Olberon opened his mouth to continue speaking when the door swung open unexpectedly. The physician stepped into the room, a warm smile lighting his face. “Good news, Sire,” he announced, his voice steady and reassuring. “Your man will be just fine. He’ll need time to recover, of course, and he’ll be out of commission for a while. But for now, he’s resting. One of my assistants will collect him in the morning.”
The worry etched into Olberon’s features melted away, and he eased back into his chair as if a heavy burden had been lifted. “That is excellent news,” he replied, his tone one of genuine relief. “Once again, your skills prove unmatched.”
Isabelle released a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding, the tension of the chaotic night slowly unraveling. The sheer madness of it all still reeled in her mind, but the physician’s words brought a flicker of calm.
Olberon turned to her, his pale complexion betraying the faintest blush as he offered a small, tentative smile. “If you’d like, I can arrange for you to stay here tonight, and we can talk more in the morning. That is, of course, if you’d prefer to stay. If not, I’d be happy to arrange transport for you—wherever you’d like to go.”
Isabelle returned his smile, feeling the exhaustion pressing down on her. “That sounds fine to me,” she replied. “It’s been a rough night, and to be honest, I’m practically dead on my feet.”
“Excellent,” Olberon nodded. “I’ll have one of the spare rooms prepared for you.” He hesitated briefly before continuing. “I have some… family matters to tend to now that I know Virgil is going to be alright. Florence will be down shortly to escort you to your room.” With that, he stood and followed the physician out of the room, leaving Isabelle alone once more.
The quiet didn’t last long. A few minutes later, the door opened to reveal Florence. She was a stout woman with jet-black hair neatly pinned back, her kind face framed by the traditional uniform of a housekeeper but from an age past. Despite her professional demeanor, there was a welcoming warmth in her eyes.
“Miss Isabelle, I presume,” Florence said, offering a polite smile.
Isabelle nodded, her voice still finding its way after the whirlwind of events. “That’s me. And you must be Florence.”
“Florence Hawthorne, at your service, miss.” Her tone was courteous yet friendly. “My liege informed me you’d be requiring a room for the evening. I’ve prepared a suite in the south wing for you, but if it’s not to your liking, we can make alternate arrangements.”
Isabelle blinked, momentarily stunned by the formal cadence of Florence’s speech. It was something she’d only ever heard in period dramas, exaggerated for television. “No, that’s fine,” she replied, then hesitated. “How big is this place, exactly? It didn’t seem that large from the street—certainly not big enough to have wings.”
Florence let out a soft laugh, the sound warm and unhurried. “Beg your pardon, miss, but I assume you came through the London gate?”
Isabelle frowned slightly. “It was more of a door than a gate, but yes, it was in London.”
Florence inclined her head knowingly. “The London gate does appear modest, but I assure you, there’s more than enough space here. If you’d like, I can arrange for a promenade tomorrow so you can see the grounds before breakfast.”
“Grounds?” Isabelle echoed, her brow furrowing. “The only thing around here was a tangle of alleys and the river.”
Recognition dawned on Florence’s face, a glimmer of understanding softening her features. “Ah, my liege didn’t mention how new you were to this place. No matter—let’s get you settled. Things will make more sense come morning.”
Before Isabelle could protest or ask for clarification, Florence gestured for her to follow. They moved through winding corridors and grand halls, past rooms lined with towering bookshelves, gleaming suits of armor, and ornate furnishings. Every turn revealed another marvel, each more opulent than the last.
After what felt like ten minutes of wandering, they arrived at a sturdy oak door. Florence stopped and turned with a slight flourish. “Here we are, miss. I’ve had some refreshments sent up, and George has already lit the fire.” She pushed the door open, revealing a room that took Isabelle’s breath away.
The space was nothing short of magnificent. A four-poster bed dominated the room, its rich velvet curtains draped elegantly to the floor. A white stone fireplace crackled warmly, casting flickering light across gilded side tables and fine drapery that framed tall windows.
Isabelle stepped inside, momentarily unable to speak.
Florence smiled at her reaction. “Right then, miss, I’ll leave you to it. If you need anything, just use the pull handle by the door.” She gestured to a small tasseled cord. “I typically do my morning rounds at eight o’clock—if that is to your liking?”
Still awestruck, Isabelle could only nod.
“Very good, miss.” Florence inclined her head once more before stepping back into the hall. “Have a good night.”
The door closed softly behind her, leaving Isabelle alone in the grand room, the crackling fire her only company.
Isabelle took a moment to truly absorb the grandeur of the room she now found herself in. The high, arched ceiling seemed to stretch into infinity, its carved moldings adorned with gilded flourishes that shimmered faintly in the soft glow of the sconces. Heavy drapes of deep burgundy framed tall windows, their folds rich and elegant, though they concealed whatever lay beyond. The fire crackled gently in the ornate hearth, casting flickering shadows across the room and imbuing it with a warmth that was both physical and strangely comforting.
For a moment, the strangeness of her surroundings melted away, and she allowed herself to be enveloped by the quiet opulence. Yet, as the strain of the day began to settle heavily on her shoulders, a wave of exhaustion swept through her, catching her unprepared. The adrenaline that had carried her until now dissipated, leaving her limbs feeling leaden.
A small table near the hearth had been set with a modest late-night meal, its presentation as impeccable as the rest of the room. The delicate aroma of spiced meats, fresh bread, and sweet preserves drew her in. Taking her place at the table, she discovered the food was as exquisite in flavor as it was in appearance. Each bite seemed to melt on her tongue, and though she had started cautiously, she soon found herself eating her fill. The warmth of the meal spread through her, soothing her tired body.
Once sated, Isabelle rose and began to prepare for bed. The four-poster bed dominated the room, its mahogany frame intricately carved with floral patterns and mythical creatures. The velvet canopy hung above like a protective shroud, and the bed itself was piled high with pillows and thick, silken blankets. She sat on its edge for a long moment, her gaze drifting to the fire. The flames danced and flickered, their movement mesmerizing. She found herself caught between worlds—half in the present, half lost in the surreal events of the day.
How had she come to be here, in this place of impossible beauty and strange danger? The thoughts circled her mind like restless birds, but for the first time, they did not overwhelm her. Instead, she simply watched the fire, her breath evening out as the stillness of the room worked its magic.
The rest of the evening passed in quiet solitude. She allowed herself to relax fully, unwinding as the tensions of the day gradually released their grip. When she finally climbed beneath the blankets, the softness was like nothing she had ever known, cocooning her in a haven of warmth. To her surprise, the strange house did not haunt her dreams. Instead, her mind fell into a deep, dreamless slumber, free of the chaos that had plagued her in recent days. For the first time in what felt like forever, Isabelle slept soundly, her body and soul granted the gift of peace in this strange opulent place.
______
Isabelle awoke to the soft sound of footsteps, delicate yet purposeful, as Florence moved about the room in the dim half-light of morning. The faint clink of dishes being gathered and replaced with fresh ones accompanied the subtle rustle of her skirts. Florence worked with the practiced efficiency of someone who had performed these rituals countless times. A steaming pot of tea and an ornate porcelain cup now sat where the remnants of the previous night’s meal had been.
Noticing that Isabelle had stirred, Florence turned toward her, her expression warm and attentive. “Good morning, Miss,” she said brightly. “I’ve brought you a pot of tea and some toast with jam made from the fruits of the gardens. If you’d like something more substantial, I can call down to Cookie and have anything you prefer brought up.”
As she spoke, Florence moved to the tall, heavy drapes that shielded the room from the outside world. Her hands gripped the thick fabric, and with one fluid motion, she pulled them aside. Sunlight flooded the room in an instant, piercing the dimness and forcing Isabelle to shield her eyes against the sudden brightness.
“Oh no, tea and toast sounds perfect…” Isabelle murmured, her voice trailing off as her gaze shifted to the windows. In the light of day, the view beyond the arched panes revealed itself in breathtaking clarity. A sprawling expanse of pale white lawns stretched out before her, perfectly manicured and glistening faintly as though dusted with frost. Hedges sculpted into intricate shapes bordered the grounds, and scattered throughout were trees with bark as pale as ivory and leaves shimmering in silvery-blue hues. The scene was otherworldly, a cross between a snowstorm frozen in time and a winter wonderland, yet it was entirely untouched by the familiar outline of London’s skyline.
Isabelle shot upright in the bed, her pulse quickening. “Wh—” she began, her words faltering as her gaze darted from one window to the next. “Where are we?! Where’s the city gone?” The mild unease that had been brewing in her chest erupted into full-blown panic as she turned to Florence for answers.
The housekeeper, unruffled, offered a reassuring smile. “Oh, we’re quite the ways from London, Miss. This is the Estate of Lord Olberon, head of the Winter Court.” Her tone was matter-of-fact, but her words only deepened the rising panic in Isabelle’s chest.
“Winter what?” Isabelle stammered, her thoughts scrambling for footing. “Where—?” The half-formed questions tumbled from her lips as her mind raced to make sense of it all.
Florence’s expression softened, a flicker of concern crossing her features. “Oh dear, don’t get yourself worked up,” she said gently. “London is still there, I promise. It’s just beyond the London Gate. We can have you back there in no time at all if that’s what you wish.”
Her calm demeanor had a soothing effect, and Isabelle’s breathing began to slow, though the confusion lingered. Florence stepped closer, her voice steady and reassuring. “Why don’t you take a moment to get yourself ready and enjoy your tea? Once you’re feeling more yourself, you can join us in the sitting room. Just turn left out the door and keep walking til you find the staircase, it’ll be just at the foot. Lord Olberon has a tour of the estate planned for you this morning, as a thank you for your help with Virgil. After that, we’ll ensure you’re returned to London safe and sound.”
Still grappling with the surreal turn of events, Isabelle nodded numbly. The panic hadn’t fully dissipated, but Florence’s calm, pragmatic manner offered her a lifeline, however fragile. She glanced back at the view outside, the ethereal beauty of it both captivating and unsettling, and tried to steady her thoughts as she reached for the teacup.
______
The warmth of the tea worked its way through Isabelle, calming her frayed nerves with each sip. By the time she finished the delicate porcelain cup, the pounding of her heart had eased.. She set the cup down with a soft clink, the remnants of her panic replaced by a quiet resolve.
As she ate her breakfast—a simple but delicious spread of toast and jam—an uncomfortable thought surfaced. In all her earlier panic, she had completely forgotten to ask about Virgil. The memory of his wounds, jagged and raw, sent a pang of guilt through her. How selfish she had been, consumed by her own fears to not even think to ask about him. The thought gnawed at her, each bite of her meal a small reminder of her oversight.
Determined to set things right, Isabelle rose and made her way to the adjoining bathroom to freshen up. The facilities, while ornate and unfamiliar, were easy enough to navigate. She did her best to tidy her appearance, smoothing down her hair and finding her clothes from the night before cleaned and pressed folded on the dresser. Satisfied enough, she took a deep breath and stepped back into the bedroom.
The door clicked shut behind her, and once again she found herself in the sprawling, firelit corridors of the estate. Even now, in the soft morning light filtering through the occasional window, the grandeur of the place struck her anew. The intricate carvings along the walls seemed to shimmer with hidden life, and the tapestries that adorned the passageways were so richly detailed they looked like they might step off the fabric entirely.
Isabelle turned left, relying on her memory of the night before to guide her toward the staircase she hoped would lead her to Florence or Lord Olberon. The hallways stretched endlessly before her, lined with door after door, each opening into a room more extraordinary than the last. She passed two libraries, their towering shelves seeming to bulge under the weight of the leather tomes pristinely organized along them . Four empty bedrooms, each as lavishly decorated as her own, lay silent and untouched, like the preserved relics of forgotten dreams. Several galleries showcased artwork that defied explanation—scenes of ethereal landscapes, haunting portraits, and abstract designs that seemed to shift when viewed from the corner of her eye.
Her initial awe gave way to impatience as the corridors wound on without end. Isabelle quickened her pace, her frustration growing with every turn. The opulence, once enchanting, now felt suffocating as she failed to find her way. So focused was she on moving forward that she didn’t notice the figure stepping out of a doorway to her left.
She collided with him sharply, the impact jarring her from her thoughts. Isabelle staggered back a step, clutching the doorframe to steady herself. The man she had walked into was tall and broad-shouldered, his presence commanding even in the confined space of the hallway.
“Oh! I’m so sorry—I wasn’t looking where I was going,” Isabelle stammered, glancing up at him.
The figure tilted his head slightly, his expression unreadable as he studied her. “No harm done,” he said, his voice low and even, carrying a faint accent that was difficult to place. A smile touched his lips, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “You must be Miss Isabelle.”
The way he said her name sent a ripple of unease down her spine, but she pushed the feeling aside, forcing herself to meet his gaze. “Yes… And you are?”
He didn’t answer immediately, his attention flicking briefly to the corridor behind her before settling back on her face. “Let’s just say I’m someone who keeps an eye on guests of the courts.” He extended a hand, his manner polite but somehow unsettling. “Shall we find the sitting room? You seem a little lost.”
The tall man didn’t wait for a response before falling into an easy stride beside Isabelle, subtly guiding her down the seemingly endless halls. “We’ve not had a guest quite like you in some time, Miss Isabelle,” he said, his tone smooth yet slightly off-kilter, as if each word carried a weight that didn’t match the casual cadence. Isabelle frowned, the faintest edge of unease pricking at her nerves.
“I hear through the hedgerow that you had a rather… eventful encounter with Virgil and some unsavory types last night,” he continued, his tone laced with polite curiosity. “Is that to be believed?”
There was nothing overtly threatening in his manner, yet her instincts told her to tread carefully around this man. His presence was magnetic but unsettling, like a polished blade that gleamed in the firelight. He stood at an unassuming height, his broad shoulders and impeccable posture speaking of a life steeped in discipline. His jet-black hair, streaked with dignified touches of silver at the temples, framed sharp, chiseled features that seemed carved from stone. His strong jawline and high cheekbones lent him an air of quiet authority, while the faintest hint of weathering on his face suggested experience rather than age.. By all accounts, he could have been considered handsome—if not for his eyes. Those eyes were unnerving: cold, flat,and a vivid icy blue completely devoid of warmth, as if they had long since abandoned the light of life. When his gaze met hers, it sent an involuntary shiver down her spine.
Guarding her words, Isabelle gave a measured nod. “Yes, there was an incident last night, but everything seems to have worked itself out.” She kept her tone neutral, her expression carefully composed. “I came here with Virgil, and he’s doing… well,” she added, the lie slipping from her lips with surprising ease. The truth was, she had no idea how Virgil was faring after the physician’s treatment, but instinct told her not to show vulnerability—not to this man.
His lips curled into that same smile, a knowing glint flashing across his face. “Well, that is good news indeed,” he said, his voice velvety smooth. It seemed as though he was about to press further when Isabelle cut him off.
“And what should I call you, sir?” she asked, her voice firm but polite. “Other than the keeper of guests, of course.”
The man paused mid-step, the faint smile lingering on his face as if he appreciated her question. “Dorian,” he said with a faint bow of his head. “Dorian Vex, at your service. Keeper of secrets for the House of Olberon.”
The title hung in the air, heavy with implication. Before she could ask what exactly a “keeper of secrets” entailed, he gestured to the staircase ahead of them. “Just down there is the sitting room. Lord Olberon is waiting for you.”
Isabelle hesitated, glancing toward the stairs, but as she moved to descend, Dorian’s voice followed her. “I do hope we’ll meet again, Miss Isabelle,” he said, his tone carrying a faint hint of amusement. “We don’t often get such… interesting guests.”
Her steps faltered for just a moment before she continued down the stairs, the chill of his words lingering with her long after she left his presence.