Ira awoke in a rush, as if shaken aware by invisible hands. She bolted upright in a bed that smelled musty and stale. It took her a moment to remember the storm, Beaufort Manor, her new position. A mixture of anticipation and relief swept through her.

The bed sat under a window. Ira pushed heavy drapes aside, dislodging a blanket of dust. She managed to unlatch the rusted lock keeping the wooden shutters closed, and pried the window open. A gust of biting wind invaded the room. Outside, the sky stretched clear and blue. The land surrounding the manor was barren, jagged rock that gleamed gold under the morning sun. Ira remembered raising her head against the wailing wind and seeing Beaufort Manor towering above her for the first time. Lit by lightning and slick with rain, it had seemed like a haven and a danger both.

Ira left the window open and rose from the bed, shaking sleep-born stiffness from her limbs. The bedroom was larger than she would have expected to be allotted to a servant, and well furnished. A vanity table stood out among the stately furniture. Its elegant build was far better suited to a lady than a maid. Ira stared at herself in the oval-shaped mirror. Her reflection sneered back, out of place among the finery. She changed clothing and neatened her appearance as best as she could, and didn't look into the mirror again.

The upper story was dark, but the sitting room was bright and warm. Sir Beaufort sat with his head bowed over a letter. The frown marring his features smoothed in a smile when he caught sight of Ira, and he set both paper and quill aside.

"Good morning, Sir Beaufort," Ira offered.

"Good morning, Miss Hale. I trust you slept well?" Sir Beaufort asked.

"Fine, thank you."

"Please, have a seat," the man bid.

Ira took the corner of a regal red sofa. Sir Beaufort watched her with a strange expression, and did not speak for some time.

"Forgive me, but you seem familiar. Have we met?" he said at last.

"I do not believe we have," Ira said.

Sir Beaufort nodded in acceptance, and seemed to put the issue out of mind. "I am afraid I cannot offer you much time to settle in," he said. "My fiancé is due to visit in a month, and I have rather neglected the manor's upkeep."

"I am eager to begin work," Ira said.

"I am glad to hear that. We will begin with a tour of the manor, if you are ready."

Sir Beaufort rose. Ira hurried to follow, trailing in the man's wake down a dark hallway that creaked and echoed with her steps. They entered a large room that was soon revealed to be a kitchen. The single lamp glowing in the dark cast shadows over cabinets and shelves, the hearth yawning like an open mouth near a large sink.

"You will find everything fully functional. We have enough supplies to last us for some time, with more on the way. If you think of anything we need, please let me know," Sir Beaufort said.

"I will." Ira's eyes swept the room, lingering on the barred window. "Do you prefer certain dishes over others, Sir?"

"I do not," Sir Beaufort replied. "I expect my guests will. Until their arrival, feel free to prepare whatever you wish."

"I must ask that the windows remain barred, even at night," Sir Beaufort said as they made their way back to the sitting room, "I suffer from severe sensitivity to sunlight. Exposure is painful, and I would prefer not to take any chances."

"I understand," Ira said. She felt Sir Beaufort's eyes, but the man said nothing. He had likely expected questions. Ira had none to ask.

Sir Beaufort paused by the fireplace. He looked up, prompting Ira to do the same. A dark-haired woman peered down at them from a large portrait. Her face was calm, the green of her eyes vivid and lively. The drawing's likeness to a living person was so great Ira felt as if the woman would speak at any moment.

"My sister," Sir Beaufort said quietly, "Beatrice."

"She is beautiful," Ira said. The words slipped out without her conscious will.

Sir Beaufort nodded. "Perhaps you will meet her one day."

Surprise flashed over the man's face for a brief second, as if at his own words. He shook his head and resumed walking. "Let us continue the tour on the second floor," he said, the words clipped, and set for the stairs.

Ira followed at a more sedate pace. Her eyes strayed to the portrait. Blood surged in her temples, senses sharpened by a sudden burst of adrenaline. She hastened after her master, Beatrice Beaufort's smile etched in her mind.

The staircase hugged the wall in a sharp, ascending arc that broke into a circular landing. Sir Beaufort led the way. A door stood next to Ira's bedroom, gone unnoticed in the dark and Ira's hurry in the morning. Sir Beaufort identified the room as a bathroom.

"It is yours to use," he told Ira, beckoning her forward to inspect the space. The interior was dark and smelled strongly of mold.

"Thank you," Ira said. Access to running water in the midst of winter was certainly something to be cherished.

Sir Beaufort lips curled at the edges. "I would keep an eye on the tub, if I were you."

Ira raised a brow. "Pardon?"

"I fear the mold has grown so thick, it may have gained consciousness. Do alert me if it tries to escape."

Ira let out a bark of laughter. Startled, she smothered the sound under her hand. Sir Beaufort's expression remained politely blank, but the light in his eyes was hard to miss.

A linen's closet sat some steps from the bathroom. The contents were well-preserved, despite the layer of dust and handful of moths that batted a hasty escape when the door opened. Ira studied tall stacks of sheets, towels, and pillows, and wondered when the manor had last seen visitors.

Two more rooms were tucked at the end of the hallway. "Guestroom," Sir Beaufort said. "I expect my fiancée and her entourage will use them during their stay. You should begin preparing them as soon as possible."

"Of course," Ira said.

Sir Beaufort paused his steps. "My rooms are at the other end of this hall. I am used to maintaining them, and will continue to do so."

"I understand," Ira replied, hearing the unsaid warning regarding disturbing her master's privacy.

"There is a library. You are welcome to browse the collection, if you wish." The last offer was obviously made in passing, without an expectation that it would be accepted or indeed, of any use to someone of Ira's standing.

Ira ground her teeth in a forced smile. "Thank you. I enjoy reading."

Sir Beaufort raised an eyebrow. "Follow me. Take a candle, if you would please."

He swept down the hallway, comfortable despite the dark. Ira dislodged a nearby candle from its holder. She shielded the flame with a hand as she walked; it licked at her fingers every few steps. The manor seemed colder for the spot of warmth.

"We are here," Sir Beaufort spoke from somewhere within the dark.

Ira raised the candle. Its light chased the shadows from Sir Beaufort's cheeks and forehead. They pooled in the man's eyes, making the sockets look empty. The sharp bone structure and pale skin added to the momentary illusion of a naked skull.

Sir Beaufort stepped back, revealing a large door. He held it open for Ira to pass. Her steps gained a ringing echo once she walked inside. Ira couldn't see past a few feet in all directions but even so, she couldn't have mistaken the room for anything other than a library. The scent of parchment and ink weighted the air. Bookshelves climbed the walls like ivy, arching over the doorway and rising far out of sight.

"Is there a subject you prefer?" Sir Beaufort asked. His voice curled up to resonate against the vaulted ceiling.

"I enjoy historical accounts," Ira said, seeing no harm in sharing that much of herself.

"Wait here, please," Sir Beaufort bid. He strode into the dark, disappearing from Ira's sight.

Alone, Ira allowed herself a moment to study her surroundings. Heavy leather tomes lined a nearby wall. She trailed her fingers over their spines, tracing gilded letters and strange symbols that spelled words she couldn't read. They were tempting nonetheless. Ira hesitated over a volume dyed violent red, and almost plucked it from the shelf when something shifted at her periphery.

Ira held still. She watched the shadows from the corners of her eyes, trying to make out a shape in their midst. The light of the candle didn't reach far. If there was something hiding in the room, she could not see it.

"Do not be startled," Sir Beaufort cautioned.

Ira allowed her quarry temporary respite from her attention. She turned to face Sir Beaufort just as the man emerged from the dark, extending the candle to light his way. The man carried a book, which he offered to Ira. It was a heavy tome, the covers made of thick leather marked by not as much as a word.

"History of Samodevia, recorded by Ceri." Sir Beaufort announced.

"I know this book." Ira turned the volume in her hands. "I remember it much slimmer."

Sir Beaufort's lips tucked up at the edges. "This is a first edition, handwritten by Ceri himself. It contains lore and illustrations not found in later volumes. Three copies of its kind exist in the entire kingdom."

"Not a book that should be freely loaned," Ira noted. She made no attempt to give it back.

"I trust you to take good care of it," Sir Beaufort said.

Ira looked up, startled. Sir Beaufort smiled down at her; somewhere just out of sight, the shadows flickered again.

Ira bowed her head and kept her eyes on the book. "Thank you," she said.

"Shall we?" Sir Beaufort gestured toward the door.

Raindrops tapped against walls and windows, light and quick, like ant feet. Ira excused herself to her room, wishing to put the book away less some misfortune befell it. Sir Beaufort waited in the hall. He offered Ira a lit lamp upon her return, and they made their way downstairs with its light guiding the way. The sitting room was painted in soft colors, the air warmed by the fire and the glitter of candles.

"The tour of the property will have to wait until the evening," Sir Beaufort said. His attention had strayed to a bundle of letters piled on the mantel. He carded through them, Ira's presence dismissed.

"Shall I begin preparations for lunch?" Ira asked.

Sir Beaufort nodded absently. Ira bowed. A sweet, light scent teased her nostrils as she walked past her master. The letter he held was perfumed. Ira tried to place the flower, but its name eluded her.

The soft rasp of dragging footsteps had the thought of missives and romance slipping away completely. Ira glanced over her shoulder. Sir Beaufort remained as she had left him, head bent over the perfumed letter. The hallway was empty. Ira resumed her steps.

The rasping noise did not come again.