Gravel crunched under the taxi’s tires, a sound swallowed by the oppressive silence of Blackwood Manor. Anya pressed her forehead against the cool glass, the sprawling gothic edifice a monstrous silhouette against the bruised afternoon sky. Every turret, every darkened window, felt like an eye watching her return.
Twenty years had passed since her last visit, yet the air smelled the same: dust, old wood, and the faint, metallic scent of something long forgotten.
Pulled her ancient duffel bag from the trunk, the driver’s wary glance following her gaze to the imposing front doors. Paid him, a quiet transaction that felt more like a dismissal than a farewell.
Stepped onto the flagstone path, the weight of the summons pressing down. Had expected a grand entrance, a liveried butler. Instead, the heavy oak doors stood ajar, revealing only deeper shadows within.
Moved inside, her footsteps echoing unnervingly on marble that reflected no light. A vast foyer, once vibrant, now seemed to hold its breath. Cobwebs clung like grey lace to the chandeliers, their crystal facets dull with neglect.
Silence swallowed her breath, the kind that hints at hidden eyes. A shiver traced its way down her spine, not from cold, but from memory. This house had always felt more like a tomb than a home.
“Anya.”
The voice, sharp and precise, cut through the quiet like glass. Spun around, her heart jumping. Clara stood at the bottom of the sweeping staircase, one hand resting on the polished banister, her posture as rigid and unyielding as the wood itself.
Her sister hadn’t aged, not really. Same severe lines, same perfectly coiffed dark hair, though a few silver strands glinted. Her eyes, Elara’s eyes, held a familiar, chilling appraisal.
“Clara.” Anya’s voice felt rusty, unused in this context. Managed a small, tight nod.
Clara offered no greeting, no warmth. Just a slow, deliberate sweep of her gaze over Anya’s worn jacket, her paint-stained jeans. A silent judgment, potent and immediate.
“Thought you’d forgotten the way,” Clara said, her tone flat, devoid of emotion. “Elara’s will reading is tomorrow. Sharp at ten. Don’t be late. Grandmother loathed tardiness.”
Rubbed her arm, feeling the phantom itch of Clara’s unspoken criticism. “I wouldn’t miss it.”
A small, almost imperceptible scoff escaped Clara. “Wouldn’t you? You missed everything else.”
Bit her tongue, the familiar burn of injustice rising. This wasn’t the time. Not yet.
“Rooms are prepared,” Clara continued, gesturing vaguely towards the upper floors. “Your old one, I suppose. It’s the least dusty.”
Nodded again, her throat tight. The dust was a metaphor, she knew. A physical manifestation of their family’s accumulated neglect.
“Leo’s in the study,” Clara added, her gaze briefly flickering towards a closed door. “He arrived this morning.”
Leo. The name felt heavy, a stone dropped into the quiet pool of her apprehension. Her older brother, the one who always seemed to carry the weight of their family’s expectations.
Ascended the grand staircase, Clara’s presence a palpable weight at her back. The air grew heavier with each step, thick with the ghosts of arguments and unspoken words.
Found her childhood bedroom, unchanged yet utterly alien. The four-poster bed, the faded floral wallpaper, the tiny porcelain ballerina on the dresser – relics of a life she’d deliberately dismantled.
Opened the window, letting in a gust of crisp autumn air, hoping it might clear the oppressive stillness. The familiar scent of pine and damp earth brought a pang of something akin to longing, quickly replaced by resentment.
Changed into something less casual, a dark dress that felt more appropriate for a wake, or a trial. Applied a thin layer of lipstick, hoping to project an air of composure she didn’t feel.
Made her way downstairs when the first hint of dusk bled through the manor’s high windows. The dining room, a cavernous space at the back of the house, glowed with the soft, flickering light of candles.
Leo sat at the head of the impossibly long table, a solitary king in his crumbling castle. His shoulders were broader now, his hair streaked with silver at the temples, but the deep-set eyes held the same familiar intensity.
He watched her approach, a slow, appraising scan that felt like a physical touch. No smile, no overt recognition. Just that piercing gaze, full of questions and accusations she couldn’t yet decipher.
Clara entered from a side door, a pristine white napkin already tucked into her collar. She took the seat opposite Leo, leaving the vast expanse of table between them, and a seat for Anya further down, a deliberate distance.
Sat, pulling the heavy wooden chair out with a soft scrape. The three of them, separated by polished mahogany and decades of silence. It felt less like a family dinner and more like a tribunal.
“Anya.” Leo’s voice was deeper than she remembered, a low rumble. He didn’t elaborate, just spoke her name, a statement of fact that held no warmth.
“Leo.” Returned the gesture, her own voice flat. No need for pleasantries. They both knew where they stood, or rather, where they didn’t.
Food appeared as if by magic, placed by a silent, grey-haired woman who vanished as quickly as she arrived. Rich, heavy dishes – roasted lamb, root vegetables, dark bread. Elara’s favourites.
Clara cut her lamb with surgical precision, each movement economical. “Still sketching, Anya?” Her tone was light, but the underlying sneer was unmistakable.
Swallowed a mouthful of lamb. It tasted like ash. “Still painting, Clara. Yes.”
“Such a practical pursuit,” Clara murmured, not looking up. “Grandmother always said you had a flair for the dramatic. Not a stable career, though. Especially not for a Volkov.”
Felt Leo’s eyes on her, a silent pressure. He didn’t interrupt, didn’t defend. He rarely did.
“Some of us prefer a life of our own making,” Anya retorted, pushing a pea around her plate. “Rather than one inherited.”
Clara’s knife paused mid-air. “And look where that got you. Back here, like a stray cat. Begging for scraps.”
Heat flushed Anya’s cheeks. “I am here because of Elara’s will. Nothing more.”
“Of course,” Clara purred, a dangerous glint in her eyes. “Always the dutiful granddaughter. When it suits you.”
Leo finally spoke, his voice low, a command. “That’s enough, Clara.”
Clara merely smiled, a thin, knowing twist of her lips. She had achieved her goal. The air was thick with their familiar, suffocating tension.
Anya looked at Leo, hoping for some flicker of solidarity, some echo of the brother who once protected her. His gaze, however, was fixed on her, unblinking.
His eyes were not neutral. They held a profound, burning resentment, a silent accusation that pierced her to the bone. Across the vast, polished table, under the dim, flickering candlelight, Leo’s glare left her cold.
Would this forced reunion shatter them completely, or had they already broken into too many pieces to ever be reassembled?