The estate did not appear gradually. It arrived all at once, an immense dark silhouette against the grey October sky as the taxi rattled to a stop before its iron gates.

The gates stood open, though rust had long since claimed their hinges. Beyond them, the drive disappeared into a tunnel of ancient oaks, their branches knitted together like clasped fingers. What little light remained in the day filtered through in thin, pale shafts, illuminating patches of wet gravel and fallen leaves.

The house itself was larger than any single residence had a right to be. Three storeys of soot-darkened stone, with rows of tall windows that stared out like blind eyes. Ivy crawled up the western wing. Chimneys clustered against the roof like broken teeth. Somewhere beyond the house, a rook croaked.

A small, nervous-looking man in a brown overcoat waited at the foot of the steps, clutching a folder to his chest. He glanced at the sky, then at the door, then at Y/n.

He offered a damp hand.

He cleared his throat and led the way up the stone steps to the great front door. It was black with age, fitted with an iron knocker shaped like a hound's head. Aldridge produced a heavy key from his pocket and turned it in the lock, and the sound echoed through the house like a stone dropped into a well.

The entrance hall swallowed them whole.

It was vast. A double staircase curved upward into shadow. The floor was black and white marble, polished to a dull gleam. A chandelier hung from the vaulted ceiling, its crystals motionless in the still air. There was no dust. No cobwebs. The air smelled of beeswax and old wood and something faintly floral, like perfume from another century.

He consulted the folder, flipping through typewritten pages.

He paused.

Somewhere far above, a floorboard creaked.

Aldridge looked up. The sound did not repeat. He smiled thinly.

He held out the key.

He glanced again toward the stairs.