The Portrait in the Library

Chapter Five

The Portrait in the Library

Beatrice did not return to her room.

Not immediately.

She stood at the end of the corridor, staring at the silver crescent carved into the dark wooden door.

The words were gone.

You have returned.

She had seen them.

She was certain of it.

Yet the door now looked exactly as it had before.

Old.

Silent.

Locked.

Beatrice opened her notebook.

She stared at the question she had written earlier.

Why does the manor know my name?

She added another.

Why does the manor think I have been here before?

She closed the notebook.

There was only one way to begin finding answers.

The library.

If Breedlove Manor had a history, then surely someone had written it down.

Beatrice descended the staircase and crossed the entrance hall.

The manor seemed unusually quiet.

She passed several closed doors before reaching the library.

The door was already open.

Beatrice stopped.

She could not remember seeing it open before.

She looked inside.

Tall bookshelves covered nearly every wall.

Some reached from floor to ceiling.

Others were built into the stone itself.

A large window overlooked the western grounds, allowing pale morning light to fall across the wooden floor.

Beatrice stepped inside.

The smell of old paper and polished wood surrounded her.

She closed the door behind her.

For the first few minutes, she simply looked.

There were books about history.

Architecture.

Local families.

Medicine.

Botany.

Travel.

Religion.

Folklore.

Some were modern enough to have printed titles.

Others looked as though they had not been opened in decades.

Beatrice walked toward the shelves marked with local history.

She ran her fingers across the spines.

Nevermore Valley.

Early Settlements of the Northern Lands.

The Old Families of the Valley.

Breedlove Family Records.

She stopped.

The last book was bound in dark brown leather.

There was no author listed.

Only the word Breedlove pressed into the cover.

Beatrice carefully removed it from the shelf.

The book was heavier than she expected.

She carried it to the nearest table and opened it.

The first pages contained family names.

Dates.

Births.

Deaths.

Marriages.

Property records.

She turned several pages.

The Breedlove family appeared repeatedly.

The farther she read, the older the records became.

Some entries were written in different handwriting.

Others had been added many years after the original pages were created.

Beatrice turned another page.

A loose piece of paper fell onto the table.

She picked it up.

There was no date.

Only a short note.

The eastern wing remains closed.

Beatrice frowned.

She read the line again.

Then turned the paper over.

Nothing.

She placed it beside the book.

The eastern wing.

Her mind returned to the pendant.

The eastern forest.

The eastern garden.

The door in the corridor.

Everything seemed to point in the same direction.

She continued reading.

Several pages later, she found a drawing.

It was faded, but recognizable.

The crescent moon surrounded by twisting branches.

The same symbol appeared beneath the drawing.

Beatrice leaned closer.

Underneath it was a single sentence.

The symbol belongs to the House of Remembering.

She whispered the words aloud.

"House of Remembering."

She looked around the library.

Nothing moved.

She continued reading.

The next page contained only one paragraph.

The House of Remembering was not a place, but a tradition maintained by the earliest Breedlove guardians. Its purpose was to preserve what ordinary history could not.

Beatrice stopped.

Guardians.

The word appeared again.

She remembered hearing it before.

Not clearly.

Just enough to make the word feel familiar.

She turned the page.

Blank.

Another page.

Blank.

Then another.

The remainder of the section had been deliberately removed.

Beatrice stared at the torn edge.

Someone had taken the pages.

She closed the book.

A sound came from behind one of the shelves.

Beatrice looked up.

"Hello?"

No answer.

She stood.

The library was silent.

She walked slowly between the shelves.

Nothing.

She returned to the table.

The family record was still there.

But the loose paper was gone.

Beatrice froze.

She searched the table.

Under the book.

Beside the chair.

On the floor.

Nothing.

The note had disappeared.

She looked toward the shelves.

A cold feeling settled over her.

Someone else was in the library.

Or had been.

Beatrice closed the family record and held it against her chest.

She decided it would be safer to return it.

Before she could move, a voice spoke from behind her.

"You found it."

Beatrice turned.

An older woman stood near the library entrance.

Beatrice recognized her from breakfast.

"I was looking through the family records."

"I can see that."

The woman's gaze moved to the book.

"Why?"

Beatrice hesitated.

She could have lied.

Instead, she asked,

"Who are the Breedlove guardians?"

The woman's expression changed.

Not fear.

Something closer to recognition.

"Where did you hear that word?"

"In here."

Beatrice placed the book on the table.

"There was a section about them."

The woman remained silent.

"What does it mean?"

"That depends on which history you believe."

Beatrice frowned.

"There is more than one?"

"There usually is."

The woman stepped closer.

She looked at the book but did not touch it.

"The Breedloves kept records for generations. Some were written for the public. Others were never meant to be read."

"Why?"

"Because knowledge can be dangerous."

Beatrice thought about the locked door.

"And the eastern wing?"

The woman looked at her sharply.

"Who told you about that?"

"I found a note."

The woman's eyes moved toward the table.

"The note is gone."

Beatrice nodded.

"I noticed."

For several seconds, neither spoke.

Then the woman said quietly,

"You should stop looking."

Beatrice felt irritation replace her fear.

"Everyone keeps telling me that."

"Because everyone knows what happens when people look too closely."

"What happens?"

The woman did not answer.

Instead, she walked toward the door.

Before leaving, she stopped.

"If the manor shows you something, do not assume it wants you to understand."

Then she left.

Beatrice remained in the library.

She stared at the closed door.

The warning sounded strangely familiar.

She looked down at the family record.

Something had fallen from between its pages.

A small photograph.

Beatrice picked it up.

It was old.

The edges had faded.

Several people stood in front of Breedlove Manor.

A family.

At least, that was what Beatrice assumed.

She studied their faces.

An older man.

A woman beside him.

Two younger people.

And a girl standing slightly apart from the others.

Beatrice's attention fixed on the girl.

Something about her face made Beatrice's chest tighten.

She looked familiar.

Not because Beatrice knew her.

Because the girl looked like someone Beatrice had seen before.

Beatrice turned the photograph over.

There was writing on the back.

One name.

Beatrice.

She stopped breathing.

The photograph slipped from her fingers.

She picked it up again.

The handwriting was faded, but unmistakable.

Beatrice.

Beneath the name was a date.

The date was more than a century old.

Beatrice stared at the photograph.

Her hands began to shake.

There was no way.

She turned it over again.

The girl in the photograph stared back at her.

And for the first time since arriving at Breedlove Manor, Beatrice was no longer wondering whether the house remembered her.

She was wondering whether someone from her own past had been waiting for her to return.