Eleanor did not return to Blackthorn Hall the next day, nor the day after that. She spent forty-eight hours in her apartment, the curtains drawn, the phone unplugged, the photograph face-down on the kitchen table like a thing that might bite. She slept in fragments, jerking awake from dreams in which she stood before the black mirror and watched her reflection smile at her with someone else's mouth.
On the third day, she received a summons.
It was delivered by hand, not by mail—a thick cream envelope slipped under her door while she was in the shower. She found it when she stepped out, dripping onto the threadbare bathmat, and she knew before she opened it that it came from Lucian. The paper was the same heavy stock as Imogen's letter. The handwriting was the same sloping script.
But the message was different.
Miss Voss,
You are cordially requested to appear at the chambers of Judge Marguerite Ashford, New Albion Probate Court, on Friday next at ten o'clock in the morning. The purpose of this appearance is to review a motion filed by Lucian Ashford, Margot Ashford, and Dorian Ashford, seeking your removal as counsel for Imogen Ashford on grounds of professional misconduct, trespass, and exploitation of a vulnerable client. Your attendance is not optional.
This document constitutes formal service.
Alistair Crewe, Estate Steward
Eleanor read the letter three times. Judge Marguerite Ashford. She had not known there was a judge in the family. But of course there was. The Ashfords had spent six generations weaving themselves into the fabric of New Albion's institutions. They would have judges. They would have prosecutors. They would have doctors and bankers and newspaper editors, all of them loyal to the family, all of them willing to protect the Work.
She dressed in her best suit, a charcoal gray jacket and skirt that she had bought for her law school graduation and worn perhaps four times since. She pulled her hair back in a severe knot, the way Imogen had worn hers. She looked at herself in the bathroom mirror—an ordinary mirror, silver-backed glass in a plastic frame—and for a moment she imagined she saw something flicker in its depths. A child's hand. A bird's sewn-shut beak.
She blinked, and it was gone.
The New Albion Probate Court occupied a neoclassical building in the city center, its marble columns streaked with the grime of a century of coal smoke. Eleanor arrived at nine-thirty and found the courtroom already half-filled. Lucian sat at the petitioner's table with his siblings, Margot and Dorian, flanking him like sentinels. Margot wore a black dress and a string of pearls that gleamed like small, polished bones. Dorian, the youngest, sat hunched in his chair, his eyes fixed on the floor, his fingers drumming a nervous rhythm on the table's edge.
Imogen was not present. Eleanor had expected this, but the empty chair beside her felt like an accusation.
Behind the bench, a door opened, and the bailiff called the court to order. Judge Marguerite Ashford entered.
She was perhaps seventy, with silver hair swept up in an elaborate coiffure and a face that had been beautiful once and was now merely imperious. She wore black robes that seemed to absorb the light, and she moved with the slow, deliberate grace of someone who had never been rushed in her life. Her eyes, pale and cool, swept the courtroom and settled on Eleanor with an expression that was not quite contempt and not quite curiosity.
"Miss Voss," she said, taking her seat. "I have read the motion filed by my nephew. I find its contents disturbing. You are accused of breaking into the Ashford estate in the middle of the night, of violating the privacy of a family in mourning, and of exploiting a vulnerable woman for financial gain. How do you respond?"
Eleanor rose to her feet. Her heart was pounding, but her voice was steady. "Your Honor, the accusations are false. I was given a key to the estate by Imogen Ashford's former brother-in-law, Hugo Thorne, who believed I would need access to the family archives to prepare my client's case. The archives contain evidence relevant to the validity of the contested codicil. I entered the house to obtain that evidence, not to trespass."
Judge Ashford's expression did not change. "You were seen by my nephew. You were seen by the steward. You fled the premises when confronted."
"I left because your nephew was holding a revolver, Your Honor. I feared for my life."
A murmur rippled through the courtroom. Lucian's jaw tightened, but he did not speak.
"A revolver," the judge repeated. "Lucian, is this true?"
Lucian rose smoothly. "I keep a firearm for protection, Aunt Marguerite. The estate is isolated, and there have been intruders before. I did not point it at Miss Voss. I merely asked her to leave, and she did. If she felt threatened, that is her own interpretation."
"I see." Judge Ashford turned back to Eleanor. "You claim you were searching for evidence. What evidence did you find?"
Eleanor hesitated. She had brought the photograph and the iron key and her notes from the journals, but she had not brought the journals themselves. They were still in the room behind the tapestry, and Lucian had almost certainly removed them by now. She had no proof of anything she had read. Only her word against the word of one of the most powerful families in New Albion.
"I found journals," she said. "Journals kept by the Ashford patriarchs, going back to the nineteenth century. They contain confessions of crimes. Murder, false imprisonment, medical torture. Aldric Ashford admitted to killing his own son. Peregrine Ashford admitted to having his wife lobotomized. The family has been covering up these crimes for generations."
The murmur in the courtroom grew louder. Judge Ashford's gavel cracked down, sharp as a gunshot.
"Silence. Miss Voss, those are extraordinary accusations. Do you have these journals in your possession?"
"No, Your Honor. They are still in the house."
"Then you have no evidence to support your claims."
"I have my testimony. I have the key that opened the room where the journals were kept. And I have a photograph that was delivered to me anonymously, showing the original Ashford nursery—a room that, according to the family's own steward, does not exist."
Judge Ashford leaned back in her chair. Her pale eyes were unreadable. "A photograph. A key. Testimony about journals that you cannot produce. Miss Voss, you must understand how this appears. You are a struggling attorney with a failing practice. You were retained by a wealthy heiress on the recommendation of a retired lawyer who is connected to the family by marriage. You then broke into the family's home, and when caught, you made wild accusations of murder and conspiracy. Do you see the pattern?"
"I see that your nephew is trying to discredit me because I am close to proving that the codicil is a forgery and that Imogen Ashford is the rightful heir to the estate."
"Or," said Judge Ashford quietly, "my nephew is trying to protect his sister from an attorney who has exploited her fragile mental state for personal gain. Miss Voss, I am going to grant the motion. You are hereby removed as counsel for Imogen Ashford, effective immediately. I am also referring this matter to the New Albion Bar Association for review of your conduct. You may face suspension or disbarment."
Eleanor stood frozen. She had expected this, but the reality of it still hit her like a physical blow. Her career, such as it was, was over. Her reputation, such as it was, was destroyed. And Imogen would be left alone, surrounded by the family that had been trying to silence her since she was born.
"There is one more thing," Judge Ashford said. "Given the accusations you have made, and given Imogen's documented history of mental instability, I am ordering a psychiatric evaluation of Miss Ashford to determine whether she is competent to manage her own affairs. The evaluation will be conducted by Dr. Silas Thorne of the Vesslar Institute."
The name hit Eleanor like a punch to the stomach. Silas Thorne. The Vesslar Institute. The same institution that had lobotomized Cordelia Ashford in 1912. The same institution that had held Imogen's mother for ten years until she died. And Thorne—the name was the same as Hugo's. Hugo Thorne, who had recommended Eleanor for this case. Hugo Thorne, who had given her the key.
"Your Honor," Eleanor said, "the Vesslar Institute has a long history with this family. It is not a neutral party. Dr. Thorne cannot be trusted to provide an objective evaluation."
"Dr. Thorne is a respected psychiatrist and the director of one of the finest mental health facilities in the state. His credentials are impeccable. Your objection is noted and overruled. This court is adjourned."
The gavel cracked down again. Judge Ashford rose and swept out of the courtroom, her black robes billowing behind her. The bailiff called for order, but the courtroom was already dissolving into chaos, reporters and spectators and family members all talking at once.
Eleanor gathered her papers with trembling hands. Lucian approached her, his siblings hanging back behind him.
"Well, Miss Voss," he said, his voice low and pleasant. "I did warn you. I told you to leave this alone. But you wouldn't listen."
"Where is Imogen? What have you done with her?"
"Imogen is at Blackthorn Hall, resting comfortably. Dr. Thorne will see her tomorrow. And after his evaluation, I suspect she will be transferred to the Vesslar Institute for long-term care. It's for her own good, you understand. She's been unwell for a very long time."
"You're going to lobotomize her. Like your grandfather lobotomized your grandmother. Like your family has been doing to women for a hundred years."
Lucian's smile did not waver. "Such melodrama. No one is going to lobotomize anyone. The transorbital procedure is no longer practiced. Dr. Thorne uses modern methods. Pharmaceutical methods. Imogen will be given medication to help her sleep, to calm her delusions, to make her comfortable. If she cooperates, she may even be allowed visitors someday."
"And if she doesn't cooperate?"
"Then she will be kept comfortable for a very long time. The Vesslar Institute has excellent security. No one leaves without permission. No one."
He turned and walked away, his siblings following. Dorian, the youngest, glanced back at Eleanor once, and she saw something in his face that she had not seen before. Not triumph. Not contempt. Something that looked very much like shame.
Eleanor left the courthouse and walked blindly through the streets of Brimston. The sun was high now, the fog burned away, but she felt cold, colder than she had felt in the dark corridors of Blackthorn Hall. She had failed. She had failed Imogen, failed herself, failed every woman the Ashfords had ever destroyed.
She found herself outside Hugo Thorne's bungalow. She did not remember deciding to go there, but her feet had carried her anyway. She knocked, and after a long moment, Hugo opened the door.
He looked worse than before. His face was gray, his eyes sunken, his hands trembling. He was still wearing his cardigan, but it hung loosely on his frame, as if he had lost weight in the three days since she had last seen him.
"Eleanor," he said. "I heard. The courthouse gossip travels fast. I'm sorry."
"Let me in, Hugo. We need to talk."
He stepped aside, and she entered the bungalow. The interior was dim and cluttered, filled with books and papers and the faint, stale smell of a house that was not often cleaned. Hugo led her to the living room and sank into an armchair. Eleanor remained standing.
"Silas Thorne," she said. "What is your connection to him?"
Hugo closed his eyes. "I was wondering when you would ask."
"Tell me."
"He is my brother. My younger brother. We were both raised in the shadow of the Ashford family. Our father was the family physician for forty years. Our mother was a nurse at the Vesslar Institute. But Silas and I took different paths. I went into law. He went into psychiatry. When Elara died, Silas offered to help. He said he could treat the trauma, help our daughter recover from losing her mother. But I refused. I knew what the Vesslar Institute had done to the Ashford women. I knew what kind of treatments they practiced there."
"But you recommended me for this case. You gave me the key. You told me to find the truth."
"I thought—I hoped—that you could stop them. That you could expose the family before Silas got involved. But I was wrong. I underestimated them. I always underestimate them."
Eleanor stared at him. "Your brother is going to evaluate Imogen tomorrow. He's going to declare her incompetent. And then she'll disappear into the Vesslar Institute, just like her mother, just like her grandmother, just like every woman who ever threatened this family."
"I know." Hugo's voice was barely a whisper. "I know."
"We have to stop them. We have to get Imogen out of that house before Dr. Thorne arrives."
Hugo opened his eyes. There was something in them now, something that might have been hope or might have been despair. "There is a way. But it is dangerous. And once you start down that path, there is no turning back."
"What way?"
"The tunnels. Beneath Blackthorn Hall, there is a network of tunnels. They were built during Prohibition, when the family was running illegal alcohol. The tunnels connect the house to the old icehouse at the edge of the estate. If you can get into the tunnels, you can get into the house without anyone seeing you. And if you can get into the house, you can find Imogen and bring her out."
"How do you know about the tunnels?"
Hugo was silent for a long moment. Then he said, "Because I used them once. Twenty-five years ago, when I was trying to help Elara escape. We made it as far as the icehouse before they caught us. Alistair Crewe was waiting for us there, with Lucian and two of the groundskeepers. They took Elara back to the house. They told me that if I ever set foot on the estate again, they would have me committed to the Vesslar Institute alongside her. And I believed them. So I left. I left her there, and three months later, she walked into the river."
"Hugo—"
"I have lived with that cowardice for a quarter of a century, Eleanor. I will not ask you to do what I could not. But if you are determined to try, I will tell you everything I know about the tunnels. And I will give you one more thing."
He rose from the armchair and shuffled to a bookshelf in the corner of the room. He pulled out a leather-bound volume and handed it to Eleanor. It was heavy, its pages yellowed with age, its cover cracked and worn.
"What is this?"
"It is Seraphine's journal. The one she hid beneath the floorboards of the east library. Elara found it when she was a girl, and she gave it to me for safekeeping before she died. I have never read it. I was too afraid. But I think it is time for someone to know what is inside."
Eleanor took the journal. The leather was cold beneath her fingers, and it seemed to pulse faintly, like a heartbeat. She opened it to the first page and read the opening lines, written in a small, precise hand:
My name is Seraphine Vesslar Ashford. I am the wife of Aldric Ashford and the mother of Peregrine Ashford and the grandmother of all the Ashfords who will come after. I am writing this account so that someone, someday, will know the truth of what we have done. The Work is not a blessing. It is a curse. The Mirror is not a window. It is a door. And the Nursery is not a room. It is a hunger that will never be sated.
Eleanor closed the journal. Her hands were shaking. "I need to read this. All of it. Before I go back to the house."
"There is no time," Hugo said. "Dr. Thorne arrives tomorrow morning. If you want to save Imogen, you must go tonight."
Eleanor looked at the journal in her hands. She thought of the photograph, of the figure in the black dress, of her own face reflected in the dark glass of the mirror. She thought of Imogen, alone in that vast, lightless house, waiting for a doctor who would not heal her but would simply erase her.
"I'll go," she said. "Tell me about the tunnels."
Hugo drew a map on the back of an old envelope. The entrance to the tunnels was in the icehouse, a squat stone building at the edge of the estate's northern boundary. The icehouse had been abandoned for decades, its roof collapsed, its door rusted shut. But beneath the rubble, Hugo said, there was a trapdoor that led down into the earth. The tunnel ran for perhaps three hundred yards, sloping upward until it reached the basement of Blackthorn Hall. From the basement, Eleanor could take the servants' staircase to the second floor, where Imogen's sitting room was located.
"There is one thing you should know," Hugo said, as she prepared to leave. "The tunnels were not just used for smuggling alcohol. During the years when the Vesslar Institute was at its busiest, the Ashfords used the tunnels to transport patients in and out of the house without being seen. Women who had been committed by their husbands. Women who had asked too many questions. Women who had seen things they were not supposed to see."
"Women like Elara."
"Women like Elara. Women like you, Eleanor, if you are not careful. The Ashfords have been doing this for a very long time. They are patient. They are thorough. And they do not leave witnesses."
Eleanor tucked Seraphine's journal into her coat pocket. It sat there, heavy and cold, next to the iron key. She had not returned the key to Hugo, and he had not asked for it.
"I'll bring Imogen out," she said. "I promise."
She left the bungalow and walked through the gathering dusk to her car. The sun was setting, painting the sky in shades of orange and red that looked, she thought, like a wound that would not heal.
She drove north, toward Blackthorn Hall, toward the tunnels, toward whatever waited for her in the darkness beneath the house. She did not know if she would succeed. She did not know if she would survive. But she knew that she could not stop now. She had come too far. She had seen too much. She had crossed the threshold, and there was no going back.
The journal in her pocket pulsed against her hip, a slow, steady rhythm, like a heart beating in the dark.
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