The Old Photo

Dusk had already stained the sky a fading orange by the time the taxi began its slow climb up the hill. The narrow lane, choked by gnarled, overgrown trees, made it clear this manor saw few visitors. On the radio, the driver played a faint gospel hymn, volume turned low—an oddly alien sound in such isolation. I’d arrived by boat, following weeks of research that all pointed to Blackwood Manor, the old mansion built by Henry Blackwood, one of the land’s original founders.

In the back seat, my fingers found the worn photograph tucked in my coat—the very reason for this journey. I’d discovered it in my late father’s desk drawer shortly after he died. The black-and-white image showed a little girl beside my younger self, the girl clutching a strange tome embossed with a sigil I later learned belonged to the Blackwood family. I confirmed this when I noticed the same sigil printed on the front gate.

That photo had unleashed a flood of questions: Why was it in monochrome if taken during my childhood? I wasn’t that old, after all. Who was that girl, and why couldn’t I remember her? Finally, how did the name Blackwood tie in? I’d answered the first two: my father’s beloved old camera was the cause of the coloring, and the girl was apparently my mother’s child from an affair, born while she was still married. She disappeared a few years after the picture was taken—and my mother couldn’t even recall her name, which struck me as deeply odd, considering how sentimental my mother was.

To solve my final question, every clue had led me here: to Blackwood Manor, perched on the cliff’s edge above the town, the indifferent sea stretching behind it like an endless gray canvas.

“We’ve arrived, Mr. Voltaire.” The driver’s heavy accent jolted me back. Through the dusty window, the manor loomed exactly as the photos had shown—yet infinitely more imposing. Built in 1895, it was now nearly fifty years old; its age was worn like a shroud: stone darkened by decades of sea mist, detailed woodwork softened by rot, and windows like vacant eyes staring from the gloom. Ivy clung to its walls, proof of years of neglect.

“Thank you,” I muttered to the driver half-heartedly, too focused on the manor to sustain a conversation. I stepped out and paid the exact fare. The cab soon vanished down the steep road, leaving me alone before the colossal entrance. A row of skeletal orange trees—rare around here—lined the path. I paused to breathe in the salt-laced air, wondering which generation had possessed the ambition, or folly, to erect such a place. A sudden gust swept up from the sea, nearly snatching my hat. I clutched the brim and hurried toward the oak door studded with heavy black iron.

It stood slightly ajar, a futile bid to air out the mausoleum-like interior. After a hard pull, I stepped inside and was swallowed by cool, dense air scented with dust, decaying wood, and the faint ghost of old lemon polish. Massive hand-carved beams crisscrossed the shadowed ceiling, and a grand staircase—its wood groaning under the weight of silence—spiraled into darkness. Though I knew the house was brick, this hall was clad in deep forest-green paneling. Beneath layers of grime, faded murals of pastoral landscapes and mythical creatures hinted at past opulence, now almost mocking in its decay. Once the heart of a grand residence, the space now felt like a tomb holding its breath.

My reverie was broken by the creak of a floorboard overhead. I looked up to see a woman on the landing—small, somewhat plump, in a simple dark working dress. Her hair was a startling natural red, her cheeks rosy, but her expression wary. “M-may I help you, sir?” she asked in a soft, hesitant voice—no surprise, given my sudden appearance and my six-foot-two frame honed by military service.

I softened my expression. “Good evening,” I said, removing my hat and bowing slightly. “Forgive the intrusion. I assure you, I mean no alarm.”

She studied me, then curtseyed before descending the stairs. “I’m Darlene Baker, the caretaker here.”

“I’m Darius Voltaire,” I replied, my tone polite and steady. “I invest in—and collect—certain antiquities. I have an interest in Blackwood Manor.”

At the word “investor,” her posture eased and curiosity flickered in her eyes. “An interest in Blackwood Manor, you say?” she asked as she reached the bottom step.

“My research indicates this house holds a notable collection of old novels,” I explained. “Rare editions, perhaps available for purchase. I was hoping to view them.”

Her face lit up. “Oh! The library! Of course. Follow me.” She led me down a long, dim corridor. Dust-covered portraits of stern-faced ancestors watched us from the walls, their features blurred by grime, clearly in need of desperate restoration.

We paused before another set of heavy double doors, their stained-glass panels muted under layers of dust. She glanced back at me, slightly breathless. “Pardon the state of things. It’s just me tending this whole place—one rather simple, single woman,” she added with a faint, defiant lilt. With a grunt, she heaved the doors open; the hinges screamed in protest.

“Inside, you’ll find what you need,” she said, her tone warm again. “Ask for Luna—our librarian. She knows the collection well.”

Luna—a poetic name. I filed it away. “Thank you, Miss Baker. I appreciate your assistance.”

She chuckled, a hearty sound, and patted my forearm with surprising strength. “Please—call me Darlene.”

With a final playful glance and a wiggle of her eyebrows, she bustled back down the corridor. Her footsteps faded, leaving me alone at the library threshold, tasked with finding the mysterious Miss Luna.

I pushed the heavy library doors open a bit more and stepped inside. The air shifted, now carrying the dry, papery scent of aged bindings mingled with ever-present dust and faint polish. It was a room steeped in silence, vast bookshelves rising into the upper shadows, though perhaps not as labyrinthine as some libraries I’d known. A single candle flickered on a distant, large desk, casting dancing shadows and signaling occupancy—Luna’s presence. But rather than seeking her out immediately, my gaze was drawn to the spines lining the shelves—the potential key to my search.

The task felt daunting despite the room’s manageable size. My fingers trailed over dusty, leather-bound volumes, their titles largely obscured by grime. I didn’t have long to browse, however. A distinct sensation prickled the back of my neck—the unmistakable feeling of being watched. Turning slowly, my eyes met a steady, intelligent gaze from across the room. Standing near the candlelit desk, partially cloaked in shadow, was the woman I presumed must be Miss Luna. She observed me with an unnerving stillness, likely wondering what this large stranger was doing disturbing the sanctity of her domain.

“Can I help you?” she spoke once she noticed me looking back, her voice lower than I’d expected—smooth, and carrying a hint of challenge that immediately intrigued me.

As my eyes adjusted to the gloom, details sharpened. She was younger than Darlene, likely only in her early twenties. Her hair, black with stunning green highlights, was pulled back in a messy bun, though a few stray tendrils escaped, framing a face of striking pallor. A pair of small, square-rimmed glasses perched on a surprisingly delicate nose. She wore a high-necked, modest blouse and a dark, flowing skirt that ended demurely at her knees—an ensemble clearly chosen for propriety. Yet beneath the conservative attire, there was an undeniable confidence in her posture, a spark in her observant eyes. The modest clothing couldn’t entirely conceal a graceful figure, and the contrast only heightened her allure. A sudden, unexpected warmth spread through my chest, an attraction both immediate and unsettling. Was it genuine, or merely the instinct of a man long focused on a singular, lonely quest? Either way, I pushed the thought down, schooling my features into polite neutrality.

“Good evening. My apologies if I startled you,” I said, my voice sounding rougher than intended in the quiet room. “Miss Baker—the caretaker—granted me entry. You’re Miss Luna, I presume?”

As I spoke, a subtle, pleasant fragrance reached me—something complex, perhaps sandalwood or dark florals, utterly unlike the manor’s prevailing scent of decay. It suited her, adding another layer to the unexpected pull I felt. This was going to be more complicated than anticipated if I couldn’t control my emotions.

“My name is Darius Voltaire, by the way,” I added, feeling an unusual compulsion to ensure she knew it. Perhaps it was a darker impulse, a desire to hear my name on her lips.

A ghost of a smile touched her mouth. “Darius.”

My heart gave an unwarranted leap. She spoke the name easily, the sound echoing softly in the stillness. The smile widened slightly, revealing perfectly even teeth. She inclined her head in a gesture that mirrored my earlier bow to Darlene.

“I’m Luna Blackwood. The librarian.”

Blackwood. The name jolted me back to the present, scattering the burgeoning distraction. No time to lose focus now.

“Blackwood?” I echoed. “Like the manor?”

A fleeting sadness crossed her features before she answered with a soft chuckle. “The very same. My grandfather built this house, a lifetime ago. My father—the town’s mayor—owns it now. I merely work here.” She paused, a hint of defiance entering her tone. “The library is my domain, but I hold no claim to the rest of this place. You could easily pry it from my hands, should you desire.”

There was an undercurrent there, a history I sensed it would be unwise to probe too deeply just yet. I shook my head, simply dismissing her words.

“I see,” I replied, shifting back to my original purpose. “Well, Miss Blackwood, perhaps you could assist me? I’m looking for a specific book.”

She nodded, the professional librarian resurfacing. “Of course. But please, just Luna is fine. And I’ll call you Darius, if that’s agreeable?”

I nodded curtly, trying to ignore the way my pulse quickened as she stepped closer, moving out of the shadows and into the flickering candlelight. The fragrance I’d detected earlier intensified. Battling an internal clamor I hadn’t expected, I drew the worn photograph from my coat pocket and held it out to her, attempting my best to keep my arm steady.

She took it carefully, her cool fingers brushing mine for a fleeting instant. “Is this your family, Darius?”

I nodded again. “In a manner of speaking.” I briefly recounted the story—my father’s death, the discovery, the revelation of a sister, the trail leading here.

Luna studied the photograph, her brow furrowed slightly in concentration. “I see. And you believe this specific book she’s holding,” she tapped the image gently, “is the key?”

Honestly, the thought hadn’t been quite so precise in my own mind. I’d vaguely hoped for some logbook or journal explicitly mentioning my sister.

“Yes,” I seized on the idea. “That tome. I believe it’s vital.”

Luna nodded slowly, still gazing at the photo. Then she looked up, her expression apologetic. “We don’t have this specific edition here.”

My hopes plummeted. All this way for nothing. I’d have to return to my notes and figure out another plan—

“But,” she added quickly, seeing my disappointment, “I recognize it. Or rather, I know this very book. I’ve seen it—even held it myself.”

Relief washed over me. “Wonderful,” I breathed. “Where? May I see it?”

A small frown touched her lips, and the sight caused a disproportionate pang within me. I was already in deeper than I cared to admit. “My father has it. It’s part of his private collection at his residence.”

My eyes widened. The mayor? “I suppose that’s… not good.”

“Indeed,” she acknowledged.

I took a deep breath, sensing my troubles were far from over. “I don’t suppose he’ll let me see it, will he?”

Luna tilted her head, considering. “Mmm, I could probably borrow it… but my father never lets anything go without a price. He’d expect a favor in return.”

I frowned. “Something unpleasant, I gather?”

“Tedious, mostly,” she sighed. “Transcribing old ledgers, cataloguing his dreadful snuffbox collection… that sort of thing. Honestly, it’s quite annoying.” She paused, her gaze meeting mine directly, a playful, calculating glint entering her eyes. “I’d be willing to undertake the chore, Darius… but I’d want something in return, too.”

Her request seemed fair, logical even. Though whether my easy agreement stemmed from logic or the undeniable fact that I simply wanted to agree with her, I couldn’t be sure. “What do you need?” I asked, bracing myself.

Her eyes flickered down briefly—a quick, assessing glance toward my coat, my stance perhaps—before returning to my face. Then she smiled slowly, a grin that made my very heart melt.

“I’d like you to take me out on a date.”

I blinked. Had I heard correctly? All my careful plotting on how to navigate this encounter, how to maintain focus, evaporated. A date? She was asking me? A slow heat crept up my neck.

“A… d-d-date?” I stammered, feeling foolish. “With me? You mean… a romantic… engagement?”

She laughed, a bright, unexpected sound in the dusty library. “Yes, Darius. A date. You’re… well, you’re not like the usual prospects in this town, are you? Tall, mysterious strangers with intriguing quests don’t just walk in every day. Consider it… preemptive acquisition. Before the other local girls get any ideas—which you’re not allowed to humor, if you get with me.”

Her boldness was as captivating as her appearance. This was the feistiness the modest clothing tried to hide.

“Well,” I managed, finding my voice, “you are… exceptionally captivating yourself, Luna. I would be honored to accept.”

She clapped her hands together softly, her smile radiant. “Wonderful!” she echoed my earlier sentiment, seeming to delight in it. Impulsively, she reached out and took my hand. A jolt, like static electricity, shot up my arm at her touch. Turning my hand over, she produced a pen seemingly from nowhere and scribbled quickly on my palm.

“An address,” she explained, releasing my hand. The ink felt strangely warm against my skin. “It’s a seafood place down by the harbor—The Fisherman’s Catch. Shall we say… tomorrow evening? Seven?”

“Perfect,” I agreed instantly. My mind was racing, but the prospect of seeing her again, away from the oppressive shadows of the manor, eclipsed all other thoughts.

She gave another small, formal bow, though her eyes danced with excitement. “Okay, Darius! I’ll see you then! I should probably let Darlene know I’m heading off early. Need time to prepare.”

“Dress your best,” I heard myself call after her as she turned and practically floated toward the library doors, leaving me alone once more.

The silence descended again, heavier this time. I looked around the vast, shadowed room, then down at the ink on my palm. Had that really just happened? I wondered vaguely if the generations of stern-faced Blackwoods whose portraits lined the halls would disapprove of my conduct—the unscholarly thoughts I’d had about their descendant, the sheer unprofessionalism of securing a vital clue by agreeing to a date. Perhaps, I mused, a return visit to that taxi driver and his gospel radio wasn’t such a bad idea after all. A little penance might be in order.