Marion’s eyes shot open. She shook from head to toe. The cotton sheets of her bed clung to her sweaty skin as she tried to make sense of where she was.
This was her bedroom, the second-floor guest room located in Rose Manor. The one she had been given when she first started working for Dominic Rose and his son, Peter. She had lived here for two years, and yet it felt like nightmares tormented her every night. Sometimes she wondered if she was awake or asleep. It was difficult when the lines blurred so often.
The horrible nightmare that had yanked her back to wakefulness faded. She put a trembling hand to the side of her head, trying to recall the details. Trying to recall any of it. She felt like remembering them would help her unlock the terror, shed light on what truly plagued her. As if knowledge could release her from the endless prison of her mind.
She reached down beside the bed to drag her fingertips against the space between the box spring and the mattress, where she kept her personal journal. It was a private diary she had kept ever since she left home and came here to work as a nanny. Her fingers fumbled against the harsh springs and the soft cotton of the mattress. She pushed down the familiar depression and reached inside. But there was nothing. She leaned over the edge of the bed farther, sticking her whole hand inside. It was gone.
Marion pushed up to a sitting position, tangling her hands in her hair. All the homesickness she had written about was lost. All her hopes and fears gone. She took a deep breath, trying to calm the panic inside that threatened to overflow. Most importantly, her dream logs were gone. She had logged them for weeks, noticing that they were getting worse and the nightmares more frequent. Sometimes when she read through them it felt like the dreams belonged to someone else.
The dream from last night, she needed to remember it. Marion closed her eyes. Maybe she could commit it to memory even if she couldn’t write it down. Something bad had happened to her in the dream. It felt so real. Or at least, her terror was real.
But try as she might, the nightmare slipped through her fingers like the delicate strands of a spider web dissipating in the breeze. She wrapped her arms around her knees and hugged herself tight, trying to ease the pounding of her heart in her chest.
“Just a nightmare,” she whispered. “That’s all.”
If that were true, why did she feel like she needed to convince herself?
Marion got to her feet and slid on her slippers. It was dark still. Dawn hadn’t quite broken the surface of Rose Manor and the lush gardens that surrounded it. She pulled on her thick bathrobe, the one her mother had made herself and given her years ago. She padded over to the small balcony and pulled open the doors.
Icy wind swept over her face, drawing tears from her eyes. It was the beginning of spring, but the bite of winter still lingered. She breathed in the air, felt the cold fill her lungs. The pond in the distance was just visible as the sky shifted from purple to orange. Despite the freezing temperature, the pond had no ice floating on top. She had learned over the years that the pond worked as the actual indicator of the seasons; dates be damned.
It was wild to think that she, a small, frail girl from an impoverished village, would be given the chance to live amid such beauty, to dwell in a lavish room with its own private balcony and look out at a lovely pond every morning. Mom had cried when she left to be a nanny. She said Marion was meant to do amazing things someday. Marion wouldn’t be stuck in the small village for the rest of her life. Dad, on the other end, had said he didn’t like Dominic Rose. He said the man had a suspicious air about him but wouldn’t elaborate. Honestly, Marion wished she had taken her father’s advice and turned the offer down. Though trying to justify it to her mother or the rest of the village would have been impossible.
Marion settled in the wicker chair and watched the sun rise over the Rose property. Fog rolled over the pond and dispersed as the first rays of sunlight streaked over the water. The sun brought the dense forests around the edge of the property alive like fire. Then lit up the chapel and the carriage house. Finally, once it had risen fully over the horizon and a flock of ducks alighted upon the surface of the pond for their morning breakfast, Marion knew she needed to get to work. Peter would be awake soon and she had a full day ahead of her. Watching the boy was hardly simple work.
At least she could face him without the terror of that nightmare hanging over her. She shivered from the chill in the air, but at least it wasn’t from the demons who plagued her dreams. It wasn’t much, but it gave her a small respite.
She stepped back into her room and pulled the balcony doors closed behind her, locking out the beauty and returning to her profession. She was ready to take on the day—and the boy.
* * *
It took longer than she liked to hunt down Ethel in the backyard. She stood beating a rug and throwing dust and dirt into the cold morning air. Marion folded her arms to try to keep the frigid temperature at bay. For some reason, Ethel didn’t seem at all phased by the weather. It was almost as if she gained more vigor in the colder months. The tall woman’s cheeks were red against her pale skin, her thin lips almost devoid of color. Her short white hair was pinned up tight, and she wore a thin ivory scarf over her head and shoulders. Small wisps of white hair escaped like tendrils of spider webs from beneath the cloth.
Marion had no idea of Ethel’s age, only that she had worked here for decades, toiling away in the shadowy parts of the manor. She handled the dirty side of the beautiful home, whether it be cleaning dishes or preparing baths. She had a few young women who worked beneath her, but Marion had been instructed to only approach Ethel with any questions that might crop up. The other servants were never to be disturbed.
“Ethel?” she called.
Ethel gave a short nod. “What can I do for you, Ms. Bowden?”
Marion clasped her hands together tightly, almost as if in prayer. The woman’s discerning gaze caused Marion much anxiety. “I had one of my belongings in my room. I can’t find it.”
The old woman scoffed, folding her arms. “And you thought me or one of my women did something to it, do you? Start working here as a nanny, then get promoted to a governess, and now you think you can go around accusing people of theft?”
“That’s not—I only wanted—”
Ethel gave a sour smile. “I can assure you that none of us took your things, ma’am.” Her eyes narrowed, clearly insulted.
Marion swallowed the lump in her throat. “It was a small journal. I had it… it was beneath my mattress.” She pursed her lips, her fingers blanching at how tightly she had them clamped together.
Ethel sighed and propped her carpet-beating stick against the wooden stool beside her. There, Marion saw a dozen more rugs, likely ready for cleaning. She tried to quell the guilt eating at her.
“So, let me get this straight, ma’am. You think me or one of my women went into your room, found your diary, and stole it. Now, what exactly would any of us do with that, dearie?”
Marion blinked in shock at the demeaning tone. “I don’t know, but—”
Ethel waved a hand at her, fingers still partly bent as they had been when she held the stick earlier, like she couldn’t extend them easily. “I assume you wrote words in that book, didn’t you?”
“Yes, of course I did.”
“Ah. That solves it. My women don’t read. They don’t know how. Not everyone has the benefit of an expensive education like you, ma’am. I’m the only maid under this roof who knows how to read, and I can assure you I didn’t steal it.”
“And Peter? He doesn’t have access to my room, right?”
“Correct, ma’am.” Ethel rubbed at her knuckles with a grimace as she spoke, slowly straightening out a few of her painful joints. “Even Barnaby doesn’t have access to it. No need for a chef to go into bedrooms, especially that of a woman.”
“No, I suppose not.” Marion paused, wondering who the culprit could be. She looked up again to see Ethel staring hard at her with a sad expression on her face.
“How did you learn how to read?” Marion asked, trying for some lighter conversation.
“Me? My father taught me. He was a collector of books, if you can imagine that. Liked to think of himself as a researcher.”
Marion furrowed her brows. “So why do you work as a maid now?”
“He died, ma’am. Shot and killed when I was eight. Work is work as long as it pays. Am I right?”
Marion bowed her head low. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”
Ethel sighed. “Will that be all, ma’am?”
“Yes,” Marion whispered, realizing she prevented the woman from doing her work.
Ethel didn’t wait for her to leave. She picked up her stick and returned to beating the rug without glancing back.
That hadn’t gone at all like Marion imagined it would. And worse yet, she was no closer to figuring out what had happened to her diary, her dream logs.
* * *
Peter had never been a fan of piano lessons. He complained the entire time from the first moment he laid his small fingers upon the ivory keys. Marion suspected that he purposely messed up the songs, hoping he could skip out of lessons for a day, but Marion was far too resolute to permit that. His father, Dominic Rose, forbade him from playing any other instrument because Peter’s mother, Alicia, was a renowned pianist. Before she got ill, she had toured the countryside playing for various nobles and occasionally for churches. Dominic wanted Peter to reach those same heights, but Marion suspected Alicia wouldn’t have approved of such measures.
Marion knew better than to press for information regarding Alicia’s death. All she knew was that after she passed, both father and son changed. Dominic began going on long, undefined business trips. Peter began harboring a pit of rage within him. But Marion understood she wasn’t allowed to ask questions. It was made clear early on that she was merely a nanny and didn’t need to know another above her station. Of course, that was before she had been promoted to governess.
Peter slumped over the ivory keys, his brows scrunched in consternation. A batch of brown hair fell from behind his ear, hitting his cheek and highlighting the fury in his gaze. It seemed the boy was always angry about something. Marion couldn’t keep up with the indignations from one day to another, even though it was her job to do so. She had never known a child to have such an ill temper, and it had only gotten worse when Marion was tasked with teaching the child instead of merely watching him.
Being his nanny had been a difficult enough task. Being his governess was, at times, impossible. But losing his mother two years ago at the tender age of seven had to be difficult. He never spoke of her, and Marion knew little about her other than the occasional mentions from Dominic.
There were times she was frightened of Peter. At age nine, he was getting stronger and would likely surpass her in height in a few years, but it was the quickness of his temper that kept her up at night. Maybe by the time he was older, Mr. Rose would find a true governess to watch the boy.
“Do you remember where center C is, Peter?” she asked in what she hoped sounded like a kind and patient voice.
“Yes, I do!” Peter spat, but his hand placement said otherwise. He kept shifting his hands up and down the keys, hitting the wrong key each time.
Marion gave a heavy sigh.
“I know it!” Peter said, urgency and panic coloring his voice.
“Peter, if you knew it, you would have found it already and been able to start playing the song.”
He stared up at the sheet music, then down at his fingers. He didn’t respond, but curled his fingers over the keys more, dropping more hair into his eyes so that she couldn’t see his face.
“We’ve been over this countless times. If you don’t practice or even care to touch the piano outside of our lessons, you won’t ever be able to play your father’s favorite songs. He’ll be very disappointed to find you have made no progress.”
Peter slammed his hands down on the keys, blasting discord as he turned to her. A strangely familiar darkness tinged his gaze. It made her think of her dream logs. Marion leaned back in her chair, instinctively moving away from him, suddenly eager to put as much distance between herself and the boy as possible.
“I don’t give a damn what he says about my playing. I hate it! You know I hate playing this thing, but you make me do it anyway!”
Marion swallowed a lump of panic. “There’s no need to raise your voice,” she whispered, fear taking the fangs out of her words. “Just because Mr. Rose is away on business doesn’t mean you can talk to me like that.”
He glowered at her. “Is that right?”
She nodded, no longer able to form words. Where had this terror come from? She had dealt with unruly children before. Hell, she had raised her younger brothers as a teen and her mother had called them little devils. Why did she suddenly have the urge to run away from a child?
Peter lunged at her, knocking her chair backward. She landed hard on the wooden floor. He was on top of her, kneeing her in the stomach as cold, clammy hands wrapped around her throat.
He was just a boy! How in heaven was he so strong and she so very weak? She tried to pull his hands off her throat, but they held on like a vise. She could barely breathe, could barely spit out any words.
“Pet—” she gurgled. “Pleees.”
He clutched her throat tighter.
Any small amount of air was lost. Her eyes went wide as her mouth opened, gaping like a fish on land. Her lungs burned. All she could see were Peter’s dark eyes and his bared teeth. There was no remorse on his face, no regret. All she saw was rage.
Little devils.
He looked at her like she wasn’t human. Like she had been nothing more than a nuisance to him in the two years she had known him, cared for him, fed him, and taught him. She tried to kick him off as panic settled in, tried to pull his hands free, but he was latched on too tight, and she was too weak.
Her vision faded as her lungs ached and her body went numb. She couldn’t fight back. She couldn’t resist anymore.
Darkness took her completely.