“Look, Freya, my darling,” Lady Iris said, her voice a little brighter than before, though a subtle tremor ran beneath it. “We’ve arrived.”
Freya pressed her face even closer to the carriage window, peering out. The neatly aligned trees that had signaled their approach now opened onto a vast, manicured landscape. The estate was indeed enormous, a sprawling edifice of dark grey stone that seed to rise from the earth itself, its many towers and turrets piercing the sky like ancient, sleeping giants. In the distance, she could just make out the glint of a lake, far larger and more sombre-looking than the cheerful one they had left behind.
As their carriage passed through imposing iron gates, flanked by stone griffins whose carved eyes seed to follow their progress, Freya noticed the ticulous order of the grounds. The driveway was lined with ancient oaks, their branches forming a solemn archway. But as they drew nearer to the main house, a singular, striking feature dominated the formal gardens: roses. Everywhere, there were roses, but only of the deepest, blood-red hue, their petals like velvet against the dark green foliage.
“Oh, Mother,” Freya breathed, her earlier unease montarily forgotten in the face of this dramatic display. “So many roses! Only red ones. Are they for a special occasion?”
Lady Iris managed a faint smile. “The Valerius estate has always been known for its red roses, my dear. A… tradition.”
The carriage drew to a halt before a massive oak door, its surface studded with iron. Almost imdiately, the door creaked open, and a line of servants, led by a stern-faced butler with silver hair and an impeccable black suit, erged. Another carriage, laden with their luggage, pulled up behind theirs. Freya spotted Mrs. Gable, the kindly woman hired as her nanny and companion from the lake house, peering out with a nervous expression.
Lord Alaric stepped out first, extending a hand to Lady Iris, then to Freya. The air here felt cooler, heavier than it had at the lake house. As her father began to speak quietly with the butler, Freya glanced towards the tall windows flanking the entrance. They were all covered from within by thick, heavy velvet curtains, blocking any view of the interior and casting the entrance hall into shadow, even in the bright morning light. It felt as if the house was holding its breath.
“Are you ready, Freya?” Lady Iris asked, her voice soft. She squeezed Freya’s hand, a gesture that felt more for her own reassurance than Freya’s. Her father caught her mother’s eye over Freya’s head and gave a small, almost imperceptible nod.
Freya, clutching her mother’s hand tightly, walked beside her father into the cavernous entrance hall. The butler instructed so footn regarding the luggage and Mrs. Gable, directing them to the family’s wing. The sheer scale of the hall was overwhelming. Marble floors glead under the light of a massive, wrought-iron chandelier hanging far above, its candles unlit. A grand staircase of dark, polished wood swept upwards into the gloom of the upper floors.
And at the very top of that staircase, a figure stood.
As if sensing their arrival, she began to descend, her movents fluid and graceful, a silent glide rather than a walk. Freya’s breath caught in her throat.
The father, Lord Alaric, imdiately inclined his head in a deep, formal bow. Lady Iris’s grip on Freya’s hand loosened abruptly as she sank into a low, respectful curtsy.
Freya, however, just stared. She was srized. The woman descending was the most beautiful person she had ever seen. Her hair was a cascade of spun gold, intricately braided in a half-up style, with tendrils framing a face of perfect, delicate features. Her eyes, when they finally t Freya’s, were the clearest, most startling blue, like a sumr sky after a storm. She wore a gown of deep sapphire velvet that seed to drink the light, making her appear almost luminous against the dark wood of the staircase.
Alia Valerius reached the bottom of the stairs. Her gaze swept over Lord Alaric and Lady Iris, still in their respective bows and curtsies, before settling on Freya. A small, almost imperceptible smile touched her lips.
“You look so pretty,” Freya blurted out, her voice echoing slightly in the vast space, forgetting all decorum. “Like an angel coming down from heaven!”
A soft, lodious chuckle escaped Alia. It was a sound like tiny silver bells, yet it held an undertone that made the hairs on Freya’s arms prickle.
“Freya!” Lady Iris hissed from her curtsy, her face flushing. “Your manners! Curtsy to Lady Alia!”
“Oh!” Freya exclaid, startled back to the present. She attempted the deep curtsy her mother had drilled into her, but her awe and haste made her wobble precariously, nearly toppling over.
Alia’s smile widened, a flicker of amusent in her clear blue eyes. She extended a slender, pale hand, not to help Freya, but in a regal gesture towards Lord Alaric. “Lord Alaric, Lady Iris,” she said, her voice as smooth and cool as polished marble. “Thank you for returning. The estate has… awaited its master.” Her gaze flickered back to Freya, lingering for a mont. “We shall speak further at dinner. The butler will show you to your chambers.”
With a slight nod, she turned and glided away, disappearing down a long, shadowed corridor, leaving a faint, almost undetectable scent of roses and sothing else… sothing wilder, like a forest after rain.
Monts later, the butler was leading them through a series of opulent, silent rooms to a private wing. They entered a comfortably furnished living room, adjoining several bedrooms. Mrs. Gable was already there, overseeing the placent of their trunks.
As soon as the butler departed, Freya turned to her mother, her eyes shining. “Mother, was that her? Was that my sister Alia? She’s even prettier than the princesses in my storybooks! Did you see her hair?”
Lady Iris sank onto a velvet chaise lounge, her face pale. “Yes, Freya, darling. That was… Lady Alia.”
Lord Alaric stood by the heavily curtained window, staring out at a section of the red rose garden visible below. He didn’t turn. “She is… striking, indeed,” he said, his voice carefully neutral.
Freya looked from her mother’s drawn face to her father’s rigid back. A strange feeling settled in her chest. They didn’t seem happy or excited to see Alia, not like she was. They looked… different. Not like the parents she knew from the sunny lake house. Here, in this grand, dim estate, they seed smaller, their voices quieter.
“You both look… tired,” Freya said, her brow furrowing. “Don’t you like Alia? I think she’s wonderful.”
Lady Iris forced a smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes. “Of course, we… respect Lady Alia, Freya. She is very important. It’s just been a long journey, and this house… it holds many mories for your father and .”
“And a great deal of responsibility, now,” Lord Alaric added, finally turning from the window. The look he exchanged with his wife was heavy with unspoken words. They both looked mortified, Freya thought, though she didn’t quite understand the word. It was like seeing a great pressure upon them, a weight she couldn’t na but could certainly feel in the strained silence that now filled their private chambers. The mystery of Alia, her ‘sister,’ had just deepened, wrapped in the grandeur and the shadows of their ancestral ho.
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