Chapter 6 - The Hunt in the Shadows
"Anna?"
Julian’s voice echoed down the cold stone corridor of the East Wing, rich, calm, and terrifyingly close. The slow, rhythmic sound of his leather boots hitting the floorboards sounded like the ticking of a countdown clock.
"It is custom for a bride to wait for her groom in the West Wing, my love," Julian called out, his voice dripping with sinister amusement. "What could you possibly be looking for in the dark?"
Inside Clara's bedroom, Mrs. Gable grabbed Anna’s arm, shoving her toward a small wooden door hidden behind a heavy velvet tapestry on the side wall.
"The old laundry chute," Mrs. Gable whispered urgently. "It leads down to the wine cellars beneath the kitchen. Go! Get to the cliff paths!"
"What about you?!" Anna asked, clutching Clara’s diary tight against her chest.
"He won't kill me yet—he still needs me to manage the house staff," Mrs. Gable said grimly. "Go, Anna! Before midnight strikes!"
Anna slipped behind the tapestry just as the heavy bedroom door was smashed open with a terrifying splintering crash.
Through the crack in the wooden tapestry frame, Anna saw Julian step into the room. He was no longer wearing his tuxedo jacket. His white shirt sleeves were rolled up, and in his right hand, he held a heavy iron fireplace poker. Behind him stood two of his dark guards.
"Where is she, Mrs. Gable?" Julian asked softly, stepping over the threshold.
"She... she isn't here, Lord Vance," Mrs. Gable stammered, backing away against the vanity. "I was just cleaning—"
Julian didn't wait for her to finish. He swung his arm back and struck Mrs. Gable across the face with his gloved hand. The old woman hit the floor with a painful cry.
"Search the wing," Julian commanded his guards, his eyes sweeping across the room until they locked directly onto the velvet tapestry behind which Anna was hiding. "She knows. Do not let her reach the grand hall."
Anna didn't wait another second. She threw herself into the dark wooden shaft of the laundry chute, sliding down into pitch-black darkness.
She tumbled down through smoothly worn wooden chute tubes, friction burning against her silk dress, until she flew out into a pile of damp burlap sacks in the cold stone basement of Blackwood Manor.
She scrambled to her feet, bruised and breathless.
The wine cellar was vast, filled with tall wooden casks and iron cages holding ancient bottles. The air was thick with the smell of damp earth and aging oak.
Above her, she heard the muffled sounds of shouting and running footsteps. Julian’s guards were descending the main basement stairs.
Anna clutched the wax candle stump in one hand and Clara's diary in the other. She ran deeper into the stone catacombs beneath the house, searching frantically for an exit that led out toward the coast.
As she rounded a dark stone corner, she stopped dead in her tracks.
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Standing at the end of the narrow arched corridor was a second grand oak mirror—identical to the one in the upstairs hallway.
And standing inside the glass, watching her with glowing, pale eyes, was Clara.
