The morning light is dappled and grey, leaving my room in trembling shadow, even when I reach for the nightstand to take my glasses and put them on.

There isn't a part of my body that is not aching, and when the wind, in a sudden burst of energy, screams through the slats of the open shutters outside the windows, my mind reacts to it with a jolt of memories of a baby's pitiful cries. My hands fly to my neck, searching the skin for wounds, while I force myself into an upright position, suddenly fully alert.

My neck is fine. It is the one part of my body that is not in pain, and I flinch at a slight burning discomfort in the crook of my right arm, discovering a somewhat raised mosquito bite when I inspect the skin. I resist the urge to scratch it while I scan the room for traces of frightening girls with white hair and black eyes and babies... dead or alive.

There is no sign that there has ever been anybody in this room with me while I was asleep. I occasionally suffer from sleep paralysis that goes hand-in-hand with vivid dreams, but never quite as bad as the one I had last night.

It seemed so real!

I could smell her, feel her breath against my skin... and the baby... It could've been a doll. I wasn't wearing my glasses; it was dark and stormy, and I was half-asleep. It could've been anybody, anything or nothing at all.

Still, my skin breaks out in goosebumps at the thought of the girl's cold tongue on my neck and the mattress flexing with her every move. The hazy memory is frightening enough to catapult me from the bed, and standing next to it, staring at the mattress I come from, I shove my fist into my mouth to stop myself from screaming.

The sheet I've been sleeping on is covered in red streaks and smears, and memories of a girl with blood-soaked fingers disappear from my mind when I finally realise where the blood covering the bed came from. Me! I confirm that by running my hands over my pyjama bottoms to find it stiff in patches with dried blood.

I was reaching the end of my period, and I'd taken enough precautions before I went to bed to prevent exactly this outcome. I don't understand it. The bleeding doesn't usually flare up again when it's almost over; there should barely be anything this morning. What a horrible time to choose to do new tricks.

I've already been informed that I'm not welcome here as long as I reside inside a female body, and now that body is rubbing its femaleness in everybody's faces. How on Earth am I supposed to ask any of the men I met last night for assistance with this big, fat mess I've made of the bed? I can imagine Leopold's tight-lipped, haughty response to this. His face will probably remain expressionless, but that eyebrow will say it all.

This is mortifying.

Well, first things first, I need to get out of these disgusting pyjamas. I hurry to where my suitcases had been last night, shocked to discover only empty floor space covered in a lovely floral rug. The table at the window has also been cleared of the remnants of my dinner. So much for not seeing any signs of somebody being in my room while I was asleep.

Surely, the girl with the baby didn't come in here last night to do some housekeeping! Feeling agitated and confused that I could've missed this much activity while asleep (I'm generally a light sleeper), I yank open the closet doors, one after another and discover all my possessions stored inside. My clothes are neatly sorted into drawers and hanging from the rail depending on their storage requirements. Whoever unpacked my bags did not get the memo that I was fired even before I started.

Taking deep breaths to steady my building nerves, I choose a grey V-neck, blouse and a long black skirt, thinking that these items are so austere in colour that they should distract from the fact that a woman with feminine curves is hiding inside them. Perhaps if he doesn't have to see stark reminders of why he doesn't want me here, Alaric will be easier to persuade to let me stay.

This morning I do use the shower, and it performs far above my expectations. The water is warm, the pressure is strong, and I'm quickly starting to feel human again, relieved to confirm that my period has indeed stopped completely now. I brought my pyjamas into the shower with me for a rinse, and when I shut off the water, I hang the pieces over the curtain rail to sort out later. They are going to need a decent scrub. I'll do the same with the bedsheet; rinse out the worst of it and ask Leopold for some bleach to take care of the rest...

I'll tell him that I spilt the wine on it. Yes, drinking wine in bed and spilling it on the sheet is something men could do too... he'll understand. Probably not. I doubt the man has ever spilt anything in the 3725 years he's been alive.

Well, it's worth a shot.

Dressed and towel-drying my hair, I wander into the bedroom to fetch the sheets and come to a startled stop when I discover that the bed has been made and there is food on the table. I hurry to the side of the bed and lift the fresh duvet to see a clean sheet under it.

The previous bedding was all starkly white; the new duvet cover has grey, black and dark wine red rose and thorn patterns all over it, and the sheet and pillowcases pick up the red. It is beautiful... and probably more practical for a messy person like me.

"Well," I sigh. "All right then."

I take my phone from the nightstand to check the time, but it is quite dead. I never plugged it in last night, but I thought the battery still had some life left. The charger was in my laptop bag, which doesn't seem to be anywhere in this room. I do remember it being on the patio, though, so it definitely did make it out of Billy's car.

The enticing fragrances coming from the breakfast seduce me into sitting down at the table and uncovering the dishes, my stomach doing a happy dance. I don't normally eat much in the line of breakfast, but I am ravenous this morning, and there is no way I will pass up on a cheese-oozing omelette, toast and... oh, please tell me this is coffee! 

It is! It's coffee, and the first sip sends me straight to heaven. It is so good!

My teeth brushed and my hair tied at the nape of my neck for as long as I can keep the ringlets there, I'm finally ready to go plead my case with the lord of the manor. I hesitate when I grab the doorknob, suddenly too afraid to open the door.

Yes, I survived the night despite suffering from awful dreams and having sleep paralysis. I've had all my needs catered to, and my overwrought nerves, the howling wind and exhaustion probably brought on the bad dream. Living on Peace Haven has been my biggest desire since the first time I heard that our family originated here a couple of hundred years ago. Later, branches of the tree migrated to other parts of the world, but my roots are here.

I haven't really felt those roots since I stepped on the island, but I did feel them strongly as a child, listening to old family legends and seeing pictures of the approximate area my family came from. I know I will feel it again once I'm settled in and not all freaked out anymore.

I was nine years old when I started dreaming of coming here, and I mean dreaming quite literally. Vivid recurring dreams filled with details of places I have never been before and the names of people I have never met. It is what brought my love of history, art and antiques to life. I've worked hard at becoming very good at my craft in the hopes of one day being able to, at the very least, see the collection of wonderful furniture and artworks kept in this mansion.

When I was 12 years old, I came across an old, grainy photograph in an antiques magazine of a marble statue by Antonio Corradini, an Italian Rococo sculptor who was extremely good at creating the illusion that the figures he carved were draped in silk. I've seen some of his work, but this specific sculpture caught my attention because it was said to depict a woman named Clarice Dankworth, a name I've seen in our family tree dating back to the late 1700s when the sculpture was created. I've been obsessed with seeing the real piece ever since.

That sculpture was reported to belong to the Slatherty family and should be somewhere in this very building. I could find no other photographs of it anywhere online; it is not as well-known as his beautiful piece called Modesty. I do not want to leave without seeing it and running my fingers over its smooth surfaces. If I cannot convince Alaric to let me stay, I will ask him to be kind enough to let me see the statue.

Modesty (Chastity or Veiled Truth) by Antonio Corradini - 1752

Closing my eyes, I pray that this trip to Peace Haven will not get any worse. That I won't knock important items off tables or spill anything that will stain. I swallow against the dry nervousness building in my throat and open the door.

I'm surprised when I open it onto a dimly lit hallway, and Leopold or some phantom servant is not standing there, ready to take me to the lord of the manor. They seem to know when I'm ready for breakfast, and I've fancifully imagined someone listening at the door or peeking through a hole to see what they should do next. 

Well, I guess it is a relief that I was wrong.

The hallway is deserted of life, but it is not empty. The wood panelling is crowded with painted portraits from just about every era in the history of art, reminding me how old this mansion is and how old the family living in it is. I'm drawn to look at all the paintings, sculptures and display cabinets set at intervals along the dark walls, but I contain my curiosity and excitement. Once I've spoken to Alaric, I'll ask him if I can take one last look around before I leave and if I manage to persuade him to let me stay, I'll have plenty of time to inspect each piece in depth.

In fact, I'll be paid to do so.

Smoothing my skirt over my shaking legs, I walk along the hallway, having no idea which way to go to find the staircase. I'm formulating a brilliant plan where I make it to the foyer and, once there, use the knocker outside the front door to summon Leopold. Unless I run into him or anybody else on my way there.

I hope I don't reach the foyer to find Billy already waiting to drive me back to the harbour. That would be the worst outcome. Besides, all my possessions are in the closets in the room where I slept, except for my laptop. I have no idea where that is.

Well, walking alone in these broody hallways is not very comforting and welcoming. The omelette and dinner fooled me for a while, but the quiet of the hallway, the sombre shadows cast by low-key lights glowing in old fixtures, are causing me to feel lonely and uneasy. I turn a corner, hoping to see more light, proving that I'm walking in the right direction and will soon be in the foyer, but this branch is as dark and imposing as the one I'd just left, if not more so. Two turns around corners later, I'm finally willing to admit I am completely lost.

I feel like I could walk for days and never find my way to the foyer or back to my room and never see another soul again. One day, someone will stumble upon my desiccated corpse sitting on the floor. Really scared now, I'm about to call out, as Liam suggested, though the idea of standing in the middle of a dusky hallway just shouting is making my voice go into hiding.

I don't know who or what will answer my call...

I'm terrible at drawing attention to myself on purpose. I'm very good at drawing unwanted attention by falling over my feet or walking into tables and causing flower arrangements to fall over and spill their water on the people sitting at that table. Yes, I am referring to an actual event... or two.

I could do that now; there are plenty of cabinets, statues, plants and other ornaments I could fall over or cause to crash to the floor, but for some obscure reason, I never mishandle, drop or break any valuable antiques placed in my hands. It's one of those freakish phenomena of nature that has scientists everywhere baffled.

Well, it baffles me, but I don't question it; I embrace it, as it prevents me from being forced to change careers.

I jerk to a startled halt when I hear a soft groan near me and spin around, squinting into dark corners filled with moving shadows to find the source of the sound. My heartbeat has spiked, my blood droning in my ears. There is nothing except the steady ticking of a tall grandfather clock, which I roughly judge to be from around 1840, based on the electroplating used in its design to coat parts of it with metal.

The broad leaves of a potted plant are stirring, but my passing could've caused it... is what I tell myself, and I'm sticking with that theory. Feeling exposed and vulnerable in the middle of the empty hallway, I start walking again, a little faster now, listening for more sounds. When it comes, I stop, pressing my body up against a wall while I scan up and down the hallway. This time the sound stopping me in my tracks were whispers. I'm sure of it.

I wait, my heart beating heavily in my chest and blood rushing violently through my veins, and then I hear it again. Someone is definitely talking softly, but I cannot make out what they are saying. My throat clogged with anxiety, I follow the sound to a door I was passing when I first heard the groan, and with my eyes struggling in the gloom, I realise that it is ajar.

Through the narrow opening, I can see a man sitting beside what appears to be a bed. I cannot see him or the furnishing clearly as the room is quite dark, and he is bent over the bed, apparently speaking to someone lying in it. I think I can see the bedding move, but whoever is lying in the bed is hidden in the deep shadows on the other side of the man.

I cannot hear him clearly enough to understand what he is saying; he might be speaking in the local tongue, a language consisting of Gaelic, Celtic and English elements with some French thrown in just for the hell of it. I regret never trying to find a source to learn it from, but it was thought to have gone extinct, with English now being the official language of Peace Haven. That information was mistaken because, since my arrival, I've heard very little English unless it was spoken directly to me. Even on the ferry, I heard more of this strangely beautiful language than I heard English.

I may not be able to understand the words, but the man's tone is gentle and soothing, too quiet for me to recognize which of the men I've met so far it belongs to. Feeling like an intruder and unwilling to announce my presence to ask for directions, I take a step backwards to continue my journey and almost scream when I turn around to find myself face-to-face with Leopold.

My loudly drawn breath of shock is punctuated by the door slamming shut behind me. 

Was there another person in the room standing behind the door, or did the wind catch it? It is highly unlikely that the man seated beside the bed could've run all the way to the door to slam it in the amount of time it took between me turning away from whatever scene I'd been witnessing and the jarring bang.

If Leopold is displeased at finding me snooping, he is not showing it, and I hurry to smile my most innocent smile for him. It's not like I was purposely trying to spy.

"Oh, Mr... Leopold, I'm so glad to see you! I'm afraid I am completely lost."

"Of course, Miss," he says with a bow. "Please allow me to escort you to Mr. Slatherty's office."

"Oh, that will be splendid," I say in my most posh accent. Two can play at his uppity game. He, of course, does not indicate how he feels about my cheekiness and merely starts to walk along the corridor while I try to keep track of where we're going. It is hard since I have no idea where we're starting from, making it meaningless to count the turns and note the vague differences between the corridors.

Light dawns in a golden glow on the horizon when we turn yet another corner, and suddenly, there is the landing and the wide staircase leading to the foyer! Leopold leads me up the furthest staircase branching from the landing and opens the first door I see when we leave the stairs.

Walking into the room, he directs me to enter; I stop, gasping in awe at the rows upon rows of bookshelves lining three of the walls. There are two beautiful desks set at an angle to each other near the windows, and rain-drenched sunlight is weakly making its way through ivy and half-drawn curtains to fill the room with a little bit of warmth. Through the gaps in the curtains, I can see the ocean and the perilous winding road that brought me here. There is no mist now, but the world is hazy behind a gossamer veil of soft rain.

"Please make yourself comfortable, Miss Dankworth; His Grace will be with you shortly," Leopold says, and this time, when he leaves after offering me a tight bow, I succeed in not dropping a silly curtsy. I am getting used to him now.

His Grace?  Well, apparently, he is allowed to cling to Alaric's titles.

The bookcases draw me to them as if they'd thrown a rope to reel me in. There are many shelves filled with leather-bound volumes in languages I can vaguely identify. I'm a little disappointed that I cannot find even one juicy mystery novel among the vast number of exquisitely bound textbooks and documentaries.

The thought makes me giggle softly. "Honestly, Aubrey, you're in a spooky mansion surrounded by shadows and strange people, and you're disappointed that you cannot find some good mystery fiction to get your teeth into."

I am most likely living in a mystery of my own right now...

"I so do not want this story to turn into a horror," I mutter, bending over further to inspect the books on the lower shelves.

"Good morning, Miss Dankworth."

The words, spoken in that coarse voice I remember from last night, make me start with fright, and since I'm bent over, jumping forward causes me to knock my head against the bookshelf. I straighten, sheepishly rubbing my forehead, hoping that Alaric did not see my accident and am horrified to find him standing at the desk closest to the door, an amused smile touching his supple lips.

How much of my conversation with myself did he hear?

I've never seen a smile on his face before, not even a vague one filled with a hint of amusement. It is disturbing! He should never smile. A fairy dies each time he smiles.

"Good morning," I say, straightening my body and my dignity, trying to look as professional as possible. If I'm going to state a case for my suitability for the job, headbutting one of the bookcases is not the best way to start presenting that case. I should start with the fact that I'm most qualified to appraise collections which include both art and furniture, as I've specialised in both fields.

I hurry over to him, and when he steps towards me, his arm brushing against mine as he passes me, I jump at the sensations cascading over my skin, even though we're both wearing long sleeves. Our arms might as well have been bare because I felt that scarcely discernible touch right to the core of my being.

My hip strikes the side of the desk, and my flailing hand slaps against an Edwardian Cast Iron desktop pen and pencil holder standing on the wooden surface, sending all of the writing utensils resting on it clattering noisily onto the desk and, from there, rolling to the edge to drop one by one, excruciatingly decisively and loudly to the polished wooden floor.

I peek up at Alaric's stark face, with the arrogantly arched eyebrow, wincing when the last pen takes its sweet time to reach its buddies on the floor with a loud thud just when I thought the noise had finally ended.

"Oops."

~~~