age.
With temptation too great, she walked over, ran her hand where the mirror had once hung. Remnants of its energy were fading, though its connection lingered. She feared that would never be broken. It had been forged with greed and vanity, and those were too solid emotions for evil to allow to dwindle. It was in the very atmosphere. The mirror had needed to go, to have it here when they’d arrived would have been a travesty. Too many had fallen waste to it. Little had she known, it had only accelerated their arrival and at the cost of her son. She cursed herself for having allowed it, even if she’d had no choice.
Andrew had feigned surprise when he answered, his voice slightly higher and shaking a little down the telephone line, though she knew he had expected her call. He would never have been able to deny the connection. She’d seen it in the mirror. Estelle had pressed the receiver closer to her cheek, perhaps hoping to feel him down the line. The years had grown long for him, though for her, it was merely yesterday. Andrew Hardacre, the last heir, had left the Priory grounds, passed the great oak, the outside world as tempting as the girl on his arm. The door had closed itself in his wake. Yet, within the walls, the plasterwork, the polished floors, there had been a settling. Estelle had felt it for days as his absence was absorbed. What infested the foundations had whispered its glee—yet another of hers lost. It had marked it as the final triumph.
‘Hello? Mum?’
She had twitched a little at the word, the relaxed way her title had dwindled. She was his mother. Nancy would be mum, wouldn’t she? Of course, she would. A mum full of love and blessings, where Estelle had missed hers.
‘Andrew,’ she had swallowed hard. ‘I need your help.’
She had never asked anything from him, thinking she and all his history had evaporated from his thoughts, just forgotten memories. She had been wrong.
‘Yes, of course. What is it?’
Estelle had kept the details brief. The Priory knew her thoughts; her words would solidify within the woodgrain. ‘You will need a van.’ They had been the only words spoken before the receiver was replaced.
If only she hadn’t called him. Would it have changed the outcome?
She glared at the vacant spot on the wall.
‘My lady, do you desire anything this afternoon? Some tea?’ Lizzie paused on the threshold, an unusual dullness about her. ‘They haven’t returned.’
‘No, thank you. I am not in the mood for such routines this afternoon.’ The need to say she felt defeated was strong, but she resisted. ‘Thank you, Lizzie.’ The maid nodded, but not once did Estelle’s eyes move from the empty wall. ‘I am sure they will be home soon,’ she said.
‘I’m sure you’re right. I will bake some scones. The boys will like those.’
There was no mistaking the fondness in Lizzie’s tone. But it was a foolhardy emotion for those cursed in a never-ending circle of nothingness. There had been enough wallowing in grief today. Nancy would return with the boys; Estelle was adamant about that. The Priory wouldn’t allow her to wander too far before it called her back.
Her concern now was Gloria. If the teacher could hold herself together, hold her tongue just a little longer, they had a chance, and all could be saved. Estelle had felt her grief as soon as she’d entered yesterday evening. The room had been palpable with it, and it had echoed Nancy’s. She’d seen the picture young Josie had drawn too. The Priory already had its grip on that poor child. There was no denying why, either—she wasn’t a Hardacre, but it had allowed her to cross its boundary, and because of that, she was cursed.
Estelle had known the afternoon the van had pulled up on the drive with Andrew in the passenger seat. She had recognised the other man; saw the boy he’d been; the Priory had allowed his admittance then, and it was no different that day. Andrew had known the same. As a child, Andrew had invited others, boys who had faltered at the crossroads. Not once had their shoes been allowed to step past the oak. They had all run home with an inexplicable feeling that they had forgotten something, unable to recall why they’d been on Priory grounds in the first instance.
But not Allan Scarfe.
Estelle had stepped aside as they entered.
‘Hello, Allan. It is good to see you.’ She had lied, knowing the necessity of it. ‘I am extremely grateful for your help today, Andrew.’
The desire to hold her son close was so overwhelming, she pressed her hand to the doorframe, her eyes closed a moment.
‘Mum?’
She dismissed his questioning tone and pointed towards the library.
‘That’s lovely,’ Allan said. ‘What an enormous mirror! Where are we taking it? Auction house?’ He stepped closer then, framed within the mirror’s gilding.
‘No, it is a little trickier than that. I shall let Andrew explain on your journey back. But, please, don’t stand so close to it.’ Estelle turned to her son. ‘I trust you can deal with it?’
Andrew nodded, knowing better than to delve into the matter any further. ‘It shall be done.’
‘You will need a blanket to cover it.’ She nodded. ‘Do not touch it until it is completely covered.’ Her brows knitted as she looked at Allan, who still wore the same open expression. He had always been an obliging boy. Perhaps that was why the Priory had admitted him. She worried if his openness would be his ruin.
They covered the mirror in thick blankets, tightly wrapped and bound when Allan and Andrew took it off the wall. Then propped it against the wallpaper to drink the cups of tea Lizzie appeared with. Estelle heard the murmurs, the whispers. The Priory felt her treachery.
Andrew put his empty mug on the desk, eyeing the mirror, had bent down and pulled the blanket over the bottom edge. As he pulled the thick cover across the surface, his finger snagged the worn gilt frame. It splintered, leaving a small, fractured part of itself in his hand; he cursed as his blood smeared the glass.
‘Let me look.’ Estelle bent down to see the long shard of splintered wood embedded deep in Andrew’s palm. ‘No.’ She fell back on her heels, her hand on Andrew’s shoulder.
‘It’s nothing,’ he’d said. ‘I’ll get Nancy to look at it later.’
They carried the wrapped mirror from the room into the great hallway before Estelle had made it to her feet.
‘I will take these small victories, Lady Hardacre.’
She cried when the van pulled away. There had been no saving Andrew from this; what would be would and she knew all too well, she held no power to interject. The evidence of what was possible, of what could be from such a small thing, still walked the Priory’s halls—lost, blurred memories of what they had once been.
Estelle turned her back on the wall. She wouldn’t give it any more of her sorrow today. Instead, she opened the library’s glass doors, which led out into the cold, white landscape. Her feet took her in the direction of the ruins. With a swift flap of wings, the crows fled, leaving one lone bird circling above. She gave it no heed, swiping her hand across the sky indifferently. With a curious eye, it cawed, swooping low overhead then flew off.
This was a moment for faith.
With slow, resolute steps, Lady Hardacre followed those who’d walked before her. They were here today. They had been pacing the grounds, summoned through her faith and that of Mr Beamish. With them here, they had hope.
She paused behind one of the brothers. He turned, his black robe grazing the frozen tops of sparse grass.
‘Lady Hardacre.’ He bowed his head and allowed his eyes to meet hers. ‘We feel your faith today. It is strong…’ He smiled, and her heart almost beat. ‘As is the child’s.’
‘The child?’
‘Your grandson, the little lord.’
‘May I ask which one it is?’
‘The eldest. He has a fierce heart. There is no doubt of the darkness that sits in his thoughts; although, it is only to be expected. The children have witnessed a terrible fate.’ The brother lowered his head, his hands pressed together. ‘This child does not shy away from the truth, unlike his younger sibling. That one, I am afraid, may be susceptible to what lays beneath. It may already have him within its grip.’ He planted his foot hard on the frozen ground, his mouth a firm line of disgust.
‘But the eldest? Elliot?’
‘His faith is strong, my lady. Enough to see what is truly here. Enough to see us.’
‘I fear the faith of both my grandsons will need to be strong tonight. It will try us all.’
The brother pondered a trice. ‘We feel your urgency. We feel its presence close by, and we are praying for all our souls.’ His golden-brown eyes closed, silent words on his lips.
She lowered her head to mirror his gesture. When she opened her eyes, his bored into her, his manner questioning.
‘What is it?’ she asked.
‘If we fail…’
‘Do not speak of it. We cannot fail.’
‘But, if we do, I shall take the matter into my own hands. I shall make it my duty to fulfil this task, or I shall not rest.’
‘Nor shall any of us…’ she interjected.
The brother nodded. He took her hands into his and squeezed them oh so gently. ‘Then we shall not fail. I, with my brothers, have wandered these grounds for more than four hundred years.’ He swept his gaze across the whiteness. ‘Once, it was lush and abundant, but most of all, it was alive.’
‘We all were alive once,’ she mused. ‘Though, I admit, it is not life that I miss.’
‘Nor I. It is goodness. It will be here again. You must keep your faith.’
Lady Hardacre lowered her head in prayer, but also to keep her bitter tears hidden. ‘Thank you for your council, Brother Nicholas.’
† † †
Since the sun rose, chasing the night shadows, dispersing them into the light, the twins of the past watched and waited. Though time itself meant very little, anything other than winter was a gift to be relished. The sunshine took them to the rose window, which held physical memories of their childhood. A place where they had hidden from their father, both for play and out of fear of punishment. While he had been a good man and a good father, he had deprived them of the nurture they craved. They were young, after all—no greater in living years than the boys of winter. Mother had left them behind with their fates in the hands of God. Or had it been in the hands of the evil that lay at the root of it all?
It had wanted them.
Josiah and Samuel had been the first Hardacre Twins. With the Priory’s cruel endeavours, they still reigned as such. They had lingered in the halls and corners where the whispering evil lay hidden for more than four centuries. Generations had come and gone. Some had passed on, some had not. Those poor, wretched souls remained in a perpetual hell, concealed from the rest and alone in their torment. The twins had regarded them all, bearing witness to their last mortal ticks of the clock until the hands struck death.
However, not every Hardacre had fallen prey to what had risen. Some had escaped its clutches, perhaps through chance as much as their virtue. It hadn’t always been the cruel, the greedy, and lustful heirs that had suffered this fate, though it had always been the foulest of natures that fell prey. Some more pitiful souls had been mere victims to their mortal events.
Lady Hardacre had been one of those.
The boys had found her as a girl, lost and lonely. She had not belonged at the Priory then any more than she did now. Her spirit had been bright, luring them to her like moths to a flame. Both boys had been cautious at first, wary of her generation. Many with an appetite for greed had gone before her. Those, they had shunned. They had been good boys in life, and death had not cast another side to their nature. Estelle had been the same. Gradually, light found the grounds. Nature gained a gentle foothold on what had lain barren for generations.
Then another kind of evil brought others into the walls; men other than Hardacres walked its floors and lived within its rooms for the first time in centuries. The Priory and its lands had been nudged, a crack across the earth, a shift in the very atmosphere. War, Estelle had told them. They had understood what that meant, if only with vague aptitude. She had become a woman by then, and the boys had loved her, looked to her as a mother.
Those visitors had been of hostile heart, their minds full of warfare. Love and kindness had been the only weapons to win the true war, and so, it had taken what it wanted and given grief as its offering. The Priory took and took, granting nothing but emptiness. It had been inevitable.
The twins mourned Estelle’s loss. With her kindness and compassion, she had kept them safe within the Priory; strong faith had swept away the evil for a while. Grief itself had swept it back in, filtering in under the door and whispering through the passageways until the house reeked of nothing else.
Samuel had lain by her bed, his cool hand holding her warmth until hers chilled his. He had seen grief take before, but it had been superstition, fear and ignorance that sat at the root of their story.
He had pined for her through the night hours until the sun rose through the drapes and revealed the dry crusts and husks of a thousand dead moths.
Josiah had pulled him away, back into the shadows.
‘She will return to us,’ Samuel had said.
And she had. Lady Hardacre was still the residing heir of Hardacre. She had no choice—the life of her son kept her here. Evil would reign again. It would be free to wander the longest passages, to seep through every lock until it wrapped like creepers around the very rafters.
Today, the house was cold again, fearful, and weary. The sun had gone. Nancy and her boys had taken it with them.
Josiah sat close to Lady Hardacre for most of the day in silent thought and with a watchful eye. Samuel took comfort in the kitchen with Lizzie, who reminded him of life… but only after he had returned from the gardens.
Samuel had watched as the oak held Oliver captive. That old sensation had woven its way across his chest and gripped his heart. He knew what he had done was wrong. He had broken his vow, which had been made when their forms were new and shook and quivered.
You must never take another’s form by will or by force.
What if there is no other choice?
Even then, for it is a terrible thing to do.
But… not even to save them?
Never.
Samuel would stand by his decision when the reprimand came, and he would make the same choice again.
He had to save Oliver. There was kinship.
The oak, the evil, all those that whispered awful thoughts had done so to Oliver. It would have killed him.
Samuel had watched them play. Oliver had changed. Samuel had witnessed it for himself, seen each look, each slight alteration in his character. It had been swift and shrewd. His manner had become short with a temperament to match. Consequently, the oak found its way in, using power over him.
His brother Elliot would not be able to save him, so Samuel had to. He had felt himself high on the branch, his once solid form standing firm on the great bough. He remembered how the bark sat beneath his feet. The horror of that night so long ago still raged raw when he came too close to the tree, but today, a desperate need had overwhelmed that horror.
Oliver had not known or felt when Samuel had rushed beneath his skin and into his thoughts. He would not remember, either. Elliot, on the other hand… Samuel could not guarantee his memory if he had seen the difference in Oliver.
Nor could he guarantee Nancy’s. She had battled the tree with such force. Samuel’s soul had swelled with pride at her determination. If only their mother had fought with such vigorous obligation.
Samuel and Josiah stood in the open doors of the library and watched the wintry sun fall over the old Priory ruins.