The sun had barely crept above the rolling hills of Galway when the curtains in Caleb’s room were flung open with a flourish. Mrs. Byrne stood in the pale, silvery light filtering through the windows, her sharp gaze fixed on the groggy figure tangled in the blankets. Outside, the sunlight struggled against thick clouds, casting a muted glow over the landscape, as though the day itself had yet to fully awaken.
“Up you get, Mr. Harrison,” she declared, her brogue crisp as the morning air. “The spirits of this house might let ye lie about, but I won’t. Breakfast won’t cook itself, and neither will those hands of yours be much use if you’re sleeping the day away.”
Caleb groaned, shielding his eyes from the unwelcome light. “Do you take courses in being this cheerful at ungodly hours, or is it just a natural gift?”
Unfazed, Mrs. Byrne’s lips twitched into the faintest of smiles. “A gift, to be sure. Now move it.”
As Caleb swung his legs out of bed, muttering something about the tyranny of sunlight and cheerful housekeepers, he caught sight of a note on his bedside table. Written in Cormac’s neat hand, it read:
“Meet me in the library after breakfast. There’s something we need to discuss.”
Caleb was already rubbing his hands together as he arrived in the kitchen. “Is there anything I can do to help?”
Mrs. Byrne’s face lit up at the offer, though she didn’t stop flipping pancakes. “You can set the table, if you don’t mind. We’ll need three places today.” She paused, then added almost casually, “Cormac’s usual place will be ready, even if he’s not here just yet.”
"Right, of course," Caleb said, feeling the strange pull of curiosity about Cormac but not wanting to pry too openly.
He took the stack of plates and silverware from the counter and carried them down the hall to the smaller dining room. Though the distance wasn’t far, the thick stone walls and high ceilings muffled sound, giving the space an almost sacred quiet. Caleb began arranging the table with care. It wasn’t one of the grand rooms of the manor, but the smaller dining room had its own charm—warm, elegant, and inviting. He couldn’t help but think about how it felt like this space had seen many similar mornings, many different meals, but all under the same roof.
He was almost finished when Mrs. Byrne appeared in the doorway, a stack of napkins in hand. “If you’re curious about the manor,” she said, breaking the quiet as she worked, “it’s a place that carries more history than anyone here remembers. But Cormac… well, Cormac carries it all on his shoulders, whether anyone sees it or not.”
Caleb glanced up, startled to see her there, but her words pulled at his curiosity. “He sounds like a busy man,” he said, trying to keep his tone casual. “Does he always miss breakfast?”
Mrs. Byrne placed the napkins on the table, her expression softening with a hint of weariness. “On occasion,” she answered. “But no one questions him about it. He’s got his responsibilities, his birthright. The manor’s not just a place to live. It’s a life of its own, and Cormac does his duty to it, to the people, and to this land.”
Caleb nodded thoughtfully, adjusting a fork to line it up perfectly. As he reached for the centerpiece bowl—a beautifully carved wooden piece bearing the Darragh family crest—his elbow accidentally knocked it off balance. The bowl tipped, and the fruit it held scattered across the floor with a sharp crash.
Mrs. Byrne’s reaction was immediate. She darted forward, her hand hovering over the fruit as if to protect it. “No!” she gasped, her voice sharp and edged with panic.
“I’m sorry! I didn’t mean to—” Caleb stammered, crouching down to help.
“Don’t touch it!” she snapped, her tone so uncharacteristically sharp that Caleb froze in place. For a moment, the room felt colder. Mrs. Byrne quickly bent to gather the fruit herself, her movements quick but careful, her expression tight.
“I—I didn’t know… I won’t touch anything else,” Caleb muttered, his voice soft with an apology.
Mrs. Byrne didn’t respond immediately. She returned the fruit to the bowl, her fingers brushing over the carved wood with reverence. When she straightened, she gave him a tight nod. “It’s fine. It’s nothing that can’t be fixed.” But her words felt distant, almost forced.
She exhaled, smoothing the apron over her front. “Just be more careful next time. And finish setting the table, if you please.” Her tone returned to its usual calm, though Caleb noticed a slight tension in her shoulders, as if the bowl was more than just a vessel for fruit.
“Yes, of course,” Caleb said quickly, returning to his task. His hands still shook a little as he placed the final napkin at one of the settings.
“So, about Cormac…” Caleb ventured carefully, trying to change the subject.
Mrs. Byrne glanced over at him, her eyes softening as if she had anticipated his question. “Ah, yes. Cormac…” She gave a small, almost imperceptible sigh, her fingers brushing over the countertop. “He’s a good man, Master Caleb. Kind, but distant. The manor... it takes a lot from him, sometimes more than he lets on. And with his work—well, it’s more than a man can bear alone, even one like him.”
Caleb paused, his curiosity piqued. “What kind of work? You mean the manor itself?”
She surveyed the room, as if she had never seen it before. “Yes, the manor. But also the responsibilities that come with it. His birthright, as I said. The local government, the land—there’s always something.” She hesitated, glancing back at Caleb. “Don’t worry about him, though. Cormac does what needs to be done. He always has. But no one here questions him when he’s absent from a meal. We know he’ll come when he can.”
Caleb nodded thoughtfully. The picture of Cormac was becoming clearer, though still shrouded in mystery. “Sounds like a lot to handle for one person.”
Mrs. Byrne’s lips curved upward in a small smile, but her eyes remained distant. “It is. But Cormac is strong. And he’s not alone here.”
Mrs. Byrne lingered a moment before heading back to the kitchen. Caleb caught himself glancing at the bowl, its intricate carvings more prominent now in the morning light. Whatever it symbolized, it seemed important—too important for him to fully grasp.
As he moved toward his seat, he heard the soft sound of footsteps coming from the hall. Maeve entered the dining room, her presence light and graceful. She offered Caleb a polite smile before taking her place at the table, her eyes flicking briefly to the empty chair that was presumably Cormac’s.
Mrs. Byrne arrived shortly after, carrying a tray with plates of steaming food. She set them down with care, her demeanor once again composed. “Eat up now,” she said briskly. “You’ll need the energy for the day ahead.”
Caleb thanked her, though his mind lingered on the weight of her earlier reaction and the still-unfolding mystery of Cormac. Whatever life this manor held, it was heavy, full of unspoken rules and unseen burdens.
The library was colder than Caleb expected, though the fire in the hearth crackled with life. It cast shifting light across the tall shelves of books and the intricate carvings of the furniture. He paused in the doorway, feeling like an intruder in a sacred space.
Across the room, Cormac sat in a high-backed chair, his broad shoulders filling the space as though he belonged to the manor as much as the walls themselves. His auburn hair caught the flicker of the flames, and his gaze, piercing and unreadable, settled on Caleb.
“You wanted to see me?” Caleb asked, his voice quieter than intended. Something about Cormac made him feel like he was standing on unstable ground, unsure whether to retreat or push forward.
Cormac inclined his head slightly and gestured to the chair opposite him. “Sit. This won’t take long.”
Right, Caleb thought as he moved across the room, the sound of his boots on the hardwood seeming too loud in the cavernous space. Because everything with you feels like it’s life or death.
He eased into the chair, its leather cool against his palms as he gripped the armrests. “What’s going on?”
Cormac leaned forward slightly, resting his elbows on his knees, his hands loosely clasped. His movements were deliberate, almost too controlled. “Not what. Who. You.”
The space between them brimmed with unspoken questions, but no answers lingered in the shadows. Caleb felt a strange heat building in his arm, subtle at first but insistent. He shifted, trying to mask the discomfort, but when he spoke, his voice cracked, betraying the turmoil beneath. “Me? What about me?”
Cormac closed his eyes briefly, as though choosing his words with care. When he looked at Caleb again, there was something behind his gaze—a flicker of curiosity, or perhaps concern. “The manor. It’s been different since you arrived.”
Caleb frowned. “Different how?”
“The doors that open when they shouldn’t. The rooms you stumble into that no one else could find,” Cormac said. “You’ve felt it, haven’t you? The way this place… watches you.”
Caleb swallowed, the air in the room suddenly thick and arid. He’d noticed it—how the air shifted when he was alone, how the floors seemed to creak in rhythm with his movements, how certain hallways felt alive. But hearing it aloud unsettled him in a way he hadn’t expected.
Cormac’s lips quirked into something that might have been a smile, though it lacked any warmth. “The manor doesn’t usually take well to strangers. But it hasn’t rejected you.”
“Rejected me?” Caleb echoed, leaning forward slightly. His pulse quickened. Rejected? What the hell does that mean?
“If it wanted you gone, you’d know,” Cormac said simply, his voice almost casual.
Caleb blinked, unsure whether to be alarmed or intrigued. “So what? It’s decided it likes me?”
Cormac’s gaze darkened, and he leaned back in his chair, resting an arm on the side. “Perhaps. Or perhaps it sees something in you. Either way, it’s unusual.”
There it was again—that word. Caleb tried to keep his tone even, but his thoughts churned. Unusual. Like I’m some kind of anomaly. Like I don’t belong here but somehow fit anyway.
“So… what are you saying?” Caleb asked, finally breaking the silence.
“I’m saying,” Cormac began, his voice quieter now, “that you need to tread carefully. The manor isn’t just a house. It’s a presence. And it doesn’t give anything for free.”
A shiver ran down Caleb’s spine, though he couldn’t tell if it was from the chill in the room or the solemnity of Cormac’s words. His fingers tightened on the chair’s arms as he forced himself to hold Cormac’s gaze.
“And what about you?” Caleb asked, his voice steadier than he felt. “Do you answer to the manor too?”
Something shifted in Cormac’s expression—a crack in the armor, perhaps, though it was gone as quickly as it came. He looked away, his jaw tightening. “We all answer to it, one way or another.”
There’s more he’s not telling me. Caleb felt the frustration simmering beneath his skin, the same frustration he’d felt since stepping foot into this strange, magnetic place. And yet, despite the unease, despite the warnings, he couldn’t deny the pull he felt—not just to the manor but to Cormac himself.
Cormac stood abruptly, breaking the moment. He moved to the fireplace, his back to Caleb, one hand braced against the mantle. The firelight illuminated the sharp lines of his profile, the tension in his shoulders.
“I thought you should know what you’re dealing with,” Cormac said, his voice low but firm. “This isn’t just a job. It’s not just a place to stay. The manor… it chooses people. And for better or worse, it’s chosen you.”
Caleb rose slowly from his chair, his thoughts spinning. “Chosen me for what?”
Cormac turned then, his expression shadowed but no less intense. “That’s what we need to figure out.”
The silence that followed was thick, charged. Caleb could feel his heart pounding, a strange mix of fear and exhilaration coursing through him.
“Right,” Caleb said finally, though the word felt hollow. “I guess I’ll… be careful, then.”
Cormac’s lips pressed into a thin line, and he nodded once. “Good.”
As Caleb turned to leave, he hesitated at the door, glancing back over his shoulder. Cormac hadn’t moved, his gaze fixed on the fire. For a moment, Caleb considered saying something else, asking one of the hundred questions swirling in his mind. But instead, he left, the soft click of the door echoing behind him.
