Chapter 2
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Beneath her surface calm was an increasingly firm resolve.
That door to the studio, explicitly forbidden to enter, had become in her mind the entrance to a puzzle that must be solved. There might lie the antidote, and certainly deeper dangers lurked within.
The old studio, the place Emily had once used.
The servants said that after the "accident," the master had locked it shut, freezing time within. The prohibition itself was the most obvious marker.
Elsie needed to get inside, and it had to be when Sebastian was away.
The opportunity arrived Thursday afternoon.
The old butler informed her that the master, due to urgent business, would depart early the next morning and be away from the estate for two days.
Elsie lowered her eyelashes, revealing just the right amount of "Emily-like" reluctance. Yet her heart silently tightened with anticipation.
The next day, she stood behind the curtain, watching the black car disappear. The manor remained orderly as usual, but the omnipresent sense of oppression seemed to dilute with the master's departure. She needed to wait for nightfall.
Time crawled by.
Elsie ate, walked, and browsed through art books as usual, each movement carefully measured, showing no hint of impatience.
When the last light in the servants' quarters winked out and the deep silence of night completely enveloped the mansion, she knew the time had come.
At one o'clock in the morning, Elsie, dressed in dark casual clothes, slipped out of her bedroom like a shadow. The hallway sconces cast a dim yellow light, and the thick carpet absorbed all sounds.
Her heartbeat thundered in her ears. She avoided the surveillance cameras and headed toward the third floor. At this moment, she was "Emily"—even if seen, she could claim sleepwalking or nostalgia for familiar places as an excuse.
This was a gamble.
The third floor was darker, with a heavier scent of dust. That carved wooden door stood silently at the end of the corridor. She reached out and grasped the brass doorknob, ice-cold to the touch. It wouldn't budge. Locked, as expected.
But she came prepared. The casual conversation about spare keys she "happened" to overhear a few days ago now proved useful.
She held her breath and pulled out a slender hairpin—a survival skill "borrowed" from a careless maid.
Her fingertips sensed the subtle metal texture of the lock cylinder as sweat beaded on her forehead. Time passed in silence. Click. A soft sound.
She took a deep breath and twisted the doorknob again. This time, it turned. As she pushed the door open, the stale smell of dust, paint, and turpentine wafted out. She slipped inside and closed the door soundlessly behind her.
Moonlight filtered through the dirty window, outlining the silhouettes of an easel, scattered canvases, and dried-up palettes. Everything was motionless, like a life suddenly interrupted. Elsie turned on her small flashlight, its beam sweeping across the room. An old paint-stained smock draped over a chair back, scattered sketchbooks... Emily's presence washed over her, bringing with it sharp pain. She carefully examined the finished and unfinished paintings, mostly bright landscapes and still lifes, consistent with the "sunshine genius" public image. But intuition told her there was more. If only beauty remained, why seal it away?
The flashlight beam stopped at a corner of the wall. A large, covered canvas frame, unlike the others casually placed around, was thoroughly draped, as if meant to be hidden. A strong premonition seized her. She approached, fingers trembling slightly, pinching the dust-covered edge of the drape. She paused, as if seeking permission. Then, suddenly, she yanked it away.
Dust danced wildly in the beam of light. Elsie gasped, stepping back half a step, causing the flashlight beam to waver.
The scene on the canvas made her blood run cold.
There were no bright colors. Only somber, almost ink-like deep blue and oppressive dark red.
The composition was distorted, the brushstrokes frenzied, filled with painful struggle. In the center of the painting, a blurred human figure fell through darkness, limbs twisted, face elongated, with only terrified, hollow eye sockets remaining. The background consisted of sharp lines intertwined like thorns, resembling ominous vines, poised to devour the human form.
This wasn't the Emily she knew! This despair, fear, and oppression sent chills down her spine. What horrific vision had her sister witnessed before death? What torment had she endured to create such a nightmare?
Elsie endured the discomfort and leaned in for a closer look. In the lower right corner, near the signature in the chaotic dark red background, there was a pattern drawn in a deeper color, almost unconsciously sketched.
A small and blurry emblem.
She wiped away the dust. The emblem had a peculiar style, not the elegant flying bird of the Deville Family. It looked more like a twisted, thorny ring, or a strangely styled ring pattern, encircling an indistinguishable symbol.
An unfamiliar emblem. She had never seen it before. It didn't belong to the Deville Family. Was it a random doodle, or some kind of secret hint, a cry for help, or a mark pointing to the real culprit?
"This doesn't belong to the Deville Family..." she whispered, her throat tightening.
This locked studio, this desperate painting, this strange emblem, all pointed to a cruel fact: Emily's death was no accident, but a conspiracy.
Her long-held suspicions were now confirmed in the darkest way possible. Her gentle, sunshine-like sister had been consumed by such profound fear in her final moments.
This realization hit her like a sledgehammer. Her body turned cold, forcing her to lean against the frigid wall, struggling to breathe in the dust-filled air.
The fire of vengeance still burned within her heart, but it had quietly merged with a determination to uncover the truth for her sister and solve this horrifying mystery. Her goal was no longer singular.
Just as she was shaken to her core by this terrifying revelation, her defenses at their most vulnerable—
Outside the corridor, approaching from a distance, came the sound of clear, unhurried footsteps.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
The footsteps were particularly jarring in the deathly silence, and they were undoubtedly heading toward the art studio.
Elsie's blood froze instantly. Wasn't Sebastian supposed to return tomorrow? Who would be walking toward this forgotten corner at one in the morning? A night guard? Or had he set a trap all along?
Panic washed over her like ice water. She hurriedly switched off the flashlight and hastily threw the cover back over the painting, trying to restore everything to its original state. The footsteps had already reached outside the door. Looking around, there was nowhere to hide. Her heart pounded in her throat.
It was over. She was completely trapped.
The doorknob made a subtle yet distinct metallic friction sound as someone gripped it.
