Chapter 1
London, September 1875
Moore Manor rose from the morning mist like a spectre. The damp air, a cold and lingering breath, dissolved the outlines of the house until only a ghostly silhouette remained against the pale sky. The windows, blinded by a year’s worth of dust, returned mute, milky reflections to the dim light. Ivy, relentless, drove tendrils thick as bony fingers into the stone, probing the cracks in the plaster as if to strangle whatever life still pulsed within the decaying structure.
One year. Twelve months since their father’s final breath had faded into silence. And the manor—now a burden in the hands of a distant cousin, a man little more than a stranger—seemed to mirror the fate of its young heiresses: slow oblivion, neglect seeping in like mould, always a breath away from ruin.
The Moore name, once solid and unshaken, had unravelled beneath the baron’s ruinous ventures in the stock exchange. The fortune turned to ash, and the servants scattered like leaves before a storm. All save two. Benson, the butler—rigid and enduring as an ancient oak amid collapse—remained the living memory of the baron. And Mrs Holloway, his wife, guardian of a kitchen that once pulsed with warmth and now clung to the dying breath of its hearth, refused to leave. They had seen the sisters born, nursed them through fevered nights, and stood silent witness to balls that now flickered only in memory. Their loyalty was the last steady pillar beneath that crumbling roof.
In this slow decay, Evelyn sought a desperate solution. Her fingers brushed the rough mahogany banister as she climbed the narrow staircase to the attic. Each step groaned beneath her weight, a swallowed protest in the thick silence of the hall. It was a silence with the sour scent of dust, damp plaster, and the cloying, funereal breath of mould. She clung to the fragile hope of finding—among the ruins of their past—some forgotten relic, something of value to ease the tightening knot of despair in her throat.
Since their father’s death, the great doors had remained bolted shut. The new baron? A fleeting visit after the reading of the will, a look of distaste cast upon the stained ceiling, a handful of perfunctory condolences—and a swift departure. The house and its occupants were nothing more than an inconvenience to be shelved and forgotten.
—Eliza? — Evelyn’s voice was small in the upper corridor.
—Here! Lost in a sea of dust! — came the reply from above, muffled yet spirited.
She found her twin sister bathed in a shaft of light that pierced the grimy attic window. Dust motes drifted lazily about her, like tiny ghosts suspended in air. Eliza, with strands of hair escaping their pins and a smudge of dirt on her cheek like a medal earned in some daring expedition, looked like a stubbornly cheerful apparition in her faded gown, surrounded by trunks that held the remnants of lives long vanished.
—I fear there are no treasures here, — murmured Evelyn, brushing a cobweb from her sleeve. A bitter taste rose in her throat. —To think we’ve come to this… the Moore name reduced to rifling through the ashes of our own history.
— Or perhaps two daring adventuresses on the verge of discovering the map to El Dorado! —Eliza countered, her cheeks flushed from dragging a heavy trunk across the floor. She inhaled deeply. — Enough for a new dress, perhaps? One that doesn’t look as though it’s just returned from a ghostly masquerade?
Eliza’s optimism, Evelyn thought with a pang of melancholy envy, was like the ivy climbing outside—stubborn, perhaps reckless, but clinging to life with impossible tenacity.
— A roof that doesn’t leak would be more useful, — Evelyn sighed, the dust scratching her throat. Yet even as she spoke, a sharp memory flickered—of chandeliers alight with a thousand crystals, of murmured conversations and laughter under candlelight—an entire world now as distant as the moon, and it tugged at some forgotten muscle within her chest.
They searched in silence, broken only by the creak of rusted hinges and the thud of discarded objects. Chipped porcelain, the mute face of a clock halted in time, books whose leather spines crumbled at a touch—shards of interrupted narratives. Eliza lingered over the books, eyes alight with imagined stories. Evelyn’s hope, by contrast, withered with each groaning lid she lifted.
— If only Father… — Evelyn began, but the sentence dissolved into silence. — Or if Mother had at least left the pearl necklace…
— Or perhaps… — Eliza’s voice rang out, vibrant, from behind a stack of hatboxes, —something infinitely more intriguing. — She was holding a small volume bound in dark leather. She blew upon its cover, raising a plume of dust that set her sneezing. — Achoo! Achoo! Oh, heavens… achoo!
—A diary? — Evelyn extended a tentative hand. The leather felt strangely animate beneath her fingers. She recognised the elegant hand at once. A pang tightened her chest. — It’s Mother’s…— For a moment, the air deserted her. With trembling fingers, she opened to the first page. In the margin, hastily scribbled in different ink: The heart of Thalwen awaits beneath the ashes of time.
The words hovered in the stale attic air. Before Evelyn could make sense of them, a soft scraping noise issued from a shadowed corner. A shiver ran down her spine. Both sisters froze.
—Did you hear that? — Evelyn whispered.
— No! — Eliza answered far too quickly, her gaze fixed on the dimness. — And I sincerely hope I don’t.
A silence, taut as wire. Then—a grey blur darted through the shadows.
—Rat! — Eliza’s shriek echoed as she stumbled back with a leap.
That was her mistake. Her heel caught a rotted plank. The wood gave way with a sharp, decisive crack. And Eliza vanished. One moment she was there; the next, she was gone to the waist, a cry of astonishment escaping her lips as her legs flailed above the corridor below.
—Merciful heavens! Evelyn, help me!
Evelyn blinked, her mind reeling against the absurdity: Eliza, clinging to the jagged edges of the hole like a shipwrecked soul; and far below, the unmoving figure of Benson, face tilted upward, mouth forming a perfect “O” of disbelief.
— Lady Eliza…? — the butler’s voice was a thread of incredulity.
— Oh, good morning, Benson! ¬— Eliza managed a grimacing smile of pure panic. —The weather’s holding nicely, isn’t it?
— Eliza! Oh, my God…— Evelyn shook off her paralysis and threw herself forward, grasping her sister’s arms.
At that moment, Mrs Holloway appeared at the far end of the corridor, drawn by the commotion, hands on hips, her eyes sweeping the scene. —What in blazes is all this racket? I thought for sure the house had finally collapsed.
¬— It was merely my dignity that collapsed, Mrs Holloway! — gasped Eliza, swinging alarmingly as she tried to hoist herself up.
¬—Hold fast, girl! — Benson’s voice rose in alarm. —There’s no money to mend floorboards, let alone… cover larger expenses.
—Ever the ray of sunshine, Benson!¬— Eliza muttered.
With a graceless tug from Evelyn and muffled cries from Eliza, the younger sister was at last dragged back to the tenuous safety of the attic. They collapsed onto the dusty floor, panting, just as the pair of servants reached the top of the stairs, equally breathless.
Mrs Holloway took in the splintered hole, the dishevelled young ladies, the lingering dust, and let out a long-suffering sigh. —Your father would be turning in his grave if he knew you were tearing the house apart.
—Heavens, don’t say such things, — shuddered Eliza, brushing soot from her skirts. — I can still feel that creature’s tail against my leg. — A pause. Then she sat up, her expression suddenly grave. —Right. We’re definitely not selling the floorboards.
A low laugh escaped Evelyn. —I fear not. But perhaps… perhaps we’ve found something else. — She retrieved the fallen diary. As she opened it once more, fingertips brushing the soft leather, a folded piece of parchment (yellowed, brittle with age) slipped from within and came to rest in her lap.
The sisters’ eyes met. With delicate fingers, mindful of the paper’s fragility, they unfolded it. It revealed an ancient map, hand-drawn. Lines traced the remnants of ruins - an abbey, identified as Glastonbury. Tiny constellations of dots scattered across the page, accompanied by notations in an exquisite, minuscule hand and a language neither of them could immediately recognize - archaic Latin, perhaps?
At the heart of a circle, drawn around the ruins, stood a symbol: three interwoven spirals forming a triskele, with an eye at its centre - eternal and watchful. Above it, two moons balanced in symmetry: one waxing, one waning. The entire emblem was enclosed within a circle, thin as mist. A low resonance stirred within Evelyn, like the echo of something half-remembered, calling from some forgotten place.
—What is this? — Eliza murmured, awestruck, her finger tracing the eye.
— I’ve seen it before. I’m certain of it. — Evelyn’s brow furrowed. — In Mother’s drawings… Do you remember, Eliza? The stories of the guardians…?
—The guardians of the threshold…— Eliza’s eyes widened.
Beside the symbol, an inscription: “Luna… altare… clavis…”
Moon… altar… key…
Fragments of Latin floated through Evelyn’s mind.
Benson leaned closer, frowning. — Smells like trouble to me.
But Mrs Holloway stepped forward, a glimmer of curiosity flickering in her otherwise practical gaze. — Or perhaps it smells like opportunity.
Eliza’s face lit up. — Opportunity! Without a doubt! What is ‘The Heart of Thalwen’?
Evelyn exhaled slowly, her gaze drifting between the diary and the map. She could feel the brittle stillness of her days beginning to fracture. — I’ve no idea. But this map… it leads to Glastonbury Abbey.
—Glastonbury… —Benson scratched his chin. — That’s in Somerset. Far to the west.
—Somerset? — Eliza raised an eyebrow. — But isn’t that… terribly far?
— Far enough to keep a secret, perhaps, — Evelyn said softly. She closed the diary, the spiral symbol etched into her thoughts. A current of restlessness began to flow beneath her usual resignation. — It seems we shall have to make a journey.
Mrs Holloway huffed, arms crossed. — So long as you don’t go falling through any more floors on the way.
Eliza grinned, a mischievous glint in her eyes. — But really, Mrs Holloway, where would be the fun in that?
Evelyn pressed her fingers to her temples. Adventure.
The uneasy peace of Moore House was lost.
Yet there, amid the dust and decay, a stubborn spark - something that resembled hope, or perhaps only curiosity - had begun to kindle.
