| |
Neutral
|
Adelaide was only minorly concerned that she hadn't heard his approaching steps. Instead of pondering this, she found herself backed into a wall, Beadaun's hands pressing her into the papering. Instinctually, one of her hands gripped his own, still pressed into her waist. The other came to grip his shoulder as she regained her bearings. He was so close that she could smell him, bergamot and sandlewood assaulting her senses. As he pressed closer to her, she studied the slightly unhinged look in his eyes, the way his teeth bared at her in a near feral imitation of a grimace. She had no response for him, mouth opening as she moved closer - no, further away, pressing her head into the wall. His eyes were alight with something predatory, and she felt her own widen in response. She had never felt like prey before, but here she was - the sacrificial lamb, hunted by the starved lion. Without giving her a chance to respond, he pushed away, shedding her of his hands. She refused to notice the warmth he took with him, or the way her feet took a small step in his direction. At the mention of off-limits rooms, she perked up, watching his eyes to see if they shifted one way or another to indicate whether those rooms were here. Before she could determine what may or may not have existed on this floor, however, he turned away, taking his gaze with him. Her chest deflated slightly - what if the room she needed was locked? She hadn't yet decided if she was willing to show him the locket. He might rip it from her neck, take it to his mother and call her a thief before she had the chance to explain. When he looked at her again, his gaze was no longer tinged with fury, but the exasperation still lingered. "I'm sorry," she whispered, keeping her voice level. She didn't want him to know that he affected her, refused to give him that ammunition. "I just..." With a sigh, she stepped toward him, gripping his wrist in her own. She had nearly grabbed his hand, but the gesture felt too intimate, to unpredictable after the outburst he had. She held him firm, dark eyes watching hazel as she offered him this bit of peace. "If you take this from me, I will never forgive you. That may not hold much weight now, Beaudan Morcant, but I promise you, I will make your life hell." With that, she dropped his arm, reaching up to unclasp the locket that hadn't left her neck since it was given to her. "When you were talking, I remembered something. Rather, someone." Her voice was soft, delicately even. She had yet to decide if Beaudan was a companion or a caged animal, and she wouldn't make the mistake of provoking him now. She willed her hand to steady as she held out the locket for him, dropping it into his palm. "Where is this room? I need to find this room, and I know it's nearby, because it's in this portrait." She paced slightly, nerves fizzling out as her adrenaline faded. A look at her wrist indicated she had been traversing the house for nearly two hours, only adding to her growing dismay. Two hours, and yet she had only found a single portrait of the room she required. Adelaide had hoped that she wouldn't need Beaudan, that she could find what she needed and get out without consequence, but she didn't know the house or its secrets like he would. "That locket was given to me when I was nine, by a close friend of my father. I hadn't even thought to consider it was him who passed until I remembered my Uncle Blackthorne who used to traipse around with my parents every few months." She couldn't stop the bitter edge that laced her words, nor the way her eyes flickered to his with the hope of recognition. Surely the locket had a real room within it - she hadn't been certain when she took off, but the portrait at her back was so similar that it simply had to exist. |
|
|
| |
Darkseeker
|
Beau’s entire body tensed, his shoulders rigid with unspoken emotion as the mention of those *off-limits* rooms lingered in the air. His sharp hazel eyes darkened, flickering with something that looked far too old for someone his age, a mix of bitterness and grief. His anger toward Adelaide’s impulsiveness had only amplified the weight of memories he'd tried desperately to bury. The first two rooms he’d named were sacred—hallowed ground in their own ways. The old man’s study was a fortress of secrets and order, and Beau, like all the Morcant children, understood the sanctity of that space. Once a year—*once*—on New Year’s Day, they were allowed to cross the threshold. It was a family tradition as old as Beau could remember: Alistair Morcant would sit in his great leather chair, his gaze heavy and knowing, and ask each of his grandchildren what skill they wanted to cultivate in the coming year. A lesson in discipline. In ambition. They would leave the room feeling older, sharper, yet still bound by that unshakable rule. Nobody entered the study otherwise. Nobody dared. Not even Edie had broken that rule, and Edie was the kind of girl who lived for loopholes. Then there was *Nan’s room*. The cherry wood furniture, the emerald-green velvet curtains that framed the windows like a piece of art—it had been left untouched for years. A shrine to a woman Beau had never known but still adored in the quiet, wistful way one admires family legends. There were no tangible memories of her to cling to, just whispers, stories shared in hushed tones late at night. He liked it that way. Nan’s memory felt fragile and precious, and the thought of those rooms being invaded—of her absence being tainted—filled him with uncharacteristic protectiveness. And then there was *Eden’s*. Beau felt that ache twist deep in his chest, sharp as glass. Edie’s room was the ghost that haunted him the most. The smart, sharp-witted sister who had run away—who had chosen a life elsewhere, leaving him behind to puzzle out the pieces she’d left scattered in her wake. He hadn’t set foot in her room since she’d gone. He couldn’t bear it. The idea of looking inside and not finding her bent over a puzzle or sketching something brilliant made his throat close. He dropped his head, letting the torrent of emotions wash over him. The overwhelming mixture of grief, anger, and frustration threatened to consume him whole. And standing so close to Adelaide wasn’t helping. She was an unwelcome storm in the house’s delicate balance, kicking up old memories like dust. Beau buried his face in his hands, his breath heavy. His skin felt too tight, his own body unfamiliar as the weight of it all sank into his bones. And just as the pressure built to an unbearable pitch, a hand caught his wrist, pulling him back to reality. Startled, he jerked his head up to find Adelaide standing before him, her expression unreadable but steady. His scowl deepened instinctively, his body snapping to attention. He wanted to tear his hand free, to remind her that he was *not* a man to be handled, that he was *not* a toy for her to yank about whenever it suited her. And he absolutely hated the sound of his nearly full name spilling from her lips, too sweet and too sharp all at once. But before he could snap back, Adelaide was pressing something into his hand. A locket. The chain slid cool and smooth into his palm, pooling there like liquid silver. The unexpected weight of it startled him into silence, and his curiosity flickered to life despite himself. His anger cooled slightly, replaced with something quieter, more thoughtful. Beau tilted his head, studying the locket as he slowly, almost reverently, opened it. The inside held no great secret, nothing obvious or shocking, but Adelaide’s words caught him before his frustration could resurface. Her eyes flicked to the portrait hanging nearby—a painting of a room. His gaze followed hers, landing on the portrait as he processed her words. Slowly, the light in his hazel eyes dimmed, and his expression shifted, softening with a strange sort of pity. Beau tsked softly, exhaling through his nose as he reached for Adelaide’s hand. His touch was gentle as he lifted her fingers and uncurled them, letting the locket slip back through them like water. “I’m very sorry, princess,” he said, the pet name rolling off his tongue with a smoothness that made it impossible to tell whether he meant it as sarcasm or endearment. “But that room? It’s *not* here.” He glanced back at the portrait, his lips twitching into a frown. “That’s Montclair—the lodge. The old man had this painting done ages ago. It’s of my mother and her sister, Zara. We normally spend Christmas there.” The words hung heavy in the air, Beau’s voice quieter now, tinged with thoughtfulness as he pieced it all together. He tilted his head, his brows drawing together as he studied the portrait again. It made no sense. Why would Alistair commission a portrait of Montclair, with the two sisters in it, only to hang it here at Valenrow? A photo would have sufficed. *Why a painting?* And why did the room itself seem to hold more prominence than the figures inside it? Beau kicked at the trim absentmindedly, trying to summon up the memory of Montclair in his mind. It wasn’t hard. The lodge was unforgettable—built from thick stone with its impossibly high ceilings, enormous fireplaces, and luxurious isolation. It was nestled deep in the hills, with a private ski slope carved out just for the Morcants. Beau’s lips quirked at the memory of those Christmases: the dangerous games he and his brothers played, tumbling down the slopes and bruising ribs, only to soothe their wounded egos in the hot tub afterward. He could almost feel the cold sting of the snow on his cheeks and the steam rising in thick plumes around him. But then he shook the thought away. This wasn’t about fond memories. This was about the clue. His smirk returned, full and bright, as he turned back to Adelaide. “Knowing the old man, I’m guessing we’ll need to go there and see for ourselves.” The idea delighted him more than he cared to admit. Montclair was *his* place—his family’s retreat, a world away from Valenrow’s suffocating halls. Adia wouldn’t follow them there, too consumed by her grief and her distrust of Adelaide. Their father? Too busy untangling the web of Alistair’s businesses. It would just be the siblings—and her. Beau couldn’t help but relish the idea. Montclair would give Adelaide a glimpse of the *real* Morcants—not just the spoiled, sharp-tongued rich boys she seemed to see. Away from Valenrow, the walls came down. And Beau, for all his wariness of her, wasn’t above a little strategy. If they were more at ease, maybe she’d open up, let something slip. Besides, the thought of an adventure—of *winning*—set his blood thrumming with anticipation. He turned toward her fully, his most charming, devil-may-care smile spreading across his face. “Well, princess,” he drawled, his voice rich and teasing, “pack your bags. We’ll leave immediately.” The light danced in his hazel eyes, the fire of the chase reigniting. For once, Beau Morcant had something to look forward to. And if the girl thought she could outpace him—outsmart him—she was sorely mistaken. It was his draw now. |
|
|
| |
Neutral
|
The tenderness with which Beaudan took the locket stilled Adelaide's mind. As she watched him delicately fiddle with the clasp, she found herself mezmerized by his hands, the gently slope of his fingers as he traced the portrait within. The gently grip of his hands, so at odds with his previously callous tongue, was foreign, entirely uncharacteristic, and so unexpected that she nearly dropped the locket when he returned it. Her fingers struggled to maintain a grip on the metal chain as she latched it around her neck once more, feeling its weight ground her. The same hand he had gripped came to rest on the face of the locket, providing solace to her warring thoughts. Thoughts which were promptly shattered by the use of a new pet name. Adelaide cringed before she could control her expression, fingers coming to fist the locket she had previously been petting. Of all the names, he had to choose the worst. His gaze flickered back to the portrait, and at her side she threw a near-invisible gesture at him, eyes rolling slightly. Her formerly kind thoughts were replaced by those she had grown accustomed to in her short stay - irritation at his presence trumping the rest. As he observed the painting, she observed him, noting the way his face contorted slightly as he thought. The room wasn't here, which was a slight inconvenience. Nevertheless, his exploration of the painting sent her own thoughts reeling. Montclair lodge wasn't a place she had heard of, but given the publicity of the family, she was sure it was available on the public domain. As soon as she got away from him, she would search it and book the first flight out. Like he had read her mind, Beaudan decided in the moment that they would be leaving for the estate. She smiled at him, a thin, empty smile that she hoped conveyed nervous anticipation rather than devious scheming. If he wanted to leave, she would follow suit, pretend to pack her bags - which hadn't been touched since she arrived. In fact, she was sure they were still in the car waiting to find a home. When he turned to her, his smile was near blinding, charisma oozing out of him. Adelaide couldn't help but return the sentiment, flashing him a smile as she batted her eyes and nodded. This time, she was prepared for the pet name, and the only indication she was opposed to it was a minute twitch of her eye. "Of course, darling," she replied, the word dripping with mock adoration. "I'll pack now. We should be there before morning light." Turning, she threw one last simpering grin at him, before following the hall to the main stairs. She found them quickly, thankful this wing of the estate had only one main hall, and rushed to the door, politely nodding at anybody she passed. She subtly glanced around the front of the manor, smile becoming genuine as she noted nobody was around. Without turning back, she opened her car door and sped off before the engine had warmed. The drive to the airport was filled with incohesive mumbling as her music blared. "Why did daddy know..." "Blackthorne, the tricky...full of secrets.." "Show him who I am..." "Dumb Beaudan and his dumb smile..." Her fingers drummed anxiously against the steering wheel as she cut across the line of cars to the furthest wing of the airport. It was no valet, but private parking, security, and waiting areas were something Adelaide would never grow tired of. Once parked, she pulled her phone out, searching Montclair lodge - the address, thankfully, was the first result. She loved Colorado, especially at this time of year - the leaves had just begun to change, and the mountain scenery reminded her of trips with her father. For him, they had been strictly business, but he had always ensured Adelaide got time to explore whatever city they were visiting. Whether they arrived a day early or departed a day late, her father would always take her to the local shops and cafes, buying her whatever trinkets she eyed for longer than five seconds. She had never claimed favoritism but - her siblings never got to go on business trips. The ticket desk was empty save one tired-looking boy, who sat up straight as she approached. She handed him her driver's license, smirking as his eyes grew wide. Having a well-renowned father definitely had its perks. Within the hour, she was boarded on her flight, the seat comfortably plush beneath her as the plane began to taxi. The cabin was relatively empty, and she had upgraded to first-class with no fuss. All that stood between her and Montclair's secrets was a five hour flight and a twenty minute drive from the airport. She found herself grinning as she checked once more for a familiar face in the cabin. It seemed the Morcant boys hadn't finished packing in time to catch this flight. The ride itself was uneventful. She had little to do aside from pondering what significance the ski lodge may hold in the grand scheme Alistair had set up. Perhaps the lodge itself was what had been stolen - but that didn't make much sense, she would have remembered a property in the mountains. It could have been stolen prior to her birth, but her father had never been one to sit idle while something as large as a home was stolen. Was there something within the lodge that held significance? Adelaide couldn't imagine anything of great value being stored in a seasonal home, collecting dust through the years. At some point she had fallen asleep, and she awoke to the bump of the wheels hitting tarmac. She rubbed the sleep from her eyes, groggy. It must be past midnight her time - she would have to get used to the time difference quickly if she wanted to make the most of her stay. Once departed, her bags were given to her and she hailed the first taxi she saw, murmuring the address to the driver as she continued to wake up. The drive was shorter than she expected, and the driver let out a low whistle as they turned the corner to the property. It was still a bit of a drive up the hill, but from the bottom, the entire lodge was visible, stark against the snow-capped mountains and starlit night sky. She laughed, nodding her agreement at his assessment, but her admiration was cut short by the sight of three figures standing at the gate. Quickly, she pulled a few bills from her pocket and handed them to the driver, dismissing him when he tried to return a decent sum. She opened the car door, eyes jumping between each figure. "You've got to be kidding me," she huffed, fury causing her cheeks to redden. As the driver came around to grab her bags, the shortest of the figures waved at her, dramatically flailing his hand about. "Hello, Adelaide!" |
|
|
| |
Darkseeker
|
The Morcant boys never did *anything* halfway—least of all travel. A trip to Montclair was no exception. Beau had been packing a bag, humming under his breath, when a maid knocked timidly at his door, wringing her hands as if she might faint.
"Sir," she stammered, "the young lady—Miss Adelaide—she’s *gone*. She left not five minutes ago!" For a heartbeat, Beau froze. Then, much to the maid’s utter bewilderment, he burst out laughing. The sound was sharp and full-throated, echoing through the dark mahogany-paneled halls of Valenrow.
"Of *course* she did!" he snorted, wiping a mirthful tear from his eye. "Adelaide packing herself off instead of coming with us—no surprise there. I’d wager she got tired of me calling her *princess*." The grin curled on his lips again at the thought. He'd been half-tempted to use the word in every sentence just to see how red she’d turn. Once he’d waved the maid off, Beau finished tossing his essentials into his leather duffel. Then came the task of collecting his brothers. Callum—ever the picture of their mother’s discipline—was packed and waiting by the door, meticulously organized bags at his feet, a bored look on his face. "You took long enough," he grumbled.
Dallas, the youngest, arrived disheveled and grinning, dragging a duffel almost as big as he was. "Relax, Cal," Beau chimed. "We’re going *skiing*, not off to war." What followed was typical Morcant chaos: an argument over who had packed too many bags, another over who was being a *problem*, and finally, an entirely unprovoked debate on who was the ugliest of the three—a conversation that Dallas lost, though not without protest. By the time they piled into the Land Rover, the tension had dissipated into easy banter. Until, of course, Cal insisted on driving at 127 miles per hour down the highway. Beau yawned theatrically in the passenger seat.
"You know," he drawled, "some of us have *nothing* to prove, Callum."
Cal ignored him, his grip on the wheel firm and unbothered. Dallas, wedged in the back seat, muttered something about maniacs and wished he’d opted to ride in the trunk instead. Thankfully, the airstrip soon came into view, its floodlights carving out long shadows against the ground. --- The Morcants’ private jet was, in true Morcant fashion, a masterpiece of understated luxury. Plush velvet seats—each embroidered with the family crest in gold thread—lined the cabin. The bar cart gleamed with crystal decanters, ready to serve guests who rarely waited for *anyone* to serve them. Beau slouched into his usual seat, legs stretched far enough to bother Cal. Across from him, Callum poured himself a glass of red wine with the air of a prince on his throne. Beau watched the liquid swirl with longing.
"Not happening," Cal said without looking up.
"Just one sip," Beau wheedled, though his grin betrayed no hope. Instead, he snagged an olive from the cocktail stash reserved for their father, ignoring the way Cal’s brow furrowed in disapproval. Dallas had disappeared to the back of the plane, grumbling about homework and *responsibility*. The price of getting to travel, Adia Morcant had decreed, was an A-grade education. Beau had no intention of testing their mother’s iron resolve, though he was happy enough to let Dallas bear the brunt of it. For once, the flight passed quietly. Beau managed to steal a small pour of Cal’s wine when his brother was distracted, then slept it off with his legs draped dramatically across two seats. Callum scowled as the plane jolted softly into its descent. --- Montclair emerged out of the snowy darkness like something from a fairy tale—its stone facade sharp and elegant against the glow of the low, winter moon. The house, with its lofty ceilings and thick fireplaces, stood like a sentinel against the surrounding mountains, as private as it was opulent. Beau was already halfway out of the Land Rover when Cal stopped to punch in the gate code. The snow had begun to fall again, soft and feather-light. Dallas, ever the opportunist, chose that moment to shove Beau into a snowbank. The older Morcant yelped as he disappeared into the powdery white, only to drag his little brother in with him. Both emerged soaked, sputtering curses and snow. "What is *wrong* with you two?" Cal sighed. That was when the headlights appeared. All three brothers paused, squinting at the beam cutting through the dark. It wasn’t unheard of for people to stop and gawk at Montclair during the day, but at *three in the morning*? Unlikely. Dallas, inexplicably cheerful, waved. "Hello there!"
Beau swatted at him. "Don’t be nice!" he hissed. "What if it’s some lunatic?" But it wasn’t. The figure that emerged from the car—the silhouette becoming clearer as she strode forward—made Beau freeze. *Adelaide.* His hand shot out, sending Dallas sprawling back into the snow with a muttered "traitor." Beau stood tall, brushing the ice from his hair, and forced a lazy drawl into his voice.
"Well, *Princess*," he said, deliberately emphasizing the word, "looks like you didn’t think this through, did you? Even if you got here before us, did you really think you’d get inside? You’re not exactly James Bond." --- Getting into the house was a messy affair. Tromping through knee-deep snow, the boys abandoned all attempts at decorum. Beau nearly slipped twice, much to Callum’s delight, and Dallas insisted on making snow angels instead of carrying in his bag. By the time they finally stumbled into Montclair’s grand foyer, soaked to the bone and grinning like children, it was well past three-fifteen. The shouting began immediately. "I’m taking the big room!" Dallas declared, boots dripping as he sprinted toward the stairs.
"Absolutely not—you’ll be in the basement!" Beau argued.
Callum, predictably, ignored them both and started peeling off layers, already focused on starting a fire in the great stone hearth. Within minutes, bags lay forgotten near the entrance, shoes abandoned in haphazard piles. The massive lodge hummed with life again. Cal had managed to get a roaring fire going, and Beau, claiming his rightful title as *Pancake King*, set about raiding the kitchen. "Fruit duty," he ordered, tossing a knife and some apples at Dallas, who accepted the task begrudgingly.
"We’re making pancakes at *four in the morning*?" Callum deadpanned.
"Travel makes us hungry," Beau replied cheerfully, cracking eggs into a mixing bowl. The scent of frying bacon soon filled the air. Dallas whooped at the discovery, nearly dropping the fruit knife. Beau flicked pancake batter at Callum, who retaliated by tossing an apple core in his direction. Laughter came easily now—the grief-soaked halls of Valenrow felt a world away. The clue, the portrait, and Adelaide’s motives were all but forgotten. For now, there were pancakes, bacon, and a fresh blanket of snow calling to them outside. The games could wait. Later, they’d ski. |
|
|
| |
Neutral
|
There was that stupid pet name again. It grated against her nerves, a spark of anger flaring to life inside her chest. Adelaide wasn't able to muster a sarcastic response, though, as she was too busy watching the way the siblings interacted. Dallas was clearly the most eccentric of the trio, and Cal the most reserved, but they seemed to balance each other out in a manner that was remeniscent of her own siblings. The way they ribbed each other on, uncaring of the cold snow that dampened their clothing, was so similar to how Dylan and Bea had acted that she felt her eyes begin to sting. Her siblings had loved her, but the two of them were each other's matching pieces, never leaving the other's side for more than an hour or two before they were inevitably drawn back. As the memories began to flow, Adelaide wiped her eyes, brushing away the tears that begged to fall. She hadn't taken the time to ponder her sibling's wherabouts in years, having lost them when she separated from her parents. Looking at the three slowly making their way to the house, she considered reaching out. Upon entering the lodge, Adelaide lost interest in them completely; the intricate paintings and photographs adorning the walls draw her in, the well-loved and lived in appearance of the main foyer pulling her from their bickering. Her hand absently traced the back of a chair as she took in the expansive space. As soon as the fire was lit, it warmed the room, thawing the chill from her bones. She considered exploring the house, but after her - albeit predictable - upstaging from Beaudan, she decided that she had done quite enough exploring for the night. Her ego couldn't take another bruising remark. She sniffled as she padded towards the kitchen, brushing away the remnants of her tears as she watched Beaudan toss a knife at Dallas. He caught it, hand closer to the blade than she would have preferred, and she winced. She would have to lecture the boys on handling cutlery, clearly. Just... not yet. She was enjoying the peace. Tentatively, she stepped up to the griddle, watching as Callum expertly handled the bacon while avoiding the sizzling pops of grease. "Can I help with anything?" Her voice was much smaller than she had anticipated, and she cleared her throat to push the thickness of her emotions away. Callum looked down at her, gaze narrowed for a moment, but something in her expression must have deemed her question acceptable, and he pointed to the fridge. "There's eggs somewhere in there," he said, shifting the bacon to one side and grabbing a spatula out of the cutlery drawer. Adelaide nodded, opening the fridge. The carton was on the top shelf, and she had to strain a bit to reach it, but she pulled them down without accidentally dropping them. Win! Still hesitant, she joined Callum at the griddle. Their shoulders were almost touching, and she found herself subconsciously shifting away. Though he seemed rather pleasant new, she hadn't forgotten the way he had looked at her at the manor, or the cold drawl of her name on his tongue. As she cooked, though, she couldn't help but relax. At some point, Dallas had turned the radio on, and she softly hummed the tunes as she flipped the eggs. Soon, everything was prepared, and she gently dolled the eggs out onto plates, hoping that the boys would be satisfied with over-easy eggs. She filled her own and backed into the corner of the kitchen, watching as Dallas balanced a piece of fruit on his fork before flinging it in between his brothers. She wasn't sure who he had been aiming for, but it missed regardless, smacking into the wall with a splat. She laughed, covering her mouth to stifle the sound. Though Beaudan had invited her here, though she was watching the trio interact with love and respect, she felt extremely out of place. She didn't belong here, in their vacation lodge, and she certainly didn't feel comfortable joining in on their banter. Instead, she tucked into her corner, taking small bites as she observed. Thoughts of the portrait were long gone, replaced by a strange sense of longing. For years, Adelaide had done well on her own. She had relished the silence of a solitary life, had taken pride in her ability to survive on her own. It seemed now that a family might not be so bad. |
|
|
Spring 
Night 
Clear Moon: 
