A soft knock at my door pulled me from sleep, the sound hesitant but firm. I blinked at the pale morning light spilling through the curtains before glancing at the clock on the nightstand. 9:00 a.m. Later than usual.

"Felicity?" Blake's voice came from the other side of the door, calm and low.

I sat up quickly, the blanket slipping from my shoulders. "Just a moment," I called, brushing my hair back with my fingers.

I opened the door, and there he was, standing in the dim hallway. His gaze flicked to me, lingering for a moment longer than usual. I suddenly became acutely aware of my nightgown, the thin straps doing little to protect me from his scrutiny. His eyes shifted quickly, and he cleared his throat.

"I told Sophie not to wake you," he said, his tone a little more brisk now. "But I thought you might want to get up. Breakfast is ready."

I nodded, swallowing against the strange flutter his presence always seemed to bring. "Thank you," I murmured, glancing down at the floor.

"I'll meet you downstairs," he added, his voice softening slightly. "Take your time."

"Alright," I said, watching as he turned and walked toward the stairs, his shoulders stiff, as though bracing against something unspoken.

The door clicked shut behind me, and I let out a slow breath, pressing a hand to my chest to steady myself. His lingering gaze had been fleeting, but it had left my skin warm. I shook my head, trying to refocus, and stepped into the en-suite to shower.

Once I was dressed, I studied my reflection in the mirror. The red cardigan I'd chosen added a touch of warmth to my cream trousers and crisp white blouse, making me feel more put-together. I smoothed my hair into place, though it stubbornly refused to stay neat, and finally made my way downstairs.

The unease from earlier began to creep back as I stepped into the corridor. A draught caught the edge of my cardigan, and I noticed a door slightly ajar at the end of the hallway. Narrow and unassuming, it led to somewhere I hadn't noticed before.

I stopped in my tracks, staring at the shadowed space beyond it. "What's that door?" I asked as Blake appeared at the bottom of the stairs, waiting for me.

His gaze followed mine, his brow furrowing briefly before smoothing again. "The attic," he said shortly.

"Why's it open?" I asked, the uneasy feeling spreading through me again.

He shrugged, his expression unreadable. "Probably the staff cleaning."

"Cleaning this early?"

"It's nothing to worry about," he replied, his tone calm but clipped. "Come on. You'll feel better after breakfast."

I glanced back at the door once more before reluctantly moving to join him. The unease lingered, clinging to the edges of my thoughts like a shadow I couldn't shake.

Breakfast was quiet, Blake distant and brooding. He barely looked at me as we ate, his responses short whenever I tried to start a conversation. The warmth I'd glimpsed in him last night seemed buried beneath layers of tension, though whether it was from the events of the night or something else, I couldn't tell.

By the time we finished, the uneasy silence between us felt almost suffocating. As I followed him toward the door, I couldn't help but glance back, half expecting to see the attic door ajar again.

Back in the quaint cottage, the silence was broken only by the gentle crackle of the fire. Blake and I sat across from each other at the wooden table, surrounded by the scattered journals. We had returned to our task of scouring through the entries, hoping to uncover any remaining clues about Cecilia's disappearance. But after hours of searching, we found ourselves at a dead end.

"I can't believe there's nothing more about Cecilia," I sighed, running a hand through my hair in frustration.

Blake leaned back in his chair, his gaze fixed on one of the journals, though his thoughts seemed elsewhere. "It's like she vanished without a trace, leaving us with more questions than answers," he said, his voice laced with disappointment.

I nodded in agreement, the weight of failure settling over me. "We've not got many left to read."

Blake's brow furrowed in thought, his fingers tapping absently against the table. For a moment, he seemed lost in whatever turmoil had darkened his mood since breakfast. I studied him quietly, trying to understand the shift. His earlier dismissal of the attic door still lingered in my mind. Why had he brushed it off so quickly? Did he genuinely believe it was nothing, or was he trying to avoid something?

I opened my mouth to ask, but the words caught in my throat. What would I even say? Why are you acting like this? What aren't you telling me? The questions felt too forward, too risky. Maybe it was better to leave it alone.

Blake broke the silence before I could decide. "Perhaps we need a break from this," he said, a faint spark of mischief lighting his eyes.

I raised an eyebrow, surprised by the suggestion. "What did you have in mind?"

A hint of a smile tugged at the corners of his lips. "We could always play a game or explore the village. Anything to take our minds off Cecilia and these journals."

The idea of exploring the village piqued my interest, a welcome distraction from the dead ends in front of us. "That sounds like a great idea," I said, the prospect of fresh air lifting my spirits.

"Hopefully we won't run into Lydia again," he muttered, rolling his eyes.

"Maybe we shouldn't go into the village, then," I suggested, half-laughing.

"Probably best not to. You're right," he said, glancing around the cottage. After a moment, he stood and stretched.

"What about a game of cards?" I offered. "Do you have cards?"

He paused, considering. "Hmm... possibly." Blake walked to a kitchen drawer, rifling through its contents before pulling out a box of cards. "What a fluke," he laughed, holding them up as he returned to the table.

"What do you want to play?" he asked, sitting down again.

I picked up the deck, shuffling expertly. "Do you know how to play poker?" I asked, flashing him a mischievous grin.

Blake chuckled, leaning back in his chair. "I do. Haven't played in a while. More importantly, how do you know how to play?"

"My uncle," I said sweetly. "Are you ready to lose?"

The playful back-and-forth eased the tension, and for a little while, the mood lifted. I ended up winning the first two games, much to Blake's mock annoyance, but he managed to win the third.

"Well played," I conceded with a grin, gathering the cards.

Blake grinned back, his eyes bright with satisfaction. "You put up a good fight. I'm impressed."

I shrugged, feigning nonchalance. "I thought it was time I let you win one."

His laughter filled the room, warm and genuine, and for a brief moment, it felt like everything between us had eased. But as we prepared to leave for the main house, his brooding expression returned, and I couldn't ignore the knot of unease it left in me.

By the time we made it back for dinner, the silence between us was deafening. Blake seemed lost in thought, his usual sharpness dulled by something I couldn't name. I debated asking him about it—about his mood, about the attic door, about all the things he wasn't saying—but the fear of his dismissal stopped me.

As we settled into the dining room, Kingsly's voice broke the fragile calm. "Blake, there was a phone call for you earlier. It was Charlotte."

The room felt colder in an instant. I didn't dare look at Blake, but I could feel the tension radiating from him. He stiffened slightly, his knife pausing mid-cut.

"Did she say what she wanted?" Blake asked, his tone carefully neutral.

Kingsly shrugged, oblivious to the strain in the air. "Just that she'd call back later."

Blake's jaw tightened, and for a moment, the room was filled with a palpable sense of unease. I glanced at Blake, sensing the weight of his emotions, and offered him a reassuring smile.

"Sorry, one moment," Blake said, rising abruptly from the table.

I watched him leave, his jaw tight and his expression unreadable as he disappeared into the hall. The tension in the air thickened, casting a shadow over the otherwise peaceful dinner.

Kingsly left shortly after, muttering something about needing to fetch something from his study. I was left alone at the table, the soft clink of cutlery against china the only sound in the room.

Blake returned no more than ten minutes later, his jaw set and his steps measured. He sat back down without a word and resumed eating, his movements precise but mechanical, as if he were going through the motions.

"Everything okay?" I asked after a few moments, unable to keep the concern from my voice.

Blake looked up briefly, his expression guarded. "Yeah, everything's fine," he replied tersely, his eyes fixed on a spot on the table rather than meeting mine.

I nodded, though the tightness in his voice said otherwise. I wanted to ask more, to press, but something in his demeanour held me back.

Dinner passed in relative silence, the tension hanging in the air like an unspoken question. I tried to focus on my plate, but my mind kept drifting back to the phone call. What had Charlotte said to make him like this? Had it been about their engagement—or something else entirely?

Blake barely glanced at me for the rest of the meal, and I couldn't shake the feeling that whatever had transpired had drawn another wall between us.