Yorkshire—home of the Bront? sisters. Though the literary siblings were likely still carefree girls at this time, years away from publishing Jane Eyre or Wuthering Heights, the very moors that would one day inspire their Gothic tales stretched eternal under the brooding sky.

  The carriage jostled over sodden earth, wheels crunching through gnarled thickets as Yvette gazed out at the barren expanse. The land here was vast, flat, stark—so immense it made the heavens feel oppressively close, reducing humankind to mere specks of dust. The gloom of the moors and those iron-gray clouds had a way of stealing breath, leaving behind only eerie fascination.

  "Felt the same when I first came," Oleander mused. "Like stepping into a nightmare, yet… beneath the bleakness, there’s a wild, almost mad beauty. The locals say in spring, these grim heathlands burst purple with heather—thick as Roman patricians’ robes."

  Enthralling imagery.

  Soon, the rutted track led them to a sleepy hamlet. Ancient cottages sagged under ivy, their yards tangling with honeysuckle, fruit trees, and herb patches. Milkmaids passed by, pails swinging—nothing like London’s soot-choked factory girls. These women glowed with health, their nut-brown skin flushing when they met Yvette’s gaze, laughter chiming behind the carriage like silver bells.

  Small wonder poets idolized rural life. Compared to urban squalor, the countryside seemed downright Edenic.

  The Hamlin estate loomed ahead, shielded by a matured grove planted long ago to buffer it from the village. Beyond the trees, the manor grounds unfolded—dominated first by a white gatehouse.

  "Tudor-era, that—nearly a mini-castle. See the watchtower? Medieval paranoia. Useless now, of course." Oleander gestured at the structure’s bluish-white marble. Over generations, additions had splintered the palette: cream, gray, fawn.

  Up close, the gatehouse revealed odd contrasts. Exquisite stone—veined like St. Petersburg’s grandest palaces—yet shoddily set, gaps oozing weathered mortar. Two onyx ravens glared from pedestals, each clutching a skull in its talons.

  "Family crest," Oleander explained. "Ravens ward off ill omens… though I’ve seen stranger emblems." He tactfully skipped the five-naked-women shield story.

  (Far stranger than the Order of the Garter’s underwear motif—though one couldn’t argue with royal tastes.)

  The gatehouse’s extravagance puzzled Yvette. Why lavish funds on marble yet hire second-rate masons? Later wings, though humbler in material, showed finer craftsmanship—especially the Georgian sections, where Baroque met Rococo in gilded comfort. Clearly, the late master had dwelled here, leaving the older, draughtier quarters to house weaponry or linens.

  After ordering his butler to prepare Yvette’s guest room ("—the sunniest one, Jeffrey"), Oleander admitted he’d nearly claimed the Stuart wing for its Gothic woodwork—"perfect for macabre novel vibes"—until learning servants traipsed through with chamber pots.

  "And the gatehouse? 1500s, I’d guess. Family’s founding era?"

  "Ah! Must consult the archives." A leather-bound genealogical tome arrived, its cover inlaid with a jet-and-ivory raven.

  "Howard Hamlin… military supplier, favored by Henry VIII after some… spur-ious victory." Oleander skimmed the Francophobic battle lore, then summarized: "Kingly gratitude funded this estate."

  As he spoke, blood welled between the pages, splattering the rug.

  Not again.

  Ever since her abilities deepened, visions intruded—especially at day’s liminal hours. But Oleander’s bleeding book? That wasn’t random.

  Whatever plagued Hamlin House, it ran deep.

  The next morning, Yvette blinked awake, cozy beneath the blankets, and turned sleepily toward the window—only to find it entirely fogged over.

  The hearth’s fire had dwindled to embers. Out here in the countryside, they burned wood instead of coal—less enduring, but safer, with no risk of fumes seeping into closed rooms. Winter mornings clung to her like a drowsy weight. Reluctantly, she sat up, shoved her feet into slippers, and padded to the window.

  Condensation veiled the glass. She pushed it open—and gasped as a knifelike wind slashed her face wide awake.

  No wonder the Bront?s wrote of "Wuthering Heights," she mused. This wind doesn’t whisper—it howls, battering like a hammer on an anvil…

  Beyond the mist, the winter-flattened plains stretched dark and immutable, radiating a quiet, formidable power.

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  Sharpened by the cold, Yvette pieced together yesterday’s clues.

  The Hamlins. Rose in the 1500s by supplying the king’s armies, rewarded with titles. Yet the bloodstain suggests fury. Did they ruin someone on their climb? But the neighboring families—four ancient lines, all prospering in the same era—show no feuds in living memory.

  Then… war blood? Unlikely. A provisioner wouldn’t inherit soldiers’ grudges. Besides, when Oleander spoke of battles, nothing odd happened—only when mentioning their postwar rewards did the book bleed.

  And that damned will. The first Hamlin built wealth through trade—so why forbid his heirs from commerce on pain of disinheritance? Unless it was his wife’s doing? A highborn bride scrubbing away her husband’s merchant ties? But the lineage showed no noble names…

  A shiver cut her thoughts short. As she reached to shut the window, her fingers froze.

  Scrawled in the fog:

  [DO NOT BELIEVE! IT IS A LIE!]

  The letters—jagged, screaming capitals—seemed clawed by something inhuman.

  Her pulse spiked. She whirled—nothing but the fire’s soft hiss.

  This house is hiding something.

  ——

  "Giggle… Yes… The Master will see… Must see…"

  In a book-strewn chamber, a robed figure crouched, hissing laughter. Crimson words smothered the walls:

  [DO NOT BELIEVE! IT IS A LIE!]

  Madness throbbed in each repetition. Then—crash! The door burst open.

  "Snake-blooded wretch! The bathtub’s stains—your work? I’ll mince you!" The maid’s back erupted with scuttling, misshapen limbs.

  "Ah—mercy! Grant me a moment… Unlike Archimedes, I’d hate to perish mid-calculation…" He dabbed one last bloody streak.

  "You soil the Master’s kindness? Clean this filth—before I peel your skin!"

  "No! These words… matter." He gestured urgently. "Miss Moore, you know I guard the library. A new book surfaced—Albion tongue. The Master’s eyes lingered…"

  "Divine texts. Unreadable."

  "To you. I consume brains—tongues unfold before me. This book? Fraud! I’ve tracked noble graves, parsed bloodlines. The Hamlins? Upjumped peddlers! To deceive the Master’s library—I had to warn him."

  "By painting your walls in gore?"

  "A higher ritual. A plant from beyond… taught me to weave dreams into reality." He parted his robe, exposing ribs and a gaping void where his heart had been. "Agony, carving it out… But the spell will reach him… Heh…"

  "Tch. I’ll spare you—for the ritual." Her limbs retracted.

  "Too perilous. My gifts shield me—yours don’t."

  "A shame. Regrow that heart faster, won’t you?"

  ——

  Dreams or not, the phantom warning jolted Yvette onto a new path.

  After breakfast, Oleander departed to audit estate records with the lawyer—convenient, since his presence seemed to trigger the bloodied illusions.

  She combed the manor, finding nothing.

  Not the house… The land beneath?

  Feigning concern about burial grounds poisoning wells, Yvette coaxed the butler into producing an antique map—one with telltale scrapes where ink had been erased.

  This was altered. But why?

  Yvette unfolded the map, studying the four altered points scattered across the lower half in the shape of an inverted trapezoid.

  What had these marks originally signified—and why had they been erased?

  Determined to find answers, she resolved to investigate firsthand.

  "Having never visited Yorkshire before, I’m quite taken by its novelty. I’d like to take a stroll this afternoon," Yvette told the butler. "If Mr. Hamlin returns early, please let him know I’ve gone out."

  "Might I ask whether you intend to walk locally or farther afield?" the butler inquired with a deferential bow.

  "Some distance, though I’d prefer solitude." She had no intention of letting the butler’s appointed escort shadow her inquiry into the Hamlins.

  "Very good. Allow me to have the stable prepare a suitable mount."

  "Suitable?" Yvette arched a brow. "I’ve brought my own horse from London."

  "A necessary precaution," the butler explained. "North Yorkshire’s terrain differs vastly from the city’s even streets. Moors that appear solid may conceal shallow bogs that freeze by night and thaw to sludge by day. A draft horse with Shire bloodline would navigate such ground far more safely." His voice lowered. "Only years ago, Sir Dawson—another local squire—perished when his horse slipped on ice, tossing him into a puddle no deeper than a child’s wading pool. He struck his head and drowned where the water wouldn’t have reached his waist upright."

  Intrigued, Yvette noted the shared geography between the five squire clans, all recently inherited after their predecessors’ deaths—the Dawsons and Hamlins among them.

  By noon, a stoic workhorse stood ready, its hooves swaddled in grip cloth, saddlebags stocked with provisions. The butler’s meticulous care spoke volumes of her status as the household’s honored guest.

  With thanks, she nudged the placid beast onto the moors.

  Winter sunlight sliced through the dissipating mist, gilding a countryside frozen in repose. Farmers loitered indoors; idle hands congregated to dice and trade ancestral legends of lost grandeur—some dreaming of improbable inheritances. Through veiled queries, Yvette gleaned that all five neighboring squires had assumed their titles within recent years. A grim synchronicity, though hardly implausible given the era’s brutish medicine—a fact underscored by the Bront? sisters’ truncated lives.

  Her first stop was a gated estate, its manor peeking through skeletal trees as a supply wagon rattled up the drive. Villagers had regaled her with tales of old Baines’ colonial exploits—the tigers felled, the exotic collections displayed in a private museum likened to Noah’s Ark. Until three years past, when his pipe allegedly ignited a bird specimen’s wax-laden plumage, consuming both collector and collection.

  Now, the bronze serpent on the gatepost glowed like embers in the sun.

  "Admiring our crest?"

  A man on horseback approached—Steven Baines, the late collector’s nephew. A lawyer turned squire, he confessed to gutting the fire-scarred wing despite prior repairs. "The place feels haunted," he admitted, chuckling. "Perhaps rebuilding from the foundation will exorcise it."

  Their shared alma mater—Albia Royal—lubricated conversation, though construction barred her from viewing the legendary trove.

  Her next destination proved equally macabre: the Dawsons’ secondary lodge, its austerity belying wealth invested elsewhere. Here, the former patriarch had met his ignominious end—a spilled rider succumbing to inches of meltwater.

  Over the gate, the family crest depicted a solitary whale breaching endless waves.