The Sweetest Dark by Shana Abe Page A

aristocratic manor homes that dotted the English countryside, a sprawling, five-story wonder of limestone and stained glass and spires commissioned by the present Duke of Idylling after he’d decided to remove his family from Iverson Castle fifteen years before.
    In fifteen years, it had not been finished.
    Walking through its halls, it was easy to imagine that it never would be.
    Even on that day, the day of my first visit to the house, I was struck by its strange and awful beauty. It seemed a construction of elaborate nonsense, of inspiration and madness combined. Rounding each new corner was a lesson in surprise; it was always wise to glance both up and down before committing to the next step.
    Up to see if you were about to be concussed by a stray bit of pipe or scaffolding.
    Down to make certain the floor didn’t suddenly end.
    In time, however, I grew to learn the folly of Tranquility very well.
    Warrens of elaborately paneled hallways led to nowhere. Luxurious rooms of pressed copper and imported woods were left dusty and half complete. Sometimes there was roof overhead, sometimes only sky. A gorgeous grand staircase in the atrium curved sinuously up the wall before ending in open space. The very last step would drop you like a stone two floors down.
    As we motored up the drive, I noticed that the entire south wing tapered off in what looked like the middle of a window, tarps covering the roof and walls, a rubble of bricks and planks exposed to the elements, already dissolving in the salty wind. A solitary old man was stooped low over a retaining wall, slowing troweling mortar along a section at the top.
    â€œAstonishing, isn’t it?” Mrs. Westcliffe was my companion in the chauffeured automobile the duke had sent for us, both of us hanging on for dear life to the straps fixed to the doors.
    â€œVery,” I replied.
    Perhaps it was the silken dress on my body or the golden roses at my shoulder, but I had determined that I was going to be the most perfect, delightful charity student the duke had ever encountered. I was going to stand correctly, speak correctly, smile correctly, listen attentively. I was going to make him positively reel with my perfection, so I added another “Very,” with a trace more awe. Mrs. Westcliffe granted me a glance of approval.
    â€œThe duke designed it himself, every corner. When completed, Tranquility will feature some of the most modern and superb workmanship in the kingdom. Of course, with this dreadful war dragging on, finding enough laborers to finish it all has become something of a chore.”
    I wanted to ask about the fourteen years before that, but today I was the perfect charity student. So I merely nodded in sympathy.
    How do you do, Your Grace? So sorry to hear about your lack of peasant workers. What a rather large bother this war with the kaiser has turned out to be!
    A butler stood at the front doors to welcome us. Our little party from Iverson had taken up two of the duke’s automobiles; Chloe and two of her friends had crowded into the second.
    Apparently, when Armand had invited her to tea to make up for her fictitious game of lawn tennis, she’d taken it to mean she could bring along the other fictitious players. And neither of them, I noticed, was nearly as pretty as she. Not by half. One had a weak chin, and the other badly frizzed hair and a red runny nose.
    Clever Chloe.
    We all five stepped out of the autos and into a brisk spring wind. The girl with the bad hair gave a squeal as her dress flipped up, revealing her knees. She slapped it down again as if she were smashing a bug with both hands, still squealing.
    â€œCome, ladies.” Mrs. Westcliffe brooked no such nonsense from her own garments. Her skirts were firmly in hand as she led the way up the stairs into the house.
    I was the last one in. I paused for a moment to look back at the untilled field before the mansion, the crushed-shell drive and azure sky. Past the