Chapter 2: The Sealed East Wing

The hall held only the crackle of a spent wick. Elinor's fingertip pressed against the brass sleeve of the gramophone cylinder, the cold iron shell bruising her knuckle white. The wind that came in after the rain crept through the window crack, and behind the blacked-out pane on the east wing, something like a thin wire trembled in the dark. She did not touch the cylinder. She turned, lifted the black veil from her hood, and said to Agnes: "Housekeeper, a light was burning in the east wing last night—who was on duty?"

Agnes's knuckles, gripping the porcelain plate, had gone blue. Her eyes darted toward the copper pots in the kitchen: "It was the footman on the night shift, but in the small hours the light on the east wing was the oil lamp in the housekeeper's room reflecting across." Elinor's brow lifted, her voice dropping to a whisper: "Reflecting? The east wing faces south; the housekeeper's room is against the north wall. Light can't carry through that corridor. Do you think I haven't drawn the manor's plans?"

A short, sharp breath caught in Agnes's throat. The rim of the plate struck the doorframe with a brittle crack. "My lady, the lock on the east wing was changed by the Master's own hand. There were only three keys—one for the Master, one for Mr. Cole, and one kept at the Master's side. After he fell from the cliff, the key… simply vanished."

Elinor did not answer. She pulled the blueprint from her bosom and spread it open; the ink lines marking the east wing still bore damp creases. Following the plan, she stepped out of the hall. The morning manor lay wrapped in cold mist; the carriage stood under the portico, rust on its wheels smearing a streak along her hem. She did not slow. She walked straight toward the east wing, and as she passed the servants' passage, she heard two maids whispering: "What is the lady doing, heading for the east wing? They say someone hears a piano there at night. No one dares go in." "Piano? Don't talk nonsense. Since the Master's death, two strings on that piano are broken. It rings even when you so much as brush the keys."

Two dead ferns stood in pots on the east wing's porch. Elinor reached for the door handle—the brass core gleamed with a freshly polished brightness, nothing like the old thirty-year bronze on the main gate. She turned it. The door did not move. She turned back to look at the keyring; Agnes followed at her heels, the brass keys at her waist jangling with each step. "My lady, there is no east wing key on the master set. The will states it plainly—this door cannot be opened."

Elinor looked down at the crack beneath the door. The light seeping through was a shade brighter than the air outside. "Cannot be opened—but last night, the lamp inside was lit." She said no more. She turned back toward the hall, and passing the gramophone, her finger rested on the cylinder for three seconds. Henry Cole's carriage had arrived a quarter-hour before hers; he stood under the portico, the silver chain of his pocket watch swinging against his morning coat. Seeing her, his brow creased further: "My lady, I shouldn't have stopped you, but in the Master's will, the clause about the east wing carries more weight than the heir's title."

"More weight than even leaving a single key?" Elinor walked up to him, the blueprint clutched in her hand, her knuckles pressing a dent into the east wing's outline on the paper. "He left two contradictory wills. One says the east wing must not be opened. The other says the heir may enter freely. Which one is the true one, Lawyer Cole?"

Henry Cole's dark brown eyes held hers for a long time before he spoke: "Both are true. When the Master signed the first, half an oil lamp had already burned down—I saw him make three amendments with my own eyes. The second was sent by fast horse three days before he fell from the cliff. Not even a wax seal on the envelope. But my lady—the east wing door cannot be opened."

"Cannot be opened—yet last night the piano played all night long." Elinor folded the blueprint; the dent from her knuckles still marked the paper. "I heard it. From the hall to the kitchen, every corner heard it. No one dared play, yet the music was alive. The fingering was skilled—Chopin's Nocturnes. Not the sound two broken strings could make."

Henry Cole's hand rested on the silver chain in his pocket; the swinging had slowed by a fraction. "My lady, everyone in the house was on duty last night. Not a single one went to the east wing. You say you heard it, but you were at the gramophone. You didn't see the east wing's window."

"Whether I saw it doesn't matter. What matters is the piano didn't stop." Elinor turned and walked toward the gate, her black crepe dress trailing through the cold mist. "I'll listen again after dark. Lawyer Cole, stay where you are. Don't go to the east wing—I'm afraid you won't be able to hold yourself back."

When night fell, the manor's gas lamps lit one by one, the flames in their brass shades leaning in the wind. Elinor carried a small oil lamp, walking the servants' passage toward the east wing. The black veil from her hood fell across half her face. She walked lightly, but passing the kitchen, she still knocked a porcelain jar from the corner; the shards skittered across the floor tiles with a sharp, high rattle. Two maids wiping tables looked up, their faces the color of ash. One's legs gave way and she caught the edge of the table: "My lady, please don't go. The Master's spirit is in the east wing, coming out at night to look for things."

"Looking for what?" Elinor did not stop. The lamplight swayed twice. "What is he looking for—do you know?"

The maid stood with her mouth agape, emitting no sound, her fingers clutching the edge of the tablecloth so tightly that her knuckles had gone white. Aileno pushed open the door to the east wing; the hinges gave a dry, grating creak, nothing like the smooth operation they had during the day. The corridor of the east wing was three degrees colder than the outside; in the wall frame, Edmund’s portrait followed her footsteps with its painted eyes. She walked deeper, the lamplight catching the grand piano. The lid was open, and two strings had snapped. Yet along the edge of the lid sat a streak of moisture, not yet dry, as if fingertips had just brushed it.

It was from there that the sound of the piano had come.

Aileno reached the piano and placed her hand on the lid. The wet mark was warm. She did not touch the keys; instead, she turned to look down the length of the corridor. At the far end of the east wing was a small door, with a faint, yellowish light seeping through the crack. She crossed to it. The handle had no lock, yet the door was shut. She pushed, but it did not budge an inch. Still, the light in the crack flickered.

Henry Cole’s voice drifted from the mouth of the corridor, heavy with the breath of a man who had ridden a horse at full speed: “My lady, here you are.” He stood outside the circle of lamplight, the hem of his morning coat pressed flat against his legs by the night wind. “I advise you not to touch that door. Before he passed, Lord said there is something behind it far more important than the inheritance.”

“Something?” Aileno’s hand stayed on the door, her fingertips pressing white marks into the wood. “He left two wills. One forbids the east wing from being opened; the other allows the heir to enter. He couldn’t even protect his own life, yet he cared about what lay behind a door?”

Henry Cole offered no reply. He pulled a pocket watch from his vest, glanced at the time, and the silver chain wound once around his finger. “One seventeen in the morning. Last night, the music stopped at exactly this hour. I had the servants check the night-watch log. At one o’clock, the manservant on duty was dozing by the east gate, and the door to the east wing was open.”

“The door was open, yet no one entered.” Aileno set the oil lamp down; its light fell upon the wet mark, whose edge glistened cold. “Attorney Cole, you just said something more important than the inheritance. What is it?”

Henry Cole’s breathing slowed, his voice dropping to a near whisper: “It is Lord’s recording. The wax cylinder he left in the east wing is three times longer than the one in the great hall. On the night before his death, he placed both wax cylinders in the gramophone—one for the heir, one for himself. The one in the great hall was left for you. The one in the east wing was left for him.”

Aileno said nothing. Her fingers trailed along the edge of the piano pedal; it was warm. She bent her head and saw a cuff link resting beside the pedal. Its black satin face bore a gilded monogram: a broken branch of roses, not the thorns of the Blackwood house.

A sharp, short sound escaped Henry Cole’s throat. He stepped half a pace forward. Before dawn had broken, in the darkness of the east wing, the gilded monogram on that cuff link looked like a drop of blood that had not yet dried.

Henry Cole stared at the cuff link, his gaze as if stung by the sight, and half a step backward.

Aileno bent down, pinching the cuff link between her fingertips. The black satin was ice-cold; under the oil lamp, the gilded broken-branch rose cast a dull, mute gleam. She flipped it over. On the reverse, tiny letters were engraved, worn down until they were almost illegible.

“This is not Edmund’s.” She read the inscription aloud, her voice flat and without inflection. “His family uses only the thorn crest, even on their rings.”

“Sebastian Blackwood?” Henry Cole ventured, his throat dry. “He visited the estate last week. I saw his waistcoat; the cuffs were claret velvet.”

Aileno did not answer. She tucked the cuff link into the pocket of her black crepe dress and rose. She walked to the piano and looked down at the two broken strings. They had been newly strung only last month; Agnes Peale had recorded the cost of the oil in the ledger.

“Agnes said Lord did not play before he died.” She turned. The oil lamp’s light fell on her pale face. “Yet he broke the strings, and left this wet mark. Attorney Cole, where did that water come from?”

Henry Cole wiped a hand across his face; the unease in his dark-brown eyes could not be hidden. “Rain. There are three leaks in the east wing’s roof. I checked the accounts last week—your wife was very tight with repair costs; she did not authorize it.”

“I did not authorize it.” Aileno repeated. “So you did check the roof?”

“I did. The chimney at the farthest north corner of the east wing is cracked; rain can seep in through the walls.” Henry Cole closed his pocket watch; the silver chain swayed once against his chest. “But the wet mark on the lid is positioned above the keys. For rain to fall from above, someone would have had to open the lid, and do so before the rain stopped.”

Aileno returned to the small door where the dim light seeped through, pressing her palm against it once more. The door was ice-cold; the light in the crack flickered more violently.

“Who opened the lid before the rain stopped?” she asked, her voice barely above a whisper. “Who brought that water onto the lid?”

“Perhaps it was the wind.” Henry Cole’s voice floated, hollow.

"The wind can't open a piano lid." Elinor cut him off, turning on her heels and walking toward the far end of the corridor. "Where is that long wax cylinder? You said it was left for Edmund, but Edmund is dead. It belongs to me now, because I am the heir."

"You haven't collected it yet." Henry Cole quickened his pace to catch up, the hem of his morning coat brushing the cold floor. "That cylinder is locked behind this door. The key is not in my hands, nor with the butler. Your husband melted the key down and cast it into that pendant—he wore it himself, at his own throat. The black-jade pendant you are wearing now—on the inner face, a key is engraved."

Elinor's hand rose to her neck. The oval black-jade pendant lay flat against her collarbone, ice-cold. She remembered how, the first time Henry Cole had walked her through the will, he had singled out the pendant's weight as unusual.

"Tell me—what did he leave inside that cylinder, the one meant for himself?" Elinor asked, her fingers locked tight around the black jade, nails pressing into the flesh.

"I don't know." Henry Cole's voice had gone taut. "But what Sebastian feared most was that the secret chamber in the east wing would be opened. Last month he wired me a telegram, instructing me to keep you in check and leave the east wing alone. The telegram was torn up. From the scraps I pieced back together, one line read: 'Do not let the widow hear it.'"

Elinor's hand stilled above the swinging pendant. Beside the piano's pedals, the sprig-of-rose cufflink lay quiet on the floor, the oil lamp's light trembling across its gilded pattern.