I. Living in the Shadows

The gates closed with a thud as Oz and Adrian made their way towards the entrance of the estate.

The courtyard lay carpeted in cold stone. Vines clung to pillars with delicate, jealous fingers. Statues with half-smiles leaned in the long shadows. The air smelled faintly of incense that gently scraped the inside of the nose. Everything felt curated to make you confess. 

“You’re welcome to change,” Oz stated, glancing at Adrian. “There’s a guest room by the east wing. I’ll show you through. Stan insists on proper introductions. He hates surprises.”

"Stan?" Adrian asked puzzled. Oz did not respond as they walked through the front entrance.

Their footsteps echoed through halls that folded and refolded like paper architecture. Animal hides hung like gossip against the walls. Portraits watched from their frames and, as their eyes caught light, they seemed to follow Adrian with curiosity. 

An armillary clock that kept time in tripled hands was out on display, one of many antiques that dotted the path they tred. 

A library whose shelves were folded into labyrinths rolled by as the duo walked amongst light green glass panes  showering light inside. They were complimented by flashes of royal red in upholstery, brought to life by golden outlines that beamed with opulence.

Dark brown oak weaved itself into the furniture, the floor boards and somewhat even in the structural architecture. Even the shadows looked prime and styled.

“You’re Lucy’s son?” Adrian asked as they walked, his voice subdued amid the mansion’s breathing.

“Her only child” Oz replied, a shadow painting his face and hiding his expression amidst the expanse.

 “Used to work the shop. Now I do odd jobs around the estate. Stan is… old-fashioned. He likes his charity to look like propriety.” 

His tone felt too calm for comfort as they continued to walk. Adrian, who was already exhausted, thought the estate would go on forever. He felt it was even more luxurious than his palace in the illusionary world,  passing by a conservatory where jars of dried herbs glowed.

Something inside caught Adrian’s eye and didn’t let go; a small shelf of bone-handled tools sheathed in cloth . He felt a familiar tug at the base of his skull looking at the obsidian black toolset: the right tools placed on the table at Lucy’s Antiques and also the sacrificial chamber hidden in his palace. The memories made his hands itch.

“Do people still talk about Lucy?” he asked.
Oz's face tightened 

“Not in the same way. She was…singular. Troubled. I think after a while people prefer to remember things that make them comfortable.”

They crossed a corridor where a mural traced the family’s lineage like a botanical print. Adrian passed to stare up at the faces of Rumley ancestors, stern and painted in the same careful light. One portrait, higher and grander than the rest, showed a man who might have been Stan. His face was like knuckled leather. He had eyes like cataracts, mouth a straight rule. Oz did not pause as Adrian touched the frame gently, catching sight of an image that startled him.

That's...

He pointed to one of the portraits on the mural.

"Lucy Rumley, my late mother" Oz revealed, now turning back and walking towards Adrian who was left slack jawed. 

Her visage was the spitting image of the woman who had accompanied him in the other world.

“We value discretion here,” Oz stated “You aren’t from around here, are you? People notice. Keep up." 

He started walking away as Adrian felt the bite mark on his shoulder buzz. It was as if it showed through the fabric of his sleeve. He tugged his shirt and followed Oz quickly, paranoia creeping in.
They entered a room where candles sat unlit in iron candelabras. A set of chairs faced each other like chess pieces, and on the table between them lay a stack of photographs. Oz lifted one and passed it to Adrian. It was a photograph of Lucy in her shop, hair pinned back. He reaffirmed his suspicion, her face and eyes reminding him of his mistress hanging from the ceiling.

 “She never sold to everyone. She sold for reasons.” Oz responded resolutely.

“Reasons?” Adrian echoed, but the word came out wrong. He felt breathless. The other world seemed to press close again, the smell of candle wax and old blood swirling in his mind.

 “We don’t talk of things plainly here. Stan’s a collector of rarities. Money gets layered with other things. Stories, debts, they are all the same. People talk about the Rumleys as if money is the only legacy. They’re wrong. We keep… traditions.” Oz shrugged, nonchalant in his movement as they walked deeper through the mansion. 

Adrian noticed half-crumbled runes tucked beneath rugs. From one of the windows, a bar of light streamed across a tapestry. In the light, a smear of something dark seemed dried into the fabric. 

“You said Stan let you bring me in as charity,” Adrian blurted, more to steady himself than from curiosity. “Why would he do that?”

“Maybe he likes new stories,” Oz replied, voice as smooth as syrup

“Stan has a fondness for people who arrive. He says they keep the estate alive. That’s his kindness.” He met Adrian’s eyes for the first time on the tour, his pupils flashing like two coins. 

“You should wash up.”

Adrian laughed once as Oz led him to the guest room  hung in muted shades of black and white. The bed was made with painful precision. On the bedside table, a scrap of paper lay atop a small lacquered box. It had a name and a time. 

Somebody’s appointment, somebody’s life.

Oz left, shutting the door in the process as Adrian slid out the clothes from his bag. Oz's footsteps receded down the corridor allowing Adrian to jump straight into the bathroom. 

Inside, there was a single bathrobe tucked in the fold. It was soft, clean and smelling faintly of lemon. Adrian walked through towards a window in the corner. It looked out at the courtyard from a higher vantage point.

For a moment he stood at the window, watching the Estate breathing like an animal. The mansion itself did not feel hostile. Instead it felt like it had learned to wear a polite face, hiding it's fangs.

Just then, he felt a choice arise within him. He did not want to keep slipping sideways between worlds. And then, questions.

Was he right to chase the illusions that wrapped him in power and reverence? Or was it right to step into a place that smelled of reality? Perhaps here he could find something that could finally tether him.

He had chosen cowardice and paid with a woman’s life in a way he could not explain. Now he stood at the precipice, without crowns and feasts. The room hummed with the hush of the mansion. Through the wall he thought he heard a murmur, like someone whispering a ledger’s numbers. 
Adrian closed his eyes.

A throne, a bite and then the rope.

It felt as though the two worlds were pressing so close they might fold together. He had no map for what came next. Only the curiosity of a man named Oz.

For once, he did not run.