It shouldn't have been that easy to leave London behind, not after years scraping by through school and various internships. London had transformed me, and yet, it didn't seem as though I would miss it terribly. I'd heard often enough that memories turned into nostalgia if enough time passed, but apparently that needed a few more months or years to take effect. Freddie had been a huge mistake from start to finish.

The car smelled faintly of detergent. I'd spent a fair bit of time yesterday cleaning my sublet room to the point where I'd been more or less soaked in artificial lemon. My clothes still were. I rolled down the window, breathing in the fresh country air. I'd been tailing Mr. Demalier's steel grey car across half of Southern England in my small Toyota, and we'd reached an undulating landscape with groves of trees dotted along the hills. I should probably have thought about all the painters who had immortalized this landscape, but instead, I recalled that Damien Hirst had bought some sort of Gothic style castle in the area. He was the last artist I wanted to think about.

Mr. Demalier's indicator steered me right onto a smaller lane. We'd not shared more words than required when we started out early in the morning, and even fewer at our one and only pit stop at a gas station somewhere close to Swindon. I was beginning to think that my first impression of him had been somewhat misleading. He'd seemed relaxed and careless--today he'd struck me as reserved and slightly agitated. I couldn't quite make sense of him.

At least I knew he was the type of person who didn't care much about getting a speeding ticket. He drove like a car thief, and I'd struggled to keep up along the M4, swerving between cars in a less than comfortable chase.

The road got progressively narrower, and after a left turn, gravel began to scrunch beneath the tires. I leaned forward in anticipation and almost drove right into Ashleigh's bumper as my attention strayed from the road to the beautiful views. I was expecting to see the outlines of a house any second, and the suspense pushed my foot to hit the brakes a bit harder than necessary. My ribs groaned beneath the seat belt, and most of the boxes seemed to rattle with fear, or possibly of broken china. I had to breathe slowly for a bit, reminding myself that I'd packed all my important belongings with enough newspaper wrappings to deal with a car crash. They would have survived this.

I began to drive forward again, and when I did, I realized why he'd momentarily slowed. The hedges thinned and revealed a Baroque style country house that belonged in a movie scene rather than the real world. It wasn't even fair to call it a house, but then, the gentry had named their properties in ways that made little sense these days.

I didn't even dare to hope that this was our final destination. It seemed outlandish that a man like Ashleigh Demalier, who had rested his elbows on a table, to own a property of this size and dignity. He'd not given me the impression that he carried some sort of title.

And, he was selling. No one could possibly want to sell this.

When he parked the car on the gravel, not far from the steps that led to the main doors, I was ready to fall over.

He stepped out of the car, but I couldn't move, kept in place by the outrageous situation. It was only when he looked over his shoulder, arching one of his eyebrows in what could have been some sort of mockery, that I got myself together.

The first thing that struck me was the silence. I'd lived in cities all my life, and the only times I'd come close to relative silence was when I'd spent hours on end at the university library. But, even that area had been invaded by sounds from the bustling city outside. Here, the air seemed to quiver with stillness.

"Let's get you settled in," Ashleigh said.

It was hard not to see him in a different light where he stood, outlined against the limestone facade. He owned this place, this magical time capsule that had survived generations, and he'd hired me to help him sell it all. It didn't make sense.

I was about to reply using some elaborate version of his name when I remembered that he'd asked me to call him Ash.

"That would be appreciated, thank you." I couldn't use his name casually. Not yet.

"Do you always talk like this?" He appeared part amused, part annoyed.

"Excuse me?"

He chuckled. "I don't know if you're exactly what I expected, or if I simply didn't expect anything at all." After that cryptic statement, he strolled over to my car, opened the trunk, and grabbed one of my many banana crates filled with books. I'd pilfered the crates from a grocery store not far from my building in London in search for the cheapest way to move my possessions. The corrugated carton with banana logos looked wrong in his hands, but Ash didn't seem to care. I wondered if he cared about anything.

A man dressed for a day outside opened the main doors and threw out his arms in greeting. "Ash, you sod, you're back." His hair gleamed in the sunlight, dark red in sloppy waves. I would have put him in his mid-thirties.

"Randy, what the hell are you doing up before noon," Ash replied, grinning in a way I hadn't seen before. "Get some of the others to help with the luggage. This guy is here to help us move out."

Randy eyed me from head to toe. "Ah, one of those slick types. Well, you'll fit right in with the house, if not the rest of us," he said in my direction.

I filtered air through my nostrils, again and again, mentally applying an extra layer of skin. I refused to let them get the better of me. At least Ashleigh hadn't been openly hostile like this, but now I knew that I wasn't truly welcome. The realization stole some of the awe I'd felt at seeing the property. What I felt now was more like protectiveness. The house deserved love, not scorn.

Regardless of the less than pleasant welcome, I wanted to weep the second I stepped inside. The hallway was not as grand as I'd expected, but at least they'd left it intact. The stone floor, lain in different shades of gray, meshed well with the wood panelled walls. A few paintings of varying quality rested in golden frames typical for the rococo era. One or two of them were of later origin, mostly countryside scenes rather than portraits. I would have to take a closer look later, but I had a feeling the mirror was the true masterpiece of the room. I immediately wanted to take a photo to send to Lindsey. She loved mirrors above everything else.

I'd met her at Sotheby's. She'd taken me under her wing the first week, the first to disregard my age, and had been quite distraught when we made our goodbyes. I'd promised to keep in touch.

Randy grunted behind me. "Up the stairs to your left. If he's staying in the east wing, that is," he added, almost as an afterthought.

Ash gave me a strange stare, intrusive almost. "I bet you would prefer something outdated rather than modern."

I didn't reply even though I very much wanted to nod. He'd said it like a taunt, and I was beginning to feel quite justified to simply stay silent.

"We'll take him to the west wing," Ash finally said, talking over my head as though I wasn't even there.

"Oi," Randy shouted into the house, "there's stuff to carry to the west wing bedroom."

There was no reply, but faint sounds from somewhere inside the huge building announced that people were on the move.

Randy led the way up another set of stairs. I was trying to catalogue everything right away, even though it made very little sense to start before I had a notebook.

"Does he have a name?" Randy said once we'd reached the second floor, clearly directed at Ash.

"I'm Raven Andrews," I replied, trying my very best to sound unbothered by their rudeness. I couldn't claim to be the most perceptive when it came to intonation and meaning, but straightforward rudeness was harder to miss.

"So, he talks." Randy snorted out a laugh.

I caught Ashleigh rolling his eyes, but the man said nothing in my defense. Instead, he opened a door to a room that was at least twice the size of the sublet in London. It had the same type of wooden floor as the corridor outside, the same white paneling with a dado rail, but the walls differed, clad in wallpaper colored with a hue that looked precariously much like Scheele's green. Hopefully, they'd replaced the original ones containing arsenic with safer alternatives. The large windows faced both west and south, making me wonder if this had been a bedroom from the start. More likely, it had been some type of drawing room. However, the bed, or at least the bed frame, appeared as old as the house. For some reason, there were no paintings in here, just shelves of old books.

The arsenic paint nagged me. "Do you know when this was last renovated?"

Ash dropped the crate he'd been holding onto a finely carved desk, mid-18th century in style. The sound had a startling quality about it as though he'd wanted to make a point. "It's not old enough for you?"

"It's a beautiful room. I'm merely curious." And worried about arsenic poisoning.

"I don't know. You're the expert."

Randy slapped Ash's shoulder. "Hear hear. While you two talk, I'll get the rest of the stuff with the others." He left with a grin, stomping down the corridor with shoes heavy enough to make me wince. These floors were not treated with the care they deserved.

"Maybe you have some records I could look into. If these walls are originals, you might want to give me another room." I realized how ungrateful that sounded the minute it left my lips.

Ash was staring at me, at my lips no less. He seemed to hesitate for a moment before he answered, his tone slightly hostile. "What's wrong with this room?"

"Arsenic."

"You're kidding me."

"No, I'm afraid not. The color and the print is mid-19th century, and if it is the original wallpaper, the paint is likely made from arsenic."

Ash released an exasperated sigh. "I guess I should have known shit like this was coming. Damn Lara." He continued to mutter something inaudible.

Lara, that was the name of the woman who had called me. I took one last glance at the room, memorising the details. It seemed my visit would be cut short. The realisation that I wouldn't be the one to save this place came with a physical pain, straight to my chest. I'd only been here half an hour, and I already loved it.

"Fine, we'll get you to the east wing instead. There's a room next to mine where you can stay. I'm sure you'll hate it, though, because it's completely refurbished."

I'd been so certain that he was sending me home that I couldn't find the right words. Instead I nodded.

Living next to him. I wasn't sure that was much better than the threat of arsenic at this point.

A/N So, arsenic walls was actually a thing, and it killed people, especially children. It's a bit strange to think that the guy who invented the paint was from Sweden. A chemist called Carl Scheele. Take home message, don't make paint with arsenic, radium, uranium or lead (yes, all those have been used to make paints at one point in history).

Hope you enjoyed this even if it's a bit of a slow start. xox