“Take the scenic route, Jones,” Dare calls up to the driver. Jones doesn’t answer, but he does deviate from his route, and before long, I see glimpses of the ocean here and there among the trees and rocks.
“We live a little ways from Hastings. It’s close to Sussex,” Dare tells me, as though I know anything at all about English geography. I nod like I do, because so much of what we say is a pretense now. We go through the motions.
Thirty minutes later, our car is still gliding over the winding ribbons of road, but I finally see a rooftop in the distance, spires and towers poking through trees.
Dare stirs, opening his eyes, and I know we’re almost there.
I crane my neck to see. When I do, I’m stunned beyond words, enough that the breath hitches on my lips.
This can’t be my family’s home.
It’s huge, it’s lavish, it’s creepy.
It’s ancient, it’s stone, it’s beautiful.
A tall stone wall stretches in either direction as far as I can see, encircling the property like an ominous security blanket. It’s so tall, so heavy, and for one brief moment, I wonder if it’s meant to keep people out… or to keep them in.
It’s a foolish notion, I know.
As we pull off the road, large wrought iron gates open in front of our car as if by magic, as if they were pushed by unseen hands. Puffs of mist and fog swirl from the ground and through the tree branches, half concealing whatever lies behind the gate.
Even though the grounds are lush and green, there’s something heavy here, something dark. It’s more than the near constant rain, more than the clouds.
Something that I can’t quite put my finger on.
I’m filled with a strange dread as the car rolls through the gates, as we continue toward the hidden thing. And while the ‘hidden thing’ is just a house, it feels like so much more, like something ominous and almost threatening.
I catch glimpses of it through the branches as we drive, and each glimpse gives me pause.
A steep, gabled roof.
Columns and spires and moss.
Rain drips from the trees, onto the car, onto the driveway, and everything gleams with a muted light.
It’s wet here, and gray, and the word I keep thinking in my head is gothic.
Gothic.
Despite all the beauty and the extravagance here, it still looks a bit terrifying.
I count the beats as we make our way to the house, and I’ve counted to fifteen before the limousine finally comes to a stop on top of a giant circular driveway made of cobblestone.
The house in front of us is made from stone, and it sprawls out as far as I can see. The windows are dark, in all sizes, in all shapes.
Rolling, manicured lawns, an enormous mansion, lush gardens. Stormy clouds roll behind the massive setting of the house, and one thing is clear. Ominous or not, this estate is lavish, to say the least.
“Is my family rich?” I ask dumbly.
Dare glances at me. “Not in the ways that matter.”
He pauses, and there is a rope between us, pulling us together, but at the same time, coiling around us, holding us apart.
“Calla, don’t let your guard down,” he tells me quickly. “This place… it isn’t what it seems. You have to…”
Jones opens the door, and Dare stops speaking abruptly.
I have to what?
“Welcome to Whitley,” Jones tells me with a slight bow. Dare and I climb out and suddenly, I’m nervous.
I’m in a foreign country, getting ready to meet a family consisting of strangers, and I know nothing about them.
It’s daunting.
Dare squeezes my hand briefly, and I let him. Because here, I’m alone.
Here, Dare is the only familiar thing.
Here, he’s the only one who knows me.
Jones leads the way with our bags, and before we even reach the front doors, they open, and a small wrinkled woman stands in the doorway. She’s slightly bent, barely a wisp of a woman, with an olive complexion and her hair completely wrapped in a brightly covered scarf twisted at the top. She looks like she might be a hundred years old.
“Sabine!” Dare greets the elderly woman in a warm hug. The little woman’s arm close around him, and her head barely reaches his chest.