CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE The Memory She Buried

SUMMARY

Beatrice steps through the door and finds herself somewhere that feels both familiar and impossibly distant.

She is not simply watching a memory.

She is inside one.

A younger Beatrice stands beside her mother, Isadora, in a part of Breedlove Manor that no longer exists as it once did. At first, the memory seems peaceful, almost ordinary.

Then three knocks sound from somewhere beyond the room.

Isadora's expression changes.

Someone is coming.

Someone who knows about Beatrice.

As the memory unfolds, Beatrice begins to realize that her mother was protecting something—and possibly protecting her.

But memories do not always show everything.

Some moments are hidden behind silence.

Some words are never spoken.

And one warning from Isadora may change everything Beatrice thought she knew about her mother.

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CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

The Memory She Buried

The darkness did not feel like darkness.

It felt like falling.

Beatrice reached out instinctively, expecting to find the stone floor beneath her boots.

There was nothing.

No floor.

No wall.

No sound.

Then—

Wood.

Her hand struck the side of a table.

Beatrice gasped and stumbled forward.

Light surrounded her.

Not candlelight.

Sunlight.

She blinked.

A window stood open across the room, and a soft summer breeze moved the curtains.

For several seconds, Beatrice simply stared.

She knew this room.

Or thought she did.

The furniture was different.

The wallpaper was brighter.

The carpet beneath her boots had not yet faded with age.

A vase of fresh flowers stood upon the mantel.

Somewhere outside, birds were singing.

It was Breedlove Manor.

But not the Manor she knew.

A younger Manor.

A living Manor.

Beatrice slowly turned.

Someone was sitting beside the window.

A woman.

Dark hair.

Pale dress.

A book resting in her lap.

Beatrice stopped breathing.

"Mother."

Isadora looked up.

But she did not see her daughter.

She was younger than Beatrice remembered.

Her face carried none of the exhaustion Beatrice had come to associate with her final years.

For one brief moment, Beatrice saw the mother she had almost forgotten.

The mother who smiled.

The mother who sang.

The mother who once brushed her hair before bed.

Isadora closed the book.

A small smile touched her lips.

"Come here, little bird."

Beatrice's eyes filled with tears.

She knew it wasn't happening now.

She knew it was a memory.

Yet her heart did not care.

She moved toward her mother.

Then stopped.

Something was wrong.

A child's footsteps sounded in the corridor.

Beatrice turned.

A little girl ran past the open doorway.

Dark hair.

White dress.

Silver pendant.

Beatrice stared.

It was herself.

Six years old.

The child disappeared around the corner.

Isadora smiled after her.

"Slow down, Beatrice."

The little girl called back.

"I won't!"

Isadora laughed softly.

Beatrice had forgotten that laugh.

She had forgotten how warm it sounded.

She looked toward her mother.

"Why don't I remember this?"

Isadora still couldn't hear her.

The memory continued.

Isadora rose and crossed the room.

She knelt beside a wooden chest.

Beatrice's attention sharpened.

The same chest.

The one she had seen in the mirror.

Isadora opened it.

Inside was the black journal.

Beatrice stepped closer.

Her mother touched the cover.

For a moment she simply stared at it.

Then she whispered:

"I am sorry."

Beatrice frowned.

"Sorry for what?"

Three knocks sounded from the corridor.

Isadora froze.

The color drained from her face.

Three slow knocks.

Knock.

Knock.

Knock.

The little girl stopped running.

Her footsteps could be heard returning.

"Mama?"

Isadora immediately closed the chest.

"Stay where you are."

The child appeared in the doorway.

"Mama, who's there?"

Isadora crossed the room quickly.

She knelt before her daughter.

"Go upstairs."

"But—"

"Now."

The little girl frowned.

"I didn't do anything."

"I know."

Isadora touched her cheek.

"You've done nothing wrong."

Beatrice watched from only a few feet away.

The words struck her strangely.

As if they had been spoken for her.

Not the child.

Her.

Isadora kissed the girl's forehead.

"Go."

The child obeyed.

Her small footsteps disappeared up the stairs.

Beatrice turned toward the door.

Someone stood on the other side.

She couldn't see their face.

Only a dark coat.

A gloved hand.

And a familiar silver ring.

Isadora straightened.

"You came."

The figure stepped inside.

"I told you I would."

Beatrice's stomach tightened.

The figure's voice was calm.

Too calm.

"You have something that belongs to me."

Isadora's expression hardened.

"No."

A pause.

Then:

"You promised."

"I promised nothing that involved my daughter."

The figure moved closer.

"You knew what would happen."

Isadora shook her head.

"Not to her."

The room seemed colder.

Beatrice looked toward the window.

The birds had stopped singing.

Even the breeze had gone still.

"What did you do, Mother?"

Neither of them answered.

The figure looked toward the staircase.

"She has the mark."

Isadora stepped between the stranger and the doorway.

"She has nothing."

"You know that's not true."

Isadora's hands curled into fists.

"Leave."

The figure did not move.

"Remember the price."

Isadora's eyes filled with tears.

"I remember."

The figure turned toward the door.

Before leaving, they looked back.

"Then remember this."

The voice became almost a whisper.

"She will eventually remember too."

The door closed.

Beatrice stood frozen.

The memory around her began to fade.

"No."

She ran toward the door.

"Wait!"

The room blurred.

Isadora's voice reached her through the fading light.

"Remember that I loved you."

Beatrice stopped.

Her mother spoke again.

"Even when you don't understand."

The room disappeared.

Beatrice stood in darkness.

For the first time since entering the memory, she could hear her own breathing.

She looked down.

The silver pendant hung around her neck.

But it was not the pendant she remembered.

There was something engraved on the back.

A single word.

Beatrice turned it over.

The engraving read:

REMEMBER.

Her fingers trembled.

Then another voice spoke behind her.

Not Isadora.

Not the stranger.

A child's voice.

Her own.

"Don't trust him."

Beatrice slowly turned.

There was no one there.

Only another door.

And beneath it, a thin line of warm light.

She reached for the handle.

Before she touched it, something whispered from the other side.

"Beatrice."

She knew that voice.

Nathaniel.

She opened the door.

And stepped forward.