"Of course. But I should mention—there are two other restoration architects on the shortlist. The first to accept gets the job. I'll give you until midnight."
"Miss Beretta," said Julian Cross's voice, warm and polished and full of old money. "I'm so glad you accepted the job. One small thing I forgot to mention—the house prefers to be called Silas. And he's very eager to meet you." brooke beretta
I have burned her journals. I have sealed the basement. But the house remembers. It always remembers. If you are reading this, you have already begun the work of restoration. Finish it. Every board you replace, every wall you repair, you are strengthening the lock. But beware—the house does not want to be locked. It will try to change you. It will try to make you forget why you came. "Of course
She ran upstairs. The house had changed while she was reading. The water damage on the parquet floor was gone, replaced by a beautiful inlay of dark and light wood that formed a pattern she recognized—a human spine, curving from the foyer to the ballroom. The wallpaper had reknitted itself, showing a scene of hunters pursuing something through a dark forest. The something was not an animal. It was a woman. It was Brooke. Her face, her clothes, her tool belt. I'll give you until midnight
Seven hundred thousand dollars was more than she'd made in the last three years combined. It was the kind of money that meant she could stop taking commissions for a while, maybe even buy that derelict firehouse in Portland she'd been eyeing. But it was also the kind of money that came with strings attached—strings that could strangle you if you weren't careful.
The first floor was mostly intact, though water damage had ruined the parquet floors and wallpaper hung in sad ribbons. The second floor held six bedrooms, each with a fireplace and a view of the overgrown garden. The third floor was a labyrinth of servants' quarters and storage rooms, many of them locked. The keys were long gone.
