“Does the miasma tell you what this means?” Alarik’s voice, a low rumble, pierced the silence of the corridor. The wilting rose in his hand seemed to absorb the twilight that clung to Ocskay Keep, its petals now almost entirely blackened. Livia’s mind raced, a frantic hummingbird trapped in a glass jar. Sorina’s letter, still warm from her grasp, felt like a branding iron. *This was not my choice. Find me.* And now, this test. She straightened, forcing a confident smile that felt like stretched elastic. “Oh, it absolutely does, Your Grace,” she declared, her voice brighter than the flickering gaslight. She strode forward, extending her hand. “May I?” Alarik hesitated for an instant, studying her face, before placing the fragile, decaying bloom into her palm. The stem felt cold, brittle, almost crystalline. She turned it over, examining the necrotic edges, the way the blackness seemed to leach from the stem. “Fascinating,” she murmured, as if contemplating a particularly complex philosophical text. She closed her eyes, feigning deep concentration, and placed the rose to her temple. The psychic haze, a constant oppressive hum in the Keep, seemed to thrum faintly around the petals. She needed a name, a story, something that sounded profound and irrefutable. “The blight… it speaks of a profound, enduring sorrow,” she began, choosing her words with theatrical precision. “A grief so deep it has woven itself into the very fabric of this estate, much like the ivy that claims your external walls.” She opened her eyes, fixing them on Alarik. “This particular manifestation, Your Grace, with its unique pattern of decay, points to a very specific emotional signature. The kind that would cling to a personal memento, a treasured item.” She paused for effect. “This isn’t merely the residue of your current unease, Your Grace. No, this… this carries the echo of a much older grief. I’ve read about it, of course, in the archives of the Koldun Academy. The legend of Duchess Katalin Kiraly. The Mourner of Morvan, wasn’t she called? After the passing of her youngest, her despair was said to touch everything she held dear.” Livia gestured vaguely with the blossom. “This remnant, with its specific dark affliction, feels like a direct resonance with her story. A lingering spectral sorrow, perhaps seeking solace.” Alarik’s expression remained unreadable, though a tremor flickered along his cheek. His eyes narrowed, searching her face for any tell. “Duchess Katalin was a recluse,” he stated, his voice devoid of inflection. “She kept no public gardens.” “Precisely!” Livia exclaimed, beaming. “Which makes its appearance here even more significant, doesn’t it? It suggests an unseen connection, an abandoned corner of the Keep where her lingering sorrow might still be concentrated, manifesting through… well, through whatever blooms there now, or *did* bloom.” She handed the ruined stem back to him. “My prescription stands, Your Grace. Sunlight. Movement. And a conscious effort to acknowledge, rather than suppress, these echoes. We cannot heal what we do not face.” He took the rose, his knuckles brushing hers, a prickle of static skittering across her skin. He simply stared at the flower, then at her, and without another word, turned and disappeared back into the shadows of the gallery. Livia let out a slow breath, the tension in her shoulders easing. First test, perhaps not passed with flying colors, but at least she hadn’t been exposed as a charlatan. Not yet. She glanced down at her hand, a faint chill still lingering from where the rose had touched her. True to her own ‘prescription,’ Livia spent the next morning on her first “therapeutic walk,” ostensibly observing the Duke from a discreet distance, though he was nowhere to be seen. Her true mission, however, was to map the Duke's psychic fog. The Keep was a labyrinth, its stone walls exhaling an oppressive chill that wasn't entirely due to the weather. The air thickened and thinned with a subtle, choking pressure. In the grand hall, it pressed down, heavy like a shroud. In the neglected conservatory, it felt brittle, like frozen glass. She wandered down dim vaulted aisles, past towering, dust-shrouded textiles depicting lost battles and grim-faced ancestors. Her steps echoed in the vast emptiness. She noted the oppressive sensation lessened slightly near windows, a brief reprieve of clarity. The smog, she realized, wasn’t uniformly distributed. It ebbed and flowed, almost like a tide. Rounding a corner into a wing she hadn’t yet explored, Livia felt a distinct shift. The air, while still cool, felt lighter, less stifling. The phantom weight on her chest eased. She looked around. This hallway was narrower, the casements smaller, admitting less light. On either side, oil paintings lined the walls, but unlike the grand, imposing canvases in the main hall, these were smaller, many askew, coated in a thick film of dust. The frames were tarnished, the subjects’ faces obscured by grime. An abandoned wing, clearly. And here, the psychic damp was notably thinner. Curiosity overriding caution, Livia began to inspect the row of likenesses. Most were of stern-faced Kiraly ancestors, their gazes set in severe lines. Then she stopped. One painting, tucked away near the end of the wing, was different. It depicted a young man, perhaps in his late teens, with kind, intelligent eyes and a shock of dark hair. But his face had been violently defaced. Deep, angry scratches marred his features, rendering him almost unrecognizable. “Istvan,” she whispered, remembering a brief mention in Alarik’s file – a younger brother, deceased under mysterious circumstances. The likeness of Istvan. The ambient pressure here was almost imperceptible, as if something was actively pushing it away. Livia ran her hand over the cold canvas, her knuckles tracing the jagged scars. The wall behind the portrait felt subtly different, a tiny seam where the wood paneling met the stone. She pressed gently. The panel shifted with a faint *click*. A hidden passage, hollowed straight into the masonry. This was more than an unused closet. This was a secret, concealed passage behind a defaced portrait of a deceased brother. The implications prickled her skin. She slipped into the narrow, dark space, pulling the panel shut behind her. The air here was utterly still, thick with the scent of old dust and something metallic. Her boot crunched on grit. She knelt, fumbling in the near-total darkness until her palm closed around a cold, smooth object. It was a locket, intricately carved silver, tarnished black with age. It looked small, almost childlike. A discarded personal item, left behind. She felt for the tiny latch, her thumbs working the mechanism with quick strokes. With a soft click, it sprang open. Inside, on one side, was a tiny, faded miniature of a young woman, her face blurry with time. On the other, nestled against velvet, was a single, tightly coiled lock of light brown hair. Livia brought it closer, squinting in the gloom, trying to discern the woman’s features. Was it a mother? A sister? A sudden, sharp tug yanked the locket from her fingers. Livia gasped, spinning around. Mrs. Orban stood there, tall and unyielding, a shadow against the slightly open panel. Her face was set, her lips a thin line. The silver locket was clutched in her hand. “Some doors, Mind-Mender Veszter,” the housekeeper’s voice was a low, resonant rumble, “are best left closed.” Her eyes, cold and unwavering, fixed on Livia. “And some secrets… are best left undisturbed.”

The Library of Whispers