Arabella Rose Stay Updated

He sprinted down the hallway that snapped back to its normal length just as he reached it. He took the stairs two at a time, his lungs burning with a vitality that felt stolen. The front door loomed ahead.

"Of course," she said, unlocking the door. "Oh, and Mr. Penhaligon? The new owners are asking if you left any furniture? They said the ballroom is empty, but there’s a strange cold spot in the center of the floor."

The silence in Blackwood Manor was not empty; it was heavy. It sat in the dust motes dancing in the slanted afternoon light and pressed against the tall, arched windows.

"Arabella?" he pushed the door open.

"Arthur."

But he knew, as he felt the unnatural steady rhythm of a heart that would not slow down for decades, that he was the one who would never truly leave. He was a fragment of her house now, wandering the world, ageless and haunted, waiting for the day he would have to return to the only place where he fit.

"Stay."

"I’m not staying," Arthur said, clenching his fists. "I am leaving. You are dead, Arabella. You belong to the past."

"You know I have to go," Arthur said to the empty air. He felt foolish speaking to nothing, but he had learned long ago that in Blackwood Manor, speaking was necessary. "The bank owns it now. They’ll tear down the east wing. They’ll modernize the plumbing."

"Arabella Rose," he whispered to the window, watching the manor fade into the distance. "Stay." arabella rose stay

He spun around. The room looked the same, but the quality of the light had shifted. The sunlight streaming through the window had turned a bruised purple, the color of a storm bruise.

He climbed the main staircase, his hand sliding over the banister worn smooth by generations of anxious grips. He walked down the hallway to the room at the very end: The Rose Room.