side.”
Seamus had grabbed the stand-mounted floodlights and placed them in the doorway. Sorcha and Séan moved up beside him. Seamus looked at both of them, his expression both fierce and somber. He flicked on the lights.
Sorcha closed her eyes, an instinctive unwillingness to see what was beyond the door. She was holding on to Séan’s forearm, feeling the tension in his muscles, but after a moment of strained silence she felt him relax.
“This is a later period room,” Seamus said, as if he were commenting on the weather.
Sorcha opened her eyes.
The hidden room was large. Where she’d expected stone walls there was wainscoting, with pale blue patterned wallpaper above. A turned over piece of furniture near the door cast a thick shadow, but what she could see of that and a bed against one wall was Victorian in style.
“This explains the bricks,” Seamus said.
“We have a piece like that in our front room,” Séan added, pointing to the armoire on its side by the door.
Seamus picked up the lights and carried them in, Séan following him.
Sorcha hesitated. It was probably just residual fear that caused her to hesitate, but she couldn’t shake the feeling that there was something wrong here.
“Séan, will you help me lift this?” Seamus said.
Sorcha forced herself to follow them into the room, hugging the wall to stay out of their way as they righted the cabinet. One leg had broken, so they carried it to the wall, where they could prop it up. Once it was out of the way, the light spread, illuminating more of the room.
Sorcha’s breath caught.
She took a few tentative steps into the room. Heavy shutters covered the windows, and there were bits of decayed cloth and broken furniture carpeting the wood floors. A modest four-poster bed was the closest intact piece. Trembling, she raised her hand as she passed the bed, looking not at it, but at something on the other side.
A lovely wood crib sat amid the dust and debris. Tattered lace draped the railings. Sorcha reached in and picked up a small square pillow. The lace cracked under her hands. She bit her lip and swallowed against the tears that spilled down her cheeks.
“It’s the nursery,” she said.
“Sorcha? Did you say something?” Séan’s voice was warm in the cold of the room.
She stepped aside and turned, letting the light hit the crib. “This is a nursery.”
“Ah, Sorcha, don’t cry.”
She turned her back to Séan, not wanting him to see her tears. She placed the pillow back into the crib and then dabbed her eyes with her sleeve. She was midway into the room, but the floodlights didn’t reach far. Despite the fact that it couldn’t be much past half noon, the room was dark as night, the shuttered windows made it seem as dark as the grave.
She couldn’t stand it.
Filled with the need to let in the light, Sorcha crossed the room, kicking bits of debris out of her way. Because this room had three exterior walls, there were windows everywhere, but she wanted to be away from that crib.
There was a fireplace in the front wall, a massive, deep thing, clearly a remnant of the original architecture, though it had been covered in the same white wood paneling of the wainscoting. A fireplace screen as tall as her shoulder was half-fallen over, the stained glass insets broken out. Windows flanked the fireplace, and she went to the one closest to the door. The latch for the heavy shutters was rusted shut. She smacked it with her palm until the bolt slid back, flecks of coppery rust falling down. She pulled, and with a yank, the shutters gave way, hinges screaming as they opened for the first time in a hundred years.
The glass window was dirty, and a broken pane had allowed soil and leaves to build up in the space between that and the shutter. Sorcha took a step back as the debris fell to the floor in soggy clumps.
As disgusting as it was, at least now there was some sunlight. The sunny morning had turned into a cloudy afternoon, and the
Seamus had grabbed the stand-mounted floodlights and placed them in the doorway. Sorcha and Séan moved up beside him. Seamus looked at both of them, his expression both fierce and somber. He flicked on the lights.
Sorcha closed her eyes, an instinctive unwillingness to see what was beyond the door. She was holding on to Séan’s forearm, feeling the tension in his muscles, but after a moment of strained silence she felt him relax.
“This is a later period room,” Seamus said, as if he were commenting on the weather.
Sorcha opened her eyes.
The hidden room was large. Where she’d expected stone walls there was wainscoting, with pale blue patterned wallpaper above. A turned over piece of furniture near the door cast a thick shadow, but what she could see of that and a bed against one wall was Victorian in style.
“This explains the bricks,” Seamus said.
“We have a piece like that in our front room,” Séan added, pointing to the armoire on its side by the door.
Seamus picked up the lights and carried them in, Séan following him.
Sorcha hesitated. It was probably just residual fear that caused her to hesitate, but she couldn’t shake the feeling that there was something wrong here.
“Séan, will you help me lift this?” Seamus said.
Sorcha forced herself to follow them into the room, hugging the wall to stay out of their way as they righted the cabinet. One leg had broken, so they carried it to the wall, where they could prop it up. Once it was out of the way, the light spread, illuminating more of the room.
Sorcha’s breath caught.
She took a few tentative steps into the room. Heavy shutters covered the windows, and there were bits of decayed cloth and broken furniture carpeting the wood floors. A modest four-poster bed was the closest intact piece. Trembling, she raised her hand as she passed the bed, looking not at it, but at something on the other side.
A lovely wood crib sat amid the dust and debris. Tattered lace draped the railings. Sorcha reached in and picked up a small square pillow. The lace cracked under her hands. She bit her lip and swallowed against the tears that spilled down her cheeks.
“It’s the nursery,” she said.
“Sorcha? Did you say something?” Séan’s voice was warm in the cold of the room.
She stepped aside and turned, letting the light hit the crib. “This is a nursery.”
“Ah, Sorcha, don’t cry.”
She turned her back to Séan, not wanting him to see her tears. She placed the pillow back into the crib and then dabbed her eyes with her sleeve. She was midway into the room, but the floodlights didn’t reach far. Despite the fact that it couldn’t be much past half noon, the room was dark as night, the shuttered windows made it seem as dark as the grave.
She couldn’t stand it.
Filled with the need to let in the light, Sorcha crossed the room, kicking bits of debris out of her way. Because this room had three exterior walls, there were windows everywhere, but she wanted to be away from that crib.
There was a fireplace in the front wall, a massive, deep thing, clearly a remnant of the original architecture, though it had been covered in the same white wood paneling of the wainscoting. A fireplace screen as tall as her shoulder was half-fallen over, the stained glass insets broken out. Windows flanked the fireplace, and she went to the one closest to the door. The latch for the heavy shutters was rusted shut. She smacked it with her palm until the bolt slid back, flecks of coppery rust falling down. She pulled, and with a yank, the shutters gave way, hinges screaming as they opened for the first time in a hundred years.
The glass window was dirty, and a broken pane had allowed soil and leaves to build up in the space between that and the shutter. Sorcha took a step back as the debris fell to the floor in soggy clumps.
As disgusting as it was, at least now there was some sunlight. The sunny morning had turned into a cloudy afternoon, and the
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