Chapter 3 - The Cold Shadows of Blackwood Manor
Blackwood Manor sat like a granite fortress atop the foggy bluffs of Maine, isolated from the world by miles of dense pine forests and wrought-iron fencing. To the outside world, it was an architectural masterpiece of wealth and taste. To Emily, who spent the next two hours quietly cleaning up the shards of crystal and the bronze horse, it felt like an exquisite tomb.
After Alexander ordered everyone to disperse, Mason refused to let go of Emily’s apron. For the first time since his mother’s death, the boy allowed someone to bathe him without screaming, but only if Emily sang softly under her breath.
As Emily gently rolled up the sleeves of Mason’s dry blue sweater in the nursery, her breath hitched.
Across the boy’s pale forearms were faint, yellowish-purple marks. They weren't from tumbling on the playground; they were the unmistakable shape of adult fingers gripping a small limb with brutal force. And on the back of his calves were long, thin scrapes, like those made by a narrow wooden switch.
“Mason...” Emily murmured softly, kneeling beside his miniature wooden chair. “Sweetheart, where did these come from?”
Mason instantly froze. His hazel eyes, normally so bright, turned completely glassy. He crossed his arms tightly across his chest, hiding the bruises, and stared blankly at the antique Persian rug beneath his feet. He picked up a red crayon and began frantically scribbling on a blank sheet of paper.
He wasn't drawing trees or cars.
He was pressing the crayon down with such violent force the wax snapped in half. Over and over, he drew a thick, black rectangle surrounded by jagged crimson lines. In the center of the rectangle, he drew a golden keyhole.
A door.
Emily’s heart hammered against her bruised ribs. The rule in the mansion was absolute, hammered into every domestic staff member on day one by Mrs. Evelyn: *“Never ask about the late Mrs. Clara Blackwood. Never go to the West Wing. Never question Master Mason’s medical regimen. And never speak of that day.”*
Anyone who violated those rules was fired without notice and escorted off the premises by armed security.
A sharp knock sounded at the nursery door.
Alexander stood in the doorway, having changed into a charcoal sweater. The arrogance that usually defined his public persona was stripped away, leaving tired lines around his eyes. He leaned against the doorframe, watching his son sit quietly next to Emily—something Mason hadn't done with any adult in twenty-four months.
“He usually throws the crayons at the wall,” Alexander said quietly, stepping into the room.
“He throws things because he has no other way to tell you that he's drowning,” Emily replied without looking up, keeping her tone respectful but blunt.
Alexander’s jaw tightened. “You speak very boldly for a maid on probation, Emily.”
“With all due respect, Mr. Blackwood,” Emily said, rising and meeting his gaze unflinchingly, “fourteen nannies walked out of here because they were terrified of an angry child. But your son isn't angry. He's sending out an SOS. And whoever is hurting him inside this house is counting on you being too busy to notice.”
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👉 Alexander took a threatening step forward, but before he could answer, the nursery door swung open—and Mrs. Evelyn marched in holding a dark amber glass bottle.
***
