Chapter 2 - The Darkness in the East Wing and the Sourdough StarterThe kitchen of Blackwood Manor was a cavernous, neglected relic of the 1920s. Enormous cast-iron radiators hissed and clanked in the corners, casting a dry, metallic heat across cracked linoleum floors and scarred oak butcher blocks. A massive, six-burner commercial range sat against the back wall like an industrial engine, cold and greasy from weeks of disuse.
When I opened the pantry, my heart sank.
There was no fresh produce, no flour, no butter, no eggs. Just rows of canned soup, boxes of stale cereal, and half a jar of industrial peanut butter. It was the kitchen of a man who had abandoned the art of living long before he had abandoned the house.
“You’re the new lady,” a small voice piped up from the doorway.
I jumped, dropping a box of oatmeal onto the counter. I turned around to find the middle child—about seven years old, with tangled brown hair and dark circles under her eyes—leaning against the doorframe, watching me with quiet intensity.
“I’m Grace,” I said, bending down slightly so I wasn't towering over her. “And you must be Maya. Or is it Chloe?”
“I’m Chloe,” she said softly, walking a few steps into the room. Her eyes drifted to the paper bag on the counter. “What’s that?”
“Scones,” I said, pulling out a still-warm cinnamon-pecan scone from the bag. “I baked them yesterday before I drove up from the city. They’re a little dry, but if you toast them with some butter, they’re not bad.”
Chloe’s eyes widened slightly. She looked around the kitchen as if checking to see if a monster was going to materialize, then stepped forward, took the scone from my hand, and took a cautious bite.
Her face didn't just light up; it softened. It was the expression of a child who hadn't tasted anything made with actual care in months.
“It’s good,” she mumbled around the bite.
“Where are your sisters?” I asked gently, leaning against the counter.
“Lily is upstairs hiding in Daddy’s study,” Chloe said, pointing a sticky finger toward the ceiling. “And Sophie is drawing pictures of dead birds on the back porch.”
I raised an eyebrow. Dead birds?
Before I could process that delightful little detail, heavy footsteps echoed down the stone corridor, and Julian strode into the kitchen, wearing a dark wool coat and leather gloves. He looked like he was heading out into a blizzard, even though the sun was barely clearing the tree line.
“I’m heading into town to the lumber mill,” Julian announced, his voice clipped and efficient. “I’ll be back by dark. There’s a list of supplies on the chalkboard by the pantry. Don't let Sophie near the pond, and don't go into the east wing.”
I stared at him. “The east wing?”
“It’s locked,” Julian said flatly, pulling his gloves tight over his knuckles. “Stay out of it.”
“Mr. Blackwood,” I said, stepping away from the counter. “How am I supposed to cook for your family if there’s no food in the pantry? And more importantly, how am I supposed to make a home for these girls if half the house is off-limits like a crime scene?”
Julian stopped in his tracks. He slowly turned around, his storm-gray eyes locking onto mine with an intensity that could melt lead. He stepped back into the kitchen, closing the distance between us until I had to tilt my head back to meet his gaze.
“This isn't a home, Ms. Miller,” Julian said softly, his voice dropping into a dangerous, gravelly register. “This is a holding pen. You were hired to keep them fed and quiet. Don't play psychologist, don't go exploring, and don't ask questions about what happened in the east wing. Do your job, collect your check at the end of the month, and keep your distance.”
With that, he turned on his heel, walked out the back door, and slammed it shut so hard the windowpanes in the kitchen rattled in their wooden frames.
Chloe stood by the counter, nibbling on her scone, her eyes large and solemn.
“Daddy is always angry when it snows,” she whispered.
I looked down at the empty pantry, then at the chalkboard list of supplies, and finally out the frosted kitchen window where the first tiny flakes of a November blizzard were beginning to drift down from the leaden sky.
Colin had wanted polish, perfection, and a woman who fit neatly into his corporate brochures. He wanted someone who never made a mess and never asked difficult questions.
May you like
Standing in that freezing, broken-down kitchen with a chalkboard full of missing groceries and three children who didn't know how to smile, I realized something liberating.
I wasn't polished anymore. And I was done asking permission to survive.
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