Chapter One — The Man Outside the Window
The first thing Elara Vale noticed about Blackthorn House was that it had too many windows.
Not the kind of windows that made a house feel bright and welcoming.
These were tall, narrow things, framed in black stone and arranged across the three-story façade like a hundred unblinking eyes.
She counted twenty-seven from the gravel drive.
Then twenty-eight.
She frowned.
The last window was half-hidden behind the crooked branches of an ancient yew tree.
Elara stared at it for several seconds before shaking her head.
Twenty-eight.
She had counted twenty-eight.
The mistake annoyed her more than it should have.
“Thirty nights,” she muttered.
The words sounded absurd in the empty car.
Thirty nights in a house she had never seen before.
Thirty nights because a dead woman she barely remembered had apparently decided that Elara needed an inheritance with conditions.
She looked down at the envelope resting on the passenger seat.
The black wax seal had already been broken.
Inside was the copy of the will, the keys, and the letter that had brought her here.
She had read it six times.
The final paragraph still made no sense.
You must remain at Blackthorn House for thirty consecutive nights.
If you leave before the thirtieth night, the estate and everything contained within it will be transferred to the Blackthorn Historical Trust.
Everything contained within it.
That phrase had bothered her from the beginning.
Not the house.
Not the land.
Everything.
Elara reached for the door handle.
The moment she stepped outside, the cold hit her.
She pulled her coat tighter.
It was late October, but the temperature had dropped sharply during the drive. Mist curled low over the grass, slipping between the gravestones of the little family cemetery behind the house.
She hadn’t known there was a cemetery.
The lawyer hadn’t mentioned one.
Of course he hadn’t.
The lawyer had also failed to mention that the driveway was nearly a mile long, that there was no neighboring house in sight, and that the nearest town was apparently twenty minutes away.
Elara slammed the car door.
The sound traveled.
Then disappeared.
Blackthorn House seemed to swallow it.
She looked toward the front entrance.
A pair of enormous wooden doors stood beneath a stone archway.
One of them was already open.
Elara stopped.
She hadn’t opened it.
She was certain of that.
Her hand tightened around the keys.
“Okay.”
She glanced toward the house.
“That’s fine.”
Her voice sounded embarrassingly small.
“Old house. Old door. Wind.”
There wasn’t any wind.
Elara walked toward the entrance.
The closer she got, the more details emerged.
The stone walls were covered in climbing ivy, darkened by years of rain. Iron lanterns hung on either side of the doorway, though neither was lit. Above the entrance was a carved crest she didn’t recognize.
A bird.
Its wings were spread.
Its beak was open.
A nightingale.
Elara stopped beneath it.
For some reason, the sight of it made her stomach tighten.
She reached up and touched the carving.
Cold stone pressed against her fingertips.
A sudden memory surfaced.
A little girl sitting beside an old woman.
A song.
Soft humming.
Sleep, little nightingale...
Elara jerked her hand away.
The memory vanished as quickly as it had appeared.
She stared at the carving.
She couldn’t remember the old woman’s face.
She couldn’t even remember the song.
But she knew she had heard it before.
Inside this house.
She stepped across the threshold.
The door shut behind her.
Elara spun around.
The heavy wood settled into its frame with a deep, final thud.
She stared at it.
Then laughed nervously.
“Great.”
Her footsteps echoed across the marble floor.
The entrance hall was enormous.
A staircase curved upward along the far wall, disappearing onto the second floor. Portraits hung between the windows, their subjects dressed in clothing from another century.
Every one of them looked miserable.
Elara set her suitcase down.
She looked at the portraits again.
There was something strange about the arrangement.
Most of the paintings showed men.
Old men.
Young men.
Men in military uniforms.
Men in black suits.
But there were six portraits of women.
They had been placed together.
Six women.
Six different generations.
And all six were looking directly toward the viewer.
Elara walked closer.
The first woman wore a dark green dress.
The second wore ivory.
The third wore burgundy.
The fourth wore black.
The fifth wore blue.
The sixth—
Elara stopped.
The sixth woman looked remarkably like her.
Not exactly.
But enough.
Same dark hair.
Same narrow face.
Same gray-green eyes.
Elara felt the hairs on her arms rise.
She leaned toward the painting.
There was a small brass plaque beneath it.
She wiped away a layer of dust.
The name appeared.
Eveline Vale.
Elara swallowed.
“Who are you?”
The house answered with silence.
She stepped back.
Her eyes moved to the date beneath the name.
Impossible.
She looked at the painting again.
The resemblance was still there.
Perhaps it was simply coincidence.
Families repeated features.
That was normal.
She told herself this twice.
Neither time helped.
A grandfather clock somewhere deeper inside the house chimed.
Elara jumped.
One.
Two.
Three.
She counted the chimes.
Eight.
She checked her phone.
8:00 p.m.
Perfect.
She grabbed her suitcase.
Thirty nights.
That was all.
She would unpack.
She would sleep.
Tomorrow she would call the lawyer and ask why nobody had mentioned a portrait gallery full of dead women who looked like her.
Then she would begin figuring out how much the property was worth.
It was a plan.
A sensible plan.
Elara liked sensible plans.
They made the world easier to understand.
She found the kitchen after ten minutes of wandering.
It was surprisingly modern compared with the rest of the house. Someone had renovated it recently.
That bothered her.
The house looked abandoned from the outside.
But the refrigerator was stocked.
The electricity worked.
The water ran.
And when she opened the cabinets, she found dishes arranged neatly inside.
Someone had prepared the house for her.
Elara stood very still.
The lawyer had said the estate had been empty for years.
She opened the refrigerator.
Fresh milk.
Eggs.
Fruit.
Wine.
Her favorite brand of tea.
She stared at the box.
Earl Grey.
The exact brand she bought every week.
A cold sensation crawled down her spine.
She picked up the box.
There was no reason for it to be here.
Not unless—
Her phone rang.
Elara nearly dropped the tea.
“Jesus.”
She looked at the screen.
Unknown number.
She answered.
“Hello?”
Nothing.
“Hello?”
Static.
Then a man’s voice.
“Have you arrived?”
Elara’s blood went cold.
“Who is this?”
A pause.
“You shouldn’t have come alone.”
She straightened.
“What?”
The call ended.
Elara immediately called back.
The number didn’t exist.
She stared at the screen.
Then slowly turned toward the kitchen doorway.
Nothing.
Just the dark hallway beyond it.
She grabbed her suitcase.
The bedroom could wait.
She wanted a lock between herself and the rest of the house.
Upstairs, she found the master bedroom.
It was beautiful.
And unsettling.
A four-poster bed stood against the far wall beneath a canopy of dark velvet. A fireplace occupied one side of the room. Tall windows overlooked the grounds.
The room smelled faintly of roses.
Elara put her suitcase beside the bed.
She checked the door.
Lock.
Good.
She checked the windows.
Locked.
Better.
Then she noticed the music.
At first she thought it was coming from her phone.
It wasn’t.
She froze.
The sound was faint.
A man’s voice.
Singing.
Elara slowly walked toward the window.
The song was unfamiliar.
But something about it made her chest tighten.
It was beautiful.
Not polished.
Not performed.
It sounded like someone singing alone in the dark.
She reached the curtains.
The singing stopped.
Elara waited.
Nothing.
She pulled the curtain aside.
The grounds stretched beneath the moonlight.
The cemetery was visible beyond the trees.
Mist drifted across the grass.
Then she saw him.
A man stood at the edge of the woods.
Elara stopped breathing.
He was too far away to see his face clearly.
Tall.
Broad shoulders.
Dark coat.
One hand resting at his side.
He wasn’t moving.
He was simply standing there.
Looking at the house.
Looking at her window.
Elara’s first thought was to step away.
Her second was to wonder how long he’d been there.
Her third was the worst.
She wondered whether he had been the person singing.
The man lifted his head slightly.
Even from this distance, she knew he was looking directly at her.
Elara’s hand tightened around the curtain.
“Who are you?”
He didn’t answer.
She couldn’t hear him.
But somehow she felt as though he had.
A strange pressure settled over the room.
Then the man turned.
He walked toward the trees.
Elara watched him disappear between the branches.
She waited.
One minute.
Two.
Nothing.
She let out a breath.
“Okay.”
She locked the bedroom door again.
Then the window.
Then she pulled the curtains closed.
Her hands were shaking.
She hated that.
She hated being afraid.
Especially of someone who hadn’t actually done anything.
She went to the bathroom and splashed cold water onto her face.
“This is ridiculous.”
She looked at herself in the mirror.
Pale skin.
Dark hair.
Gray-green eyes.
She looked exhausted.
She looked like the woman in the painting.
Elara shut her eyes.
Thirty nights.
She could handle thirty nights.
She returned to the bedroom.
The house had become completely silent.
She changed into pajamas.
Brushed her teeth.
Checked the door one more time.
Then climbed into bed.
She turned off the lamp.
Darkness filled the room.
For several minutes, she listened to the house settling around her.
Wood creaking.
Pipes groaning.
Branches scratching against the roof.
Normal sounds.
Old-house sounds.
Eventually, her breathing slowed.
Her eyes began to close.
Then—
Knock.
Elara opened them.
She stared at the ceiling.
Silence.
She sat up.
Another sound.
Knock.
Not the door.
The window.
Elara’s heart began pounding.
She didn’t move.
Knock.
Three soft taps against the glass.
She slowly turned her head.
The curtains were closed.
The window was locked.
There was no balcony.
Nothing outside except a three-story drop onto stone.
Another knock.
Knock.
Elara climbed out of bed.
Every instinct told her not to approach the window.
She approached it anyway.
Her fingers reached for the curtain.
Stopped.
She remembered the man in the woods.
The dark coat.
The way he had looked at her.
Another three knocks.
Knock.
Knock.
Knock.
Elara pulled the curtain aside.
The window was empty.
No man.
No bird.
No branch touching the glass.
Nothing.
She exhaled.
Then noticed something sitting on the outside windowsill.
A black rose.
Her stomach dropped.
There was no way to reach the sill from inside.
She stared at it.
The flower was impossibly dark, its petals almost blue beneath the moonlight.
Elara opened the window.
Cold air rushed into the room.
She reached outside and picked up the rose.
A thorn pierced her finger.
She hissed and dropped it.
A bead of blood appeared on her fingertip.
Then she saw the stem.
Something had been tied around it.
A thin strip of black ribbon.
Elara carefully picked up the flower.
There was writing on the ribbon.
Four words.
Written in silver ink.
Her blood ran cold.
Because the handwriting was unmistakable.
She knew it.
She had seen it before.
On the envelope containing her aunt’s will.
On the letter that brought her here.
On every document associated with Blackthorn House.
Elara read the message once.
Then again.
Her heart hammered against her ribs.
Welcome home, Nightingale.
She dropped the rose.
And from somewhere in the darkness beyond the window, a man’s voice whispered—
“Sing for me.”
