Chapter One
The Girl Who Dreamed of Winter
May 17,1894
The morning I turned eighteen, I dreamt of a woman standing beneath a dead tree.
She had no face.
Only two dark, hollow spaces where her eyes should have been, and a smile that seemed far too wide for her pale, delicate face. She stood motionless in the middle of a snow-covered forest, dressed in a long white gown that dragged across the frozen ground.
I remember asking her who she was.
She did not answer.
Instead, she raised one slender finger and pointed towards something behind me.
When I turned around, I saw a pair of enormous iron gates, guarded by two winged creatures carved from black stone.
And beyond them stood a castle.
I awoke before I could take a single step towards it.
At the time, I thought nothing of the dream.
I would come to regret that.
The first thing I noticed that morning was the cold.
It crept through the narrow gaps of my bedroom windows, slipped beneath my blankets and settled against my skin. Outside, the branches of the old oak trees scratched gently against the glass, their bare limbs swaying beneath the weight of the late winter snow.
The sky was a pale, unforgiving grey.
I lay beneath my quilt for a few moments, listening to the distant ticking of the grandfather clock downstairs.
Seven o’clock.
Eighteen.
I was eighteen years old.
There was something peculiar about birthdays. People spoke of them as though they were grand beginnings, as though the mere passing of another year could transform a person into someone wiser, braver or more capable of understanding the world.
I had never felt particularly different on my birthdays.
Yet that morning, as I stared at the delicate cracks in the ceiling above my bed, I felt an unfamiliar uneasiness settle in my chest.
Perhaps it was simply the dream.
Or perhaps it was the knowledge that, by the time the sun disappeared beyond the forest that evening, something in my life would have changed forever.
I pushed the thought away and sat up.
My bedroom was modest compared to the rest of the house, though I had always considered it the loveliest room in the manor. Its walls were painted a faded shade of ivory, with floral wallpaper peeling slightly near the corners. A tall mahogany wardrobe stood opposite my bed, while a dressing table with a large oval mirror occupied the space beside the window.
On the table sat a small porcelain jewellery box that had belonged to my grandmother. Beside it rested a collection of dried flowers, a silver hairbrush and a half-finished letter I had been writing for nearly a fortnight.
I had never been particularly good at finishing things.
My mother often said I possessed a curious mind but a restless heart. My father, on the other hand, believed I spent far too much time thinking about matters that did not concern me.
Both were probably right.
I was the sort of girl who preferred old books to crowded gatherings, rainstorms to afternoon picnics and the company of my own thoughts to meaningless conversation. I found comfort in things other people considered strange: abandoned buildings, forgotten stories, old photographs and the peculiar feeling that certain places remembered the people who had once lived in them.
I often wondered whether memories could linger in walls long after their owners had disappeared.
My mother considered such thoughts morbid.
My father called them nonsense.
My younger brother, Thomas, called me peculiar.
And my little sister, Beatrice, simply laughed.
A soft knock interrupted my thoughts.
“Eleanor? Are you awake?”
It was Beatrice.
“Unfortunately,” I called back.
The door opened before I could say anything more, and my twelve-year-old sister slipped into the room. Her golden curls were tied loosely with a blue ribbon, and her cheeks were flushed from the cold.
“Happy birthday!” she announced, rushing towards my bed.
She threw her arms around my shoulders with such enthusiasm that I nearly toppled backwards.
“Thank you, Bea.”
“I made you something.”
She stepped away and produced a small, unevenly wrapped parcel from behind her back. The wrapping paper was pale pink, decorated with tiny white flowers. A crooked bow sat on top.
I smiled.
“Did you wrap this yourself?”
“Of course.”
“Then I shall treasure the wrapping more than the gift.”
“Eleanor!”
I laughed and accepted the parcel.
Inside was a delicate silver bookmark, shaped like a little crescent moon. It was not particularly expensive, but the moment I held it between my fingers, I felt a warmth spread through my chest.
“It’s beautiful, Bea.”
“I thought you’d like it. You always complain about losing your place in those dreadful old books.”
“They are not dreadful.”
“They’re full of dead people.”
“That is generally what history is about.”
She rolled her eyes.
“Mother says breakfast is ready. And Thomas has already eaten half your birthday cake.”
“That imbecile.”
“She said you weren’t to call him that.”
“Then she ought to stop raising one.”
Beatrice burst into laughter.
For a moment, everything felt perfectly ordinary.
I had no reason to believe it would be the last ordinary morning I would remember so clearly.
Our family home stood at the edge of a small village called Ashbourne, nestled between rolling hills and a vast stretch of woodland known locally as the Blackwood Forest.
It was an old estate, built long before my father’s grandfather had inherited it. Its grey stone walls were weathered by decades of rain, and its tall, narrow windows gave the house an almost watchful appearance.
I had lived there for as long as I could remember.
The manor was surrounded by a sprawling garden, though winter had reduced most of its beauty to skeletal rose bushes, frozen fountains and patches of dead grass. A stone pathway connected the front entrance to the iron gates at the end of the drive.
Beyond those gates lay the village.
Ashbourne was a quiet place, where everyone knew everyone else’s business and a stranger could be recognised long before they reached the village square. There was a small church with a tall bell tower, a bakery that smelled perpetually of cinnamon, a post office and a railway line that connected the village to the neighbouring towns.
Beyond the village, the forest stretched for miles.
My father had forbidden us from venturing too deep into it.
He claimed the woods were dangerous, particularly during winter, when the snow concealed deep hollows and treacherous slopes.
I had always suspected there was more to his warning than he cared to explain.
“Eleanor!”
My mother’s voice drifted up the staircase.
“Breakfast!”
Beatrice seized my hand.
“Come along. Before Thomas eats everything.”
We hurried downstairs.
The dining room was already warm from the fireplace. Heavy burgundy curtains framed the tall windows, and a polished oak table stood in the centre of the room, set with porcelain plates, silver cutlery and a vase of white lilies.
My mother sat at the head of the table, dressed in a dark green morning gown. Her brown hair was neatly pinned into a bun, and a delicate gold pendant rested against her collarbone.
She was a beautiful woman, though there was always something restrained about her expressions. She rarely laughed loudly, rarely spoke unnecessarily and never allowed herself to appear uncertain.
My father sat opposite her, reading the morning newspaper.
He was a tall man with dark hair beginning to grey at the temples. His sharp features and stern manner made him appear considerably older than his forty-eight years.
Thomas, my fifteen-year-old brother, was seated beside him, eating a piece of buttered toast with the enthusiasm of someone who had not eaten in days.
“Happy birthday, Eleanor!” my mother said as I entered.
She rose and kissed my forehead.
“Thank you, Mother.”
“Have you slept well?”
“Quite well.”
I hesitated.
“Though I had a rather peculiar dream.”
My father lowered his newspaper slightly.
“Dreams are merely the mind’s way of organising nonsense.”
“Good morning to you too, Father.”
Thomas snorted into his tea.
My mother shot him a warning glance before turning back to me.
“What was the dream about, darling?”
“A woman in the forest. And a castle.”
My mother paused.
Only for a moment.
But I noticed.
“A castle?” she repeated.
“Yes. A very strange one. It stood beyond an iron gate, guarded by two enormous statues.”
My father folded his newspaper.
“And where was this castle?”
“I don’t know. Somewhere in the woods, I suppose.”
“Well, then, I wouldn’t trouble yourself with it.”
He returned to his reading.
My mother continued arranging the cutlery, though her fingers had become strangely still.
“Have some breakfast, Eleanor,” she said quietly.
I looked at her.
“Mother?”
“Yes, dear?”
“Is something wrong?”
She smiled.
“Of course not.”
But for a brief moment, I thought I saw fear in her eyes.
By the time breakfast had ended, the house had returned to its usual bustle.
The servants moved through the corridors, carrying fresh linen and trays of tea. Somewhere upstairs, a maid was opening the windows to air the bedrooms. The grandfather clock chimed nine, its deep notes echoing through the hall.
My father disappeared into his study, taking the newspaper with him.
Mother busied herself with preparations for the small birthday gathering she had planned for the afternoon.
Thomas had gone outside to practise shooting with his new rifle, while Beatrice followed the cook around the kitchen, hoping to persuade her to let her decorate the cake.
I, meanwhile, had been instructed to remain indoors.
Naturally, I had no intention of obeying.
I stood by the drawing-room window, watching the snow fall gently over the garden.
The hills beyond the manor were blanketed in white, their slopes smooth and inviting.
I had been looking forward to sledding for weeks.
The previous evening, Thomas had told me about a particularly steep slope near the northern edge of the forest. According to him, it was the finest place in all of Ashbourne for sledding.
My father, however, had explicitly forbidden us from going there.
Which, of course, made it considerably more appealing.
I fetched my woollen coat, pulled on my gloves and wrapped a thick scarf around my neck.
My wooden sled was waiting in the entrance hall.
It had been a birthday gift from my father when I was ten, and although its red paint had faded and its runners were scratched, I had never allowed anyone to replace it.
I loved that old sled.
“Going somewhere?”
I turned.
Thomas was standing in the doorway, his rifle resting against his shoulder.
“Out.”
“Out where?”
“Somewhere that doesn’t involve you.”
He grinned.
“Mother will have your head if she discovers you’ve gone outside.”
“Then I shall endeavour not to be discovered.”
He glanced at my sled.
“You’re not thinking of going to the northern slope, are you?”
“Why? Are you frightened I’ll beat your record?”
“Eleanor, I’m serious.”
“So am I.”
His expression changed.
"Father said no one is to go there. The snow is unstable.”
I adjusted my scarf.
“Then I shall be careful.”
“You’re impossible.”
“And you’re terribly dull.”
I stepped past him, opened the front door and walked outside before he could object.
The cold struck me immediately.
I smiled.
There was something wonderfully liberating about being alone in the winter woods, far from the expectations and quiet rules of the manor.
I pulled my sled behind me and made my way towards the forest.
I did not look back.
The Blackwood Forest was beautiful that morning.
Snow clung to the branches of towering pines, and the ground glittered beneath the pale sunlight. The air smelled of frozen earth and pine needles, and every breath escaped my lips in a cloud of white mist.
I followed the familiar pathway, passing the old stone well and the abandoned gardener’s cottage before reaching the narrow trail that led towards the hills.
The farther I walked, the quieter the forest became.
Even the birds seemed reluctant to disturb the stillness.
I found myself thinking about the dream again.
The woman.
The gate.
The castle.
I wondered whether the mind could invent places with such extraordinary detail. The ironwork of the gate had been so intricate, the statues so lifelike, that I could almost picture them standing before me.
Perhaps I had seen something similar in one of my father’s old books.
Perhaps it had been nothing more than a collection of forgotten images.
I dismissed the thought.
By the time I reached the northern slope, the sun had disappeared behind a thick bank of clouds.
The hill was steeper than I remembered.
Its surface was covered in a smooth layer of snow, and at the bottom, the ground descended sharply into a narrow ravine.
I stood at the top, examining the slope.
It was magnificent.
I placed my sled carefully on the snow and sat down, gripping its wooden handles.
“Well, Eleanor,” I whispered to myself. “Happy birthday.”
I pushed forward.
The sled began moving slowly, then gathered speed as it descended the hill.
The wind rushed past my face, tearing at the loose strands of hair beneath my bonnet. I laughed, gripping the handles more tightly as the trees blurred around me.
For a few glorious moments, I felt weightless.
Free.
Then I heard it.
A sharp crack.
The sound came from beneath the sled.
I looked down.
The snow was splitting apart.
Before I could react, the ground collapsed beneath me.
The sled tilted violently, throwing me sideways. I reached for a nearby branch, but my fingers slipped against the icy bark.
And then I was falling.
The world turned upside down.
My shoulder struck a rock, and pain shot through my arm. Snow filled my mouth as I tumbled down the steep embankment.
I tried to scream.
But the wind swallowed my voice.
The last thing I saw was the dark outline of the trees above me.
Then everything went black.
When I opened my eyes, I was lying in the snow.
For a moment, I could not remember my own name.
A dull ache throbbed through my head, and my shoulder burned with pain. I slowly pushed myself upright, brushing the snow from my coat.
I was no longer at the bottom of the hill.
At least, I did not think I was.
The forest around me seemed unfamiliar. The trees were taller, darker and far more closely packed together. Their branches intertwined overhead, blocking out nearly all the daylight.
I looked behind me.
There was no sign of the cliff.
No sled.
No familiar pathway.
Only an endless stretch of snow-covered woodland.
A strange feeling crept over me.
I was not alone.
I turned sharply.
Nothing.
“Hello?”
My voice sounded strangely small.
No answer came.
I began walking, hoping to find a familiar landmark. My boots sank into the snow with every step, and the cold had begun to seep through the soles.
After several minutes, I noticed something beneath the snow.
Two parallel lines.
I knelt and brushed away the powder with my gloves.
Iron.
Railway tracks.
They stretched into the distance, disappearing between the trees.
I stared at them in confusion.
There was a railway near Ashbourne, certainly, but it ran along the southern edge of the village. I had never heard of a line passing through the northern forest.
Yet these tracks looked old, their iron surfaces dark with rust.
I followed them.
I could not explain why.
Perhaps I hoped they would lead me back to the village. Perhaps I simply had nowhere else to go.
The forest gradually thinned as I walked, revealing a small clearing.
And there, nestled between the trees, stood a railway station.
It was a modest building constructed from dark timber and weathered stone. Its roof sagged beneath the weight of the snow, and several of its windows were shattered.
A rusted sign hung above the entrance.
I approached it carefully.
The lettering had almost entirely faded, but I could make out a few remaining letters.
...HOLLOW...
I frowned.
Hollow.
The name meant nothing to me.
I stepped onto the platform.
A wooden bench stood beneath a broken clock, its hands frozen at twelve minutes past three. A lantern hung from an iron hook beside the station door, though there was no flame inside it.
The entire place seemed abandoned.
And yet, the snow on the platform bore a single set of footprints.
They led from the railway tracks to the station entrance.
I followed them with my eyes.
Then I noticed something peculiar.
The footprints stopped at the door.
There were no footprints leading away.
A shiver ran down my spine.
I turned towards the station building.
For one fleeting moment, I thought I saw a figure standing behind the shattered window.
A woman.
Dressed in white.
I blinked.
The window was empty.
“Is anyone there?” I called.
Silence.
I decided I had spent quite enough time in the station and returned to the platform.
Beyond it, a narrow pathway led into the forest.
I followed it.
I don’t know how long I walked, but eventually the trees began to thin, and the ground beneath my feet sloped gently upwards.
A pale light appeared through the mist.
Then I saw the gate.
It stood between two enormous stone pillars, each rising several metres above the ground.
The pillars were blackened by age, their surfaces cracked and covered in thick patches of moss. Upon each rested the sculpture of a winged creature.
They were unlike anything I had ever seen.
Their bodies resembled those of men, but their faces were distorted, their mouths stretched into expressions of silent agony. Their enormous wings extended upwards, their stone feathers sharp and uneven.
The creatures appeared to be guarding the entrance.
Between the pillars stood a great iron gate, its bars twisted into elaborate patterns of vines and thorny branches.
I approached slowly.
There was something deeply unsettling about the place.
The air felt colder here, and the silence was so complete that I could hear the faint beating of my own heart.
Beyond the gate, I could see a castle.
It stood upon a distant rise, surrounded by bare trees and thick mist. Its towers were narrow and pointed, its windows dark and lifeless. The central structure appeared to be several centuries old, with crumbling stone walls and a roof that seemed to have partially collapsed.
Yet despite its neglected appearance, the castle possessed a strange grandeur.
It was beautiful.
And somehow familiar.
I moved closer to the gate.
A small brass plate had been fixed to the right-hand pillar. Its surface was tarnished, but a few words remained legible.
THE HOUSE OF...
The rest had been scratched away.
I traced the remaining letters with my gloved fingers.
Suddenly, I felt a peculiar sensation.
As though I had stood before this gate before.
Not in a dream.
Not in a book.
But somewhere in the distant corners of my own memory.
I stepped backwards.
A faint metallic sound echoed through the clearing.
The gate had moved.
Only slightly.
But enough for me to notice.
I stared at it, unable to understand what I had witnessed.
Then I heard a whisper.
“Eleanor.”
My blood ran cold.
I turned.
There was nobody behind me.
“Who’s there?”
The whisper came again.
“Eleanor...”
This time, it seemed to come from beyond the gate.
I looked towards the castle.
A figure stood in one of its upper windows.
A woman.
Her face was too distant to distinguish, but I could see her long white dress and the dark hair falling loosely over her shoulders.
She raised one hand.
I raised mine instinctively.
And then she disappeared.
A sudden, sharp pain pierced my side.
I gasped.
My hand flew to my waist, and when I pulled it away, my glove was stained with blood.
I staggered backwards.
Something had struck me.
I looked around frantically, but the clearing remained empty.
“Help!” I cried.
My voice broke against the cold air.
I stumbled towards the gate, clutching my side. My vision began to blur, and a strange ringing filled my ears.
The iron bars rattled.
The gate was opening.
Slowly.
Deliberately.
A figure emerged from the darkness beyond it.
I could not see its face.
Only a dark silhouette, moving steadily towards me.
“Please...” I whispered.
The figure continued walking.
My knees buckled, and I fell into the snow.
The last thing I saw was the winged creature above the left pillar.
Its stone face seemed to be changing.
Its mouth, once frozen in an expression of agony, appeared to be smiling.
Then the figure reached me.
A cold hand touched my cheek.
And a voice whispered into my ear.
“Happy birthday, Eleanor.”
“ELEANOR!”
I jolted awake.
My eyes flew open, and I gasped so violently that my chest hurt.
I was lying at the bottom of the northern slope, surrounded by snow and scattered branches.
My sled lay overturned a short distance away.
The sky above me was grey, and the trees stood silently along the edge of the ravine.
For several moments, I could do nothing but stare.
My body trembled uncontrollably.
I touched my side.
No blood.
No wound.
Only the dull ache of the fall.
I slowly sat up, wincing as pain travelled through my shoulder.
It had been a dream.
A dream so vivid that I could still feel the cold hand against my cheek.
I looked towards the slope.
I had fallen from the top and struck the ground below. That much was certain.
But the railway station...
The gate...
The castle...
I could remember every detail with an almost unbearable clarity.
I pressed my palms against my face.
“Get a hold of yourself, Eleanor.”
My voice sounded unfamiliar.
I struggled to stand and reached for my sled.
That was when I noticed something lying in the snow beside it.
A small silver object.
I bent down and picked it up.
It was a delicate silver bookmark, shaped like a crescent moon.
The very same bookmark Beatrice had given me that morning.
I stared at it.
I was certain I had left it on my dressing table.
Perhaps it had fallen from my coat pocket.
Perhaps I had brought it without realising.
There was a perfectly reasonable explanation.
There always was.
I slipped it into my pocket and began making my way home.
By the time I reached the manor, the sun had begun to set, and the windows glowed warmly against the gathering darkness.
Mother was standing at the front door.
Her face was pale with worry.
“Good heavens, Eleanor! Where have you been?”
“I... I fell.”
She rushed towards me, taking my face between her hands.
“You’re freezing! And look at your shoulder!”
“I’m quite all right, Mother.”
“Your father has been searching the village for you. Thomas went into the woods nearly an hour ago.”
I lowered my eyes.
“I’m sorry.”
She pulled me into an embrace, holding me far more tightly than usual.
For a moment, I thought she was trembling.
Then she drew back and looked directly into my eyes.
“Eleanor, did you go to the northern slope?”
I hesitated.
“Yes.”
Her expression changed.
“Did you see anything?”
I frowned.
“What do you mean?”
“Anything unusual?”
I thought of the railway station.
The winged statues.
The castle.
The woman who had whispered my name.
“No,” I replied.
My mother stared at me for a long moment.
Then she gently took my hand and led me inside.
“Come along, darling. You must rest.”
I followed her through the entrance hall, past the grandfather clock and towards the staircase.
But before we reached the first step, I glanced towards the tall mirror hanging on the wall.
For an instant, I thought I saw a woman standing behind me.
A woman dressed in white.
I turned around.
There was nobody there.
I looked back at the mirror.
Only my own reflection stared back.
Pale.
Exhausted.
Frightened.
I climbed the stairs, telling myself that the fall had simply unsettled me.
That night, I went to bed early.
I placed Beatrice’s silver bookmark on my bedside table and closed my eyes, hoping that sleep would bring me peace.
But as I drifted into unconsciousness, a single thought disturbed me.
The woman in the castle had known my name.
And she had wished me a happy birthday.
At precisely twelve minutes past three that night, the grandfather clock downstairs stopped ticking.
And somewhere in the distant forest, a train whistle echoed through the darkness.
End of Chapter One.
