CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR The Room That Remembered

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR The Room That Remembered

Beatrice stepped through the door.

She expected Nathaniel.

Instead, she found herself standing alone.

The corridor stretched before her.

For several seconds she did not move.

She knew this hallway.

At least, she thought she did.

Breedlove Manor had many corridors, but this one should have been on the eastern side of the house, near the older family rooms.

Yet something was different.

The wallpaper was the same.

The dark wooden floor was the same.

The brass candleholders were the same.

But the Manor felt younger.

Beatrice slowly turned.

The door behind her was gone.

She touched the wall where it should have been.

Solid wood.

Nothing more.

"Nathaniel?"

Her voice traveled down the corridor.

No answer.

Then, faintly—

"Beatrice."

She turned.

"Nathaniel?"

There it was again.

From somewhere ahead.

"Beatrice!"

Relief rushed through her.

She hurried forward.

Then stopped.

Something had caught her attention.

The windows.

Moonlight shone through them.

But the glass reflected nothing.

Not her.

Not the candles.

Not the corridor.

Nothing.

Beatrice approached one.

She placed her fingers against the cold glass.

The temperature was real.

The window was real.

But the reflection was missing.

She stepped away.

"That's impossible."

A clock ticked somewhere nearby.

Beatrice looked toward the sound.

An old grandfather clock stood against the wall.

Its hands had stopped.

Eleven seventeen.

She listened.

Tick.

Nothing.

Tick.

Nothing.

Then silence.

She looked at the clock again.

The pendulum was not moving.

Yet she had heard it.

Beatrice continued down the corridor.

Her footsteps sounded strangely loud.

Tap.

Tap.

Tap.

She passed a portrait.

Then stopped.

The frame remained.

The painting did not.

Only a pale rectangle marked the wall where the portrait had once hung.

Beatrice frowned.

"Why would someone remove it?"

She looked around.

There were no hooks on the floor.

No broken frame.

No scraps of canvas.

Whoever had removed it had taken everything.

Except the memory of where it had been.

A soft sound came from behind her.

Paper.

Beatrice turned.

Nothing.

She waited.

The Manor was quiet.

Not frightening.

Just quiet.

Then she noticed a narrow door beneath the staircase.

She had never seen it before.

The handle was old brass.

There was no lock.

Beatrice reached for it.

"Nathaniel?"

His voice came again.

"Beatrice, this way."

It sounded closer.

She pulled her hand away from the little door.

"I hear you."

No answer.

She followed the voice.

The corridor narrowed.

The wallpaper changed from patterned fabric to plain wood.

The air smelled faintly of lavender and old paper.

Beatrice stopped.

Lavender.

Her mother had always used lavender water.

She closed her eyes.

For one moment she was six years old again.

Sitting on the edge of her mother's bed.

Listening to Isadora sing.

A soft melody.

A lullaby without words.

Beatrice opened her eyes.

The memory vanished.

But the scent remained.

She followed it.

At the end of the corridor stood another door.

This one was small.

Child-sized.

A brass plate had been fixed to the center.

Beatrice wiped away a thin layer of dust.

Her breath caught.

There, engraved into the metal, was one word.

BEATRICE.

She touched the letters.

"How long have you been here?"

The door opened by itself.

Not suddenly.

Not violently.

Simply enough to invite her inside.

Beatrice stepped through.

The room was tiny.

A child's room.

There was a narrow bed beneath the window.

A wooden rocking horse stood in one corner.

A small shelf held several books.

A faded blue ribbon rested on the floor.

Beatrice knew every object.

Or thought she did.

She crossed to the bed.

The mattress was old, but the blanket had been carefully folded.

Someone had been keeping the room.

Not recently.

But not long ago either.

She touched the blanket.

Dust rose into the sunlight.

Then she saw the box.

It sat beneath the bed.

A small wooden box with a silver clasp.

Beatrice knelt.

Her heart began beating faster.

She knew the box.

She had seen it once.

Long ago.

Before her mother's death.

Before the memories became confused.

Before so many questions had replaced answers.

Beatrice opened it.

Inside was a bundle of letters.

All tied together with faded blue thread.

The handwriting made her stop.

She knew it.

Her mother's handwriting.

The letters were addressed to her.

Not one.

Several.

Beatrice lifted the first.

Her hands trembled.

The paper was yellowed, but the ink remained dark.

She unfolded it.

The first line read:

My dearest Beatrice,

She could not continue.

Tears blurred the words.

She pressed the letter against her chest.

"Why didn't you give these to me?"

The room gave no answer.

Then something moved outside the window.

Beatrice looked up.

A figure stood beneath the trees.

Too far away to see clearly.

She moved toward the glass.

The figure did not move.

Beatrice's pulse quickened.

"Who are you?"

The figure turned.

Then disappeared between the trees.

Beatrice looked back at the letters.

Something had changed.

The bundle was no longer tied.

One letter lay open on the floor.

She picked it up.

The handwriting was still Isadora's.

But the words were different.

Only one sentence had been written.

If you are reading this, then the Manor has finally allowed you to remember.

Beatrice stared.

A second line appeared beneath it.

Not in fresh ink.

In writing so faint she almost missed it.

I am sorry.

Then another.

I could not tell you everything.

Beatrice lowered the letter.

Her mother's voice seemed to linger in the room.

Not as a ghost.

Not as a whisper.

As memory.

"You were too young."

Beatrice closed her eyes.

"Too young for what?"

Silence.

Then—

Three knocks.

Beatrice opened her eyes.

The sound had come from inside the wall.

Knock.

Knock.

Knock.

She stepped backward.

The rocking horse moved slightly.

Just enough for its wooden runners to scrape against the floor.

Beatrice watched it.

The room settled.

Nothing more happened.

She slowly exhaled.

"Old house," she whispered.

But she did not believe that was the whole answer.

She looked at the letters again.

There were seven.

Seven letters.

Seven chances to learn something her mother had never been able to say aloud.

Beatrice carefully gathered them.

Then she noticed the final envelope.

It was smaller than the others.

And unlike the rest, it had never been opened.

Her name was written across the front.

BEATRICE ISADORA BREEDLOVE.

Below it was a date.

October 29, 1806.

Beatrice stared.

Her birthday.

The day she had been born.

She turned the envelope over.

There was no seal.

Only a small silver mark.

The same symbol she had seen in the Memory Room.

Beatrice's fingers closed around the envelope.

Before she could open it, Nathaniel's voice came again.

This time, it sounded directly behind her.

"Beatrice."

She spun around.

No one was there.

The door stood open.

Beyond it, the corridor was empty.

Then the voice came once more.

"Don't open it."

Beatrice froze.

That wasn't Nathaniel.

It sounded like him.

But it wasn't.

She knew the difference now.

Slowly, she looked down at the unopened letter.

For the first time since entering the memory, Beatrice smiled.

Not because she was no longer afraid.

Because she finally understood something.

The Manor wasn't asking her to remember everything.

It was asking her to decide what she was willing to learn.

She tucked the letter inside her dress.

Then picked up the remaining six.

"I'll decide when I'm ready."

The candles in the corridor flickered.

Somewhere deep within Breedlove Manor, a door closed.

And somewhere much farther away—

someone began to sing.

The same lullaby Isadora had once sung to her.

Beatrice stepped into the corridor.

And followed the song.