The man opening the door when I'm about to knock seems older than the mansion, with his grey hair perfectly combed above his bony face and pale, long-fingered hands. He cocks an eyebrow when startled by the opening door, the handbag strap slips unchecked from my shoulder, and I drop my bag, scattering its contents over the patio.

"Oh! I'm so sorry," I mutter, hurrying to gather lipstick, sanitary ware, hairbrush, and wallet, stuffing them back into my purse before he can even react to my clumsiness. I would run out of fingers if I had to count on my hands the number of times this has happened just in the last couple of weeks.

I'm oddly saved from feeling too embarrassed by the stoic expression on the old man's face. He is dressed in a rather formal black suit and white shirt, the collar starched quite stiff, standing away from his throat above a black bowtie. He suits the mansion and the antique entry table I can glimpse past him.

"Duke Alaric Slatherty?" I hurry to greet him, extending my right hand, desperate to start over and create a better first impression of myself, but the man merely steps back into the foyer, fully opening the section of the double door he still has a hold of and indicating for me to enter.

"I am Leopold, Miss. The Butler."

"Oh, I beg your pardon! Pleased to meet you, Mr Leopold."

"It's just Leopold, Miss."

I'm not used to butlers. Of course, I know of their existence, but I did not grow up surrounded by wealth and servants; I have no idea how I'm supposed to treat a butler. When I try to grab some of my bags, Leopold informs me quite formally that he will take care of them, his stark expression not wavering for even one second.

"Please, Miss, if you would be so kind as to wait in the parlour, I'll announce your arrival," he says in a dry, humourless voice, gesturing across the breadth of the foyer.

I follow the angle of his extended arm with my eyes and discover an open door, which presumably leads into the parlour. Many lamps light the foyer, yet it is dark and sombre, devoid of warmth despite the rich browns of the décor. My thin jacket remains inadequate even when Leopold closes the door behind us. The marble floor is polished to a shine, and in the centre, a wide staircase covered in beautiful dark red carpeting leads to a landing, where it branches off into two separate staircases leading to the floors above.

I'm impressed by how well-maintained the place is. I've visited many Old Money homes to appraise furniture and artwork, mainly because the inhabitants struggled financially and their estates were crumbling around them. They needed to sell whatever they could to survive. It always pained me to see chipped floors, peeling wallpaper, and leaking ceilings in places that must've been breathtaking in their prime.

That is not true of Slaughtaverty Manor. This place is definitely still taking my breath away. I follow the stiff man across the floor to the parlour, my anxiety slowly draining away as I marvel at the paintings adorning the walls, the Persian rugs scattered on the floor, and the intricately carved staircase. I hope the Slatherties aren't broke. It would be a tragedy if this place went to waste. Well, they have a butler, which is a sure sign that they're not on the brink of bankruptcy, eager to sell their possessions.

After ushering me into the parlour, Leopold offers me a tight bow - which I awkwardly answer with a slight curtsy - before leaving me alone. The room is as dark as the foyer despite a welcoming fire burning in the fireplace and electrical lamps burning on various surfaces. Shadows dance over every piece of furniture, shivering in anticipation, alert to my presence.

"Oh, my word," I huff nervously, crossing to the fireplace in search of some heat. I could do with some coffee right now. "I hate it when people act all formal and stiff as though they're better than others; it is positively disconcerting and unwelcoming."

"Yes, I rather hate it too," an amused voice speaks from somewhere behind me. "Leopold certainly has a very long stick up his butt."

Startled, I nearly loose the contents of my handbag for the second time in less than ten minutes. I hastily grab the slipping strap, spinning around to discover a man dressed in charcoal slacks and a grey button-up shirt draped casually over a comfortable-looking, brown leather armchair.

"I do beg your pardon, Sir; I did not see you there," I squeak, nearly tripping over my feet, and this time, it's not just because I tend to do that all the time. I find the vision seated near twin bookcases rather unsettling, with his gentle grey eyes and well-proportioned face framed by thick, wavy ash-brown hair. Looking almost ethereal in the soft light of the lamp near him, he is simply too beautiful to convince me that he is real and not just a figment of my imagination, created from sheer exhaustion and wound-up nerves.

Only the slightly mocking smile playing on his lips confirms that he is indeed real. It also helps when he rises from the chair in one fluid motion and, moving effortlessly and quietly like a big cat, crosses the floor to join me in front of the fireplace. Looking up into his unnervingly lovely face, I begin to tremble, struggling to suppress a giddy giggle from escaping from my lips. I've never been this close to someone this present.

"Duke Alaric S-Slatherty, n-nice to m-meet you, Your Grace. I'm..."

"Aubrey Dankworth," he finishes for me, probably as annoyed by my stuttering as I am, though he doesn't show it. He takes my offered hand, but he doesn't shake it; instead, he holds it in both his hands as if it were a tiny, fragile bird and gently strokes it in a rather intimate, caressing way, his skin cool against mine. To my horror, that threatening nervous giggle finally makes its escape. "Welcome to Slaughtaverty Manor."

"Th-thank you, uhm... uh..."

"Ransford Slatherty," he says, an eyebrow rising in amusement when my cheeks flare up, and I giggle some more. His closeness, his eyes, and his golden voice are all working together to destroy my equilibrium. "You can call me Ran."

"Ransford?"

I search my overwhelmed mind for all the information I've gathered on the Slatherty family, trying to place the name in the hierarchy I've read up on, but all my thoughts are falling over one another, leaving me blank. I'm about to ask him for more information when my eyes catch movement at the parlour door, where a tall, dark-haired man, bearing quite a resemblance to Ransford, has just entered, grinding to a halt, his eyes as cold and hard as the steel they seem to emulate.

The limpid irises are shining with an inner light, almost unnaturally luminous, causing my heart to pound out an erratic beat, igniting my flight or fight response. I'm not entirely sure whether the numbing sensations I'm feeling in my extremities are based on attraction or fear. I also don't know whether I want to run to him or away from him.

"You're a girl," he accuses in a low, husky voice as if he's speaking to himself, and he seems highly displeased by his own words.

"Woman might be more appropriate, Sir, since I'm 25 years old," I answer absently, experiencing a mixture of relief and disappointment when Ransford slips his cold hands from mine and retreats to his armchair, where he once again makes himself at home, watching me with narrowed eyes, amusement evident on his face.

"Forgive me," the newcomer says. "I meant to say that you're a female of the species and not a male."

"Thank you for confirming, Sir," I mutter, utterly confused by the exchange, while Ransford laughs softly, thoroughly enjoying the scene.

"Aubrey Dankworth?" The newcomer asks, narrowing his eyes.

"That's right."

A frown mars the beauty of his face as his eyes leave mine to glare accusingly at Ransford. The second he no longer looks at me, I nearly choke on the rush of air streaming into my burning lungs. I didn't even know that I'd been holding my breath, but I immediately stop breathing again when his gaze returns to me.

"Forgive me; I thought Aubrey was a man's name."

"Only when it's owned by a man, Sir," I assure him softly, not enjoying the discomfort creeping into the pit of my stomach. I can almost hear my hopes and dreams shattering around me. What on Earth is going on? The cold man is constantly shooting icy glances at Ransford, who doesn't seem affected by the menacing looks; in fact, he appears to relish them, arrogantly watching us with a smirk.

"I'm sorry, this is not going to work out, Ms Dankworth," the man, who I'm silently praying is not my employer, says, confirming my worst fears. "I was expecting someone else." The almost hoarse quality of his voice conjures disturbing images in my mind of a man screaming in agony for hours and days on end until his voice tore.

"If it is my qualifications you're worried about, Sir, I can assure you that I know my subject," I answer, upset to hear the distress in my voice. "I can differentiate between a Queen Anne Walnut and Oak Chest from 1730 and Antique Georgian Oak and Mahogany Mule Lancashire Chest Bank Drawers from 1790," I inform him, indicating first the one and then the other of these chests of drawers, arranged among the many antique furniture pieces in the room.

"I should hope so; they're very different from each other," the duke says, raising one eyebrow in the same haughty way the butler who'd let me in had done. "Look, Ms Dankworth, I'm sure you're very good at your job, and I'm terribly sorry for wasting your time, but I needed a man, and you are not one."

Why on Earth would he need a man to do an appraisal job? Will I be required to move heavy furniture around without assistance?

"You couldn't have told me that before you made me come all the way here?" I snap. Anger, blended with despair, is starting to stir in my gut.

"I would have if there'd been any indication you were a woman and not a man."

"You couldn't tell that from my photographs?" I exclaim, feeling rather insulted now. I sent him some of my best pictures. One was a full-length photograph of me wearing a long floral chiffon dress with short flaring sleeves, and the other was a formal headshot. The photographs screamed of femininity. I was rather surprised when the request came a couple of days before I received the contract and documents to sign, but I didn't dwell on it too much. In my experience, people from old money tend to be eccentric. None of this makes sense to me now.

"Photographs?" he asks, his frown deepening.

"Yes, I sent them at your request."

Those intimidating eyes once again move to look at Ransford, his lips twitching ever so slightly with an emotion I can't interpret.

"Forgive me; I did not see-."

"Yes," Ransford interrupts, gracefully waving one of his supple, well-manicured hands dismissively. "Please forgive my brother; Alaric is horribly sexist."

"I'm not se..." Alaric swallows the indignation that suddenly flares up on his face, his eyes again shooting daggers at his brother. I use the opportunity to catch my breath until he looks at me again. Why do my lungs close up each time he looks at me?

"Yes, I'm afraid I am," he says stiffly, nodding his head in acknowledgement, his jaw muscles jumping as he clenches his teeth. "I'm terribly sexist; it is something I've been afflicted with since birth. Please forgive me. I'll call Mr Doyle and ask him to return."

"You know Billy will be halfway back to town by now, Alaric. The guy might be tough as nails, but he is no fool," Ransford scoffs, levelling his eyes on his brother's face, and I'm startled to see that they have lost that gentle expression I saw in them earlier; they are now almost as cold as Alaric's. "There's a storm brewing, and it's growing dark. There's no way he's still close enough to call back, and he wouldn't return even if you begged him to."

Dismissing his tense brother, he moves his gaze to look at me, shivering in the fireplace's glow, the warmth returning to his eyes. "Besides, Aubrey must be exhausted," he points out gently. "Are you really going to turn her out in this weather? Surely you don't want something bad to happen to her? Where would she go? Three Barrels and One Ale House? It's the only inn in town... and it is quite terrible."

"That's because it's a pub, not an inn," Alaric says through gritted teeth, ignoring his brother's amused look; their eyes are sharing some secret knowledge between them.

Ransford is right; I am bone tired. My mind is filled with cobwebs weaving me to sleep, and I find it hard to focus on their faces and hear what they're saying. They might not be speaking English anymore but have reverted to the local dialect, which I find hard to follow. Rich people are so rude.

Taking a deep breath, I shake my head and straighten up, ready to fight for the future I can feel slipping like sand through my fingers.

"You might be a liar, Your Grace, but you are not sexist," I tell Alaric, ignoring that annoyingly arrogant eyebrow rising again at my accusation. "Every year, you send a group of high school graduates to study on the mainland, and you have extensive job training programmes for all the remaining children to participate in if they choose to do so. Your criteria to determine who gets sent to acquire higher education or join the training programmes is based solely on impartial, measurable things such as aptitude, the ability to work hard, and a desire to study. Irrelevant personal attributes, such as gender, race, and sexual orientation, play no role in the selection process. Everybody has an equal opportunity to qualify through hard work."

"Yes, well, I'm mainly sexist towards outsiders," Alaric mutters, brushing an impatient hand through his thick black hair, and Ransford is laughing out loud now, enjoying his brother's discomfort. The sound is pure and lively, out of place in the sombre surroundings and tense atmosphere.

"Fine," Alaric huffs, once again glaring at his brother before looking at me, his face tight and devoid of emotion. "I'm not sexist, but you must understand, Ms Dankworth, that sometimes circumstances are not suitable for everybody. Conditions here in our home are definitely not favourable for young, beautiful women such as yourself... I couldn't guarantee your safety."

"I can assure you, your grace, that I am not beautiful," I inform him, feeling rather dazed by his words. If I weren't so sleepy, I would've been delighted by the compliment, but I'm once again struggling not to yawn, my eyelids drooping heavily over my chocolate-brown eyes. "My looks are, at best, regarded as passible, and I can assure you that I can adapt to almost any circumstance."

I have proven that beyond any doubt on more occasions than I care to remember.

Alaric narrows his eyes, studying my face with unnerving interest, and I have no idea what he is looking for. I find the intensity of his gaze unsettling.

"My brother is a terrible womaniser, Ms Dankworth," he finally says in that dark, husky voice, the sound sending delightful shivers throughout my body and awakening every nerve-ending. "As I said, I cannot guarantee your safety, and I do not wish to open myself up to possible sexual harassment lawsuits."

I slowly blink my eyes, uncertain what to make of what Alaric just told me. I dare to peek at Ransford, still lounging in his chair, grinning as if his brother didn't just insult him.

"I'm afraid that is true, Aubrey," he chuckles, but his eyes have once again lost their warmth.

"I am not sure I understand what is going on here," I protest in a shaky voice, anger and disillusionment fighting for the upper hand. "But I must tell you that when I was assured that I would be living here on the island for an undetermined number of years, I sold everything I owned and came here. All my possessions are in the bags and boxes I brought with me. I have nowhere to return to. If you throw me out, you'll leave me destitute; are you willing to do that?"

Closing my eyes, I will my heart to stop galloping like a terrified bolting pony in my chest, and when I open them again, I'm startled to find both Alaric and Ransford watching me closely with narrowed eyes. "Working here, appraising and cataloguing the antiques in this mansion, is a dream for any appraiser, Sir, perhaps even more so for me. Please do not take that away from me."

Neither says anything, their disconcerting eyes lingering on my face in a way that once again makes it impossible for me to breathe properly. At this rate, I'm going to collapse due to a lack of oxygen.

"I assure you, Your Grace, that I am not here for romantic dalliances and am more than capable of taking care of myself," I implore him with a voice so dry with stress that I fear that I might start choking any second. "Please don't send me away."

"I am not a duke," Alaric says after a never-ending silence, during which the slow ticking of the Thomas Tompion Clock on the mantlepiece started getting on my nerves. "I am simply Alaric Slatherty; we dispensed with titles centuries ago. There's never been any room for it here on Peace Haven. We do not fall under any country's rules. I am just Alaric Slatherty; Mister Slatherty will do just fine."

I nod my head, realising that feeling flustered is starting to be my default setting now. The written communications between me and Alaric had always been rather formal. I was surprised when he suddenly signed the email requesting photographs, simply as Alaric, when all the others were signed with his full name. I'm starting to suspect that he did not send that email. I glance at Ransford, a frown drawing my brows together. Is he playing a cruel joke on his brother at my expense? He seems a bit haughty and entitled, but he doesn't look like a cruel man.

"Oh, I beg your pardon, Sir," I say, addressing Alaric. "Mister Slatherty, all the research material I used referred to you as the Duke of Ulaidh..."

"Only when he visits the UK," Ransford smirks. "Then he becomes very English."

"You've been stalking me?" Alaric asks, ignoring his brother's attempt to tease him. His eyes are drilling into mine, and I'm suddenly afraid of sustaining an actual brain injury from the intensity of his gaze.

"No! I wanted to know as much about this manor as possible. I was laying the groundwork for the project and-."

"I'm sorry to have wasted your time, Ms Dankworth," Alaric cuts me off, and I'm surprised to see that he genuinely seems to be sorry and is not just saying it. Is he really showing me away because Ransford is a womaniser, and he believes it impossible for any woman not to fall for the man and cause him legal trouble, or is there some other reason he wanted to employ a man specifically?

"Let's not be hasty, Alaric," Ransford interjects reasonably. "I'm sure Aubrey is tired. Let's sleep on it and talk in the morning when there's not a storm trying to blow the house down and wipe out all these bloody antiques."

"I am rather tired," I whisper through teeth I clenched when Ransford cussed the beloved antiques. Weariness has seeped into my limbs after the long journey, of which the last hour has been positively nerve-racking, and I'm battling to stay awake. At this rate, I'm going to fall asleep on my feet. I'm vaguely aware of Alaric and Ransford having another wordless exchange, causing me unease, but the sleepiness tugging at my brain dulls my ability to care.

"You're not a man." Like warm honey trickling over my skin, the voice jolts me wide awake again, and swivelling my head, I see another man hesitating in the open parlour door, staring at me in undisguised horror.

"Yes, yes, very astute of you," Alaric assures him, and despite my disappointment, dread, and exhaustion, I hear myself chuckle. Never in my life have I had so many reassurances that I'm indeed a woman. I'm starting to find the ridiculous situation I'm trapped in hilarious, and I know it's because I've used up all my mental resources for the day. I need to sleep. I haven't slept well for several days; too excited, too busy, and too restless to do so.

"Ms Dankworth," Alaric says. "This is our... brother, Liam Slatherty. He'll see you to your room."

"Sure," Liam says, stepping further into the parlour. Catching the light of the flickering fire, beautiful auburn highlights spark to life in his dark brown hair. I move towards him with heavy legs, looking up into eyes the colour of a stormy ocean caught in sunlight. They're not quite blue, but not green either; they're simply lovely. He smiles and takes my hand to shake it, the warmth of his palm spreading pleasantly up my cold arm at his touch. "Pleased to meet you, Aubrey."

"Pleased to meet you too, Mr Slatherty."

"Just Liam, please."

He flashes an angry look at his brothers, causing me to wonder if he is feeling put out by being ordered to escort me to my room as if he were a servant, but then he smiles warmly at me and touches my shoulder to steer me from the parlour, through the foyer, and up the staircase.

Winding through one corridor after another, I realise I'll never find my way back to the foyer and out of the mansion. I'm simply too sleepy to focus on where Liam is taking me, and when he finally opens a door, ushering me into a room filled with beautiful furniture, I enter willingly, wanting nothing more than to crawl into the enormous canopied bed, taking up a large part of the space. Its carved pillars and silky canopy invite me into its embrace.

"Bathroom is through here," Liam says, opening one of the many built-in closet doors. Never before have I been in a room with so many different styles from so many different periods, all blending together in a pleasant harmony. Tomorrow, I would love to take an in-depth look at the beautiful décor items in this room. I hope I get to stay long enough to do so.

Interrupting the rapt survey of my surroundings, I gaze at Liam, surprised to see him watching me with the same narrow-eyed expression his brothers had on their faces earlier. What about me do they find so interesting that they have to study me as though I were a bug under a microscope?

"Well, I hope you'll be very comfortable," Liam smiles, returning to the door. "Just shout if you need anything."

"Where will I find you?" I ask absently, stifling another yawn that I'm sure could cripple me if I let it out. I have never in my entire life been this sleepy.

"Oh... uhm... really, just shout. Sound moves quite well in this mansion. One of us will definitely hear you and come to assist," he smiles again, but the smile doesn't reach his beautiful eyes; they remain sombre and melancholic. "Do you need anything before I go?"

Looking around the room, I locate my suitcases and boxes, brought here by Leopold.

"No, thank you," I smile, and after bidding me a good night, Liam starts to close the door, then stops, giving me a piercing look.

"It might be best to lock your door when you're ready to go to sleep," and with that cryptic suggestion, he leaves me alone. I stare at the closed door, wondering if locking it and calling for assistance go hand-in-hand. The same creeping unease I experienced earlier while standing in the mist on the patio is once again trying to settle in the pit of my stomach, but I'm simply too tired to entertain it.

Instead, I rummage through my suitcases until I find my fluffy, teddy bear-covered pyjamas and enter the bathroom to prepare for bed. I'm pleasantly surprised that all the fixtures are pretty modern, even if they visually fit in with the cabinets and tiles from past eras. A bath or a shower would be lovely right now, but sleep is relentlessly tugging at my brain, and the howling wind and flashes of lightning I see through the windows help me decide not to have either but simply wash up instead.

Finally ready to crawl into the giant bed, I leave the bathroom, surprised to find that someone placed a meal on a table set up cosily next to one of the windows while I was in the bathroom. It would be a lovely place to eat when the sun is shining and the window isn't rattling under heavy rain and fierce wind.

I sit at the table and remove the cover from the plate neatly laid between cutlery, with a filled wine glass slightly to the top right of the plate. Chicken breasts smothered in a creamy cheese and mushroom sauce, mixed vegetables, crispy potato wedges, and some salad call out to me, the aroma making me light-headed. Five minutes ago, I didn't care about food; I was dying to sleep, but smelling the enticing fragrances brought me back to life, my stomach growling with joy. Picking up the utensils, I dig in, enjoying the flavourful food and drinking the wine.

When I provided my dietary information on request, I never expected they would supply the wine I love or cook some of my favourite dishes. After the cold welcome, the food is soothing me, loosening the knot in my stomach, and strengthening my resolve.

Tomorrow, I'll convince Alaric to let me stay. We have a contract, and he might be rich enough to buy his way out of it, but I would rather he didn't. I've now seen some of the priceless pieces the Slatherties own, and I want to see more. This job was a dream come true; I won't give up on it!

The food and wine lifted my spirits, enveloping me in an embrace of warm well-being. There is a small plate with a piece of lemon cheesecake and a thick dollop of cream for dessert, and I cannot remember the last time I enjoyed a meal this much. I barely ate the last few days while scurrying around, getting everything sorted for my departure.

After brushing my teeth, I finally make my way to the bed, sliding under the soft bedding and stretching luxuriously on the firm mattress and soft pillows before pulling the duvet over my weary body. I'm still trying to think of what I should say to Alaric tomorrow when the oblivion of sleep overtakes me, cutting off my thoughts.

Somewhere, a baby is sobbing weakly, and I try to open my eyes to see where the disturbing sound is coming from, but my eyelids are too heavy, refusing to open. Sleep drags me back into its gentle embrace. The baby's cries growing fainter and fainter, call me to wakefulness again and again until I'm finally able to open my eyes to slits, my vision blurry and dark.

At first, I'm not sure where I am. It's not the bed in my cold apartment back in Cambridge; that bed had springs poking me. Memories of my trip across the ocean and in a car fighting through thickening mist rush my mind, and then I remember where I am, lying in the beautifully carved bed in Slaughtaverty Manor.

I can see movement in the room as if I'm looking at it from under a thick layer of water. Didn't I lock the door? My eyes keep sliding shut, sleep dragging me under, but somewhere at the back of my mind, the instinctive part obsessed with survival tells me that I must fight to stay awake, but I'm not sure why.

The vague shape of a person fills my vision when I drag my eyes open again. Have I been drugged? Sleep seldom has such a complete hold on me. My brain is not functioning well, and my head and limbs are too heavy to move. It's as though my brain is waking up, but my body is not following suit. The shape morphs itself into a woman when my eyes find some focus. She has something bundled in knitted cloth in her arms, her thin fingers wet and red, leaving streaks on the fabric.

Is that blood?

Fear, stirring like a worm in my mind, forces me closer to being fully alert, but my body is still not waking up, and my eyes struggle to focus without my glasses. I can feel the weight of someone sitting down on the edge of the bed, and through the filter of my lashes, I can see the profile of a pale girl with long, tangled blond hair. She is sobbing softly, the sound like sand sifting through a tin sieve.

"I just wanted to hold him," she says in a voice that is all air and no air. I don't know, and I'm also not sure whether I'm hearing it with my ears or my mind; it seems to be filling every part of me, swirling in my head. "But I am so hungry."

My breath bursts from my parted lips in terrified huffs when the girl turns to face me, holding a baby clutched to her breast. I cannot tell if the baby is dead or alive, but he is so still now, his pale little face half hidden in the folds of the blood-smeared blanket. I hope beyond despair that he is just sleeping. This cannot be real! I must be dreaming! I always have wild and vivid dreams the first night in a strange bed, especially after going through a gruelling day like the one I just had.

I scream on the inside, unable to move, when the mattress flexes as the girl shifts her weight to lean over me, her face less than an inch away from mine. I can smell the coppery tang of blood on her lips, and her eyes are black, lifeless pits. There is no sparkle in them, and it is impossible to tell where the pupils end and the irises begin. If they'd ever had any colour, it is gone now.

"So pure," she whispers, her breath tickling over the petrified flesh of my neck as she sniffs me, making soft purring sounds like a cat. I try to find my voice to scream, but only soft whimpers make it from my tight throat. The girl's tongue is surprisingly cold when she runs the tip over the skin covering my pulsing veins.

My breath quickens, tears streaming from my eyes as I try harder to force a sound—any sound—through my gritted teeth, unable to escape the cold lips leaving a trail of blood along the length of my neck.

~~~