A face blurred in the gold-framed mirror hanging on the plain wall of a long corridor. The light around it shimmered unnaturally, as if the very air were breathing. It beckoned as it flickered into focus. Grey-green eyes stared intently at her. Dark hair, threaded with silver, framed a softly rounded face with a tender mouth and a slender nose. There was a hint of stubble. A voice whispered, low, broken, desperate, but the words slipped past her understanding like water through fingers. Her heart clenched. She knew that voice. Then, just as quickly, the face disintegrated into a jumbled mash of pixels. Gone. The corridor grew darker, as if the mirror had taken its light with it.
Farran jolted awake, heart pounding, mind tangled in confusion. The clock’s red digits glared back at her: 3:04. Again.
Night had become a predictable torment, each hour a reflection of the one before. What was the point in lying there? Sleep had already fled. With a soft sigh, she threw off the covers and padded to the kitchen.
Her nightly ritual unfolded: tea brewing, radio clicking on, confusion swirling with restlessness. She settled into the quiet, letting the presenter’s gentle tones wash over her. His voice was a soothing thread in the dark, almost intimate, like he knew exactly what she needed to hear. She half expected him to say her name. Absurd, she thought. Sleeplessness was unravelling her grip on reality. But then something he said pulled her from the haze.
“This next piece was, apparently, a favourite of Richard Stephens, an Elizabethan magistrate from 1592 in the county of Gloucester. There’s an exhibition at Shrewsbury Museum over the next few weeks, exploring his life and times. It’s believed he had ties here through his third wife, Anne Kery. So, if you’re in the area, be sure to stop by… Now, sit back and enjoy ‘Ave Verum Corpus’ by William Byrd, published in 1605, though likely composed earlier.”
Farran sat transfixed as the room filled with a soft, mournful voice drifting through the airwaves. How did he know so much about Richard Stevens, someone she was still trying to understand?
Her gaze flicked to the painting on the wall. The painted eyes seemed sharper tonight, harsher. Were there more lines etched into the face? No, just her imagination playing tricks. She looked away, unable to hold its gaze. What’s the matter with me? she thought. It’s just a painting, for goodness’ sake.
She shifted in her seat, trying to block it from view, but her breathing quickened. Panic crept in, thin, sharp, and unexpected. On impulse, she switched the channel. A thudding bass line filled the room, club music pounding through her chest like a second heartbeat, pushing the panic back. She let the beat play on, its rhythm filling the silence, and rose to make another drink.
When she returned, she changed the station again. This time, soft jazz spilt into the room, low and comforting. She left it playing and curled back into the chair. Her mind still raced, thoughts tangled and knotted, but the music wrapped around her like a blanket. Slowly, calm began to seep in. Bit by bit, she began to unwind. Finally, sleep found her, quiet and kind.
6:29. Farran jolted awake. Pale morning light slipped through the curtains, streaking across the room. She groaned and stretched, muscles stiff with the shock of waking. Skipping her usual morning drink, she shuffled upstairs to the bathroom, slow, heavy-limbed, as the day began to call.
Sunlight filtered through the frosted glass, bathing the small room in warm, golden hues. She brushed her teeth methodically, then turned on the shower. Water cascaded down, its steady rhythm like soft rain dancing in her ears. She slipped out of her nightdress, the fabric whispering to the floor, and dipped a tentative toe under the spray. Perfect.
Encouraged, she stepped in fully. The warmth embraced her skin. She let herself relax, standing still beneath the stream, simply savouring the sensation. She reached for the shampoo and massaged the cool, raspberry-scented gel into her scalp. The fragrance curled around her like a spring breeze as bubbles foamed, cleansing and refreshing.
Next, she lathered a rich red gel over her body. Each stroke seemed to lift away the remnants of a restless night, washing aches and tension down the drain. She lingered beneath the jets, letting the water’s gentle pressure soothe her skin. Finally, she turned off the water and stepped out, reaching for the fluffy red towel on the rail. Wrapping it around herself, she felt a quiet comfort settle in as she prepared for the day.
Now dressed, Farran padded into the kitchen. Morning light spilt across the countertops, soft and familiar. She slipped into routine: a strong cup of tea, a bowl of muesli. She chuckled, quietly amused by her predictability. The same breakfast, for years.
Her mind drifted to the dreams again, growing more vivid, more insistent with each passing night. They pressed at the edges of her waking thoughts, intense and persistent, yet everything else remained stubbornly unchanged. She gave her head a small shake, as if she could dislodge the unease, banish the confusion before it took hold.
Tea in hand, she glanced out the window, then gathered her things and set off for the museum. She was grateful for yesterday’s head start. A flicker of relief settled beneath the tension that still clung to her.
The moment she stepped into the office, Darnell Stenet’s presence hit her like a wall. He’d joined a few weeks earlier as a temporary assistant curator, meant to support her with the Stephens exhibition. But from the first moment, she’d found him utterly disagreeable, abrasive in a way that set her nerves on edge. His sullen expression seemed to drain the light from the room. Uneasy didn’t quite cover it. A flicker of apprehension twisted in her gut. Instinctively, she kept her distance. But with the exhibition looming, dodging him had become harder by the day.
She swallowed, steadying her breath. Today, like too many lately, she braced for the inevitable: the snide comments, the sneering glances, that constant sense of being watched and judged before she’d even spoken.
Darnell stood at the desk, surveying the carefully arranged piles of notes she’d left the day before. He wore his usual blue suit jacket over an open-necked white shirt, the effect undermined by the worn jeans. His brown hair was cropped short, rigid, unmoving, as if even it resisted softness.
At the sound of the door clicking shut, he glanced up. Her skin prickled. His ice-blue eyes met hers, and a chill ran down her spine. That gaze always left her uneasy. A quiet tension coiled in her stomach, tightening like a noose.
“Morning, Farran,” he drawled, voice slick with something unnameable.
“Looks like you were in yesterday. Getting ahead?” He nodded toward the stacked papers.
“Yes. I had the time, so I thought I’d get started.” She moved toward her desk, widening the space between them.
“Shame you didn’t say.” He met her eyes with a slow, unsettling stare. His lips twisted into a leering smirk. “I wasn’t doing anything.”
Farran’s jaw tightened. “I’m sure your wife appreciated the company,” she said coolly, wondering who could tolerate a man like him. Something in his voice made her skin crawl; it felt… rehearsed.
He gave a low chuckle, licking his lips as he rifled through a stack. “Yeah… come to think of it, we did enjoy the day.”
Eager to break the tension, Farran glanced at her phone, pretending to scroll. She exhaled quietly, then reached for the papers she’d marked out yesterday. Her fingers trembled faintly as she flipped through the pages. She steadied herself; there was work to do. The collection was due that afternoon.
Still not looking up, she murmured, “Plenty left to sort.”
“What time’s the collection arriving?” Darnell asked, as if reading her mind.
“One o’clock,” she replied, eyes fixed on the text.
“So what’s this guy’s connection to Shrewsbury? Thought he was from Gloucester,” Darnell said, tone casual but probing.
“That’s what I’m digging into,” she replied, her voice lifting slightly. “His third wife, Anne Kery, is the link…”
“But she’s from Gloucester too, isn’t she?” he snapped.
The sharpness in his tone made her blink. “She was, but the link’s through one of Richard’s associates, Henry Bromwell… or Bromley. Something like that.”
“Bromley. Henry Bromley,” Darnell repeated, too quickly. Farran looked up, not just at the tone, but at the name itself. It struck a chord.
“You sound like you’ve heard of him,” she said, studying his face.
He shook his head, slow and measured. “No. Just came up at a previous exhibition.”
But her unease returned; he was hiding something.
“Maybe you could help me dig into his background,” she said lightly, watching for his reaction.
“I doubt I’d be much help,” he said, dry as dust. Then, with careful precision, he shrugged off his jacket and hung it over the back of his chair. Papers shuffled. Silence thickened.
Farran watched him shuffle aimlessly through the mess. Feigned busyness. She wasn’t fooled. His movements were tight. Too deliberate. Something was off.
Was it nerves?
They worked in silence, heavy and taut. Farran sifted papers. Darnell tapped rhythmically at the keyboard. Minutes dragged. The air between them thickened, unspoken, unresolved, until lunchtime arrived like a breath held too long.
Finally, Farran stood and stretched, working out the stiffness in her limbs. She headed down to the café, hoping a short break might soothe the unease building inside her. Soon she returned with drinks and sandwiches, setting them down gently between them. Moments later, the sharp ring of her desk phone broke the silence.
“Farran Armstrong,” she answered briskly, blinking herself back to the present.
Darnell glanced up, alert.
“Fantastic!” Farran exclaimed into the receiver. “Yes, we’ll be right down.”
“It’s here?” Darnell asked, already rising.
She nodded. “Come on, let’s take a look.”
They moved quickly through the building, footsteps echoing in rhythm. Darnell seemed unusually animated, almost likeable, though Farran wasn’t ready to trust it. They reached the exhibition hall.
The room was flooded with light. Spotlights framed a wide window where boxes and crates lay scattered across the floor. Plinths and display cases stood ready, waiting. Farran knelt beside one of the opened crates and gently peeled back layers of packaging.
“Do you have the sheet for this one?” she asked a staff member, who handed it over with a nod.
Darnell joined her, visibly eager.
“Shall we do this together?” he asked, his smile disarming.
She hesitated, then nodded.
They unpacked side by side, Farran describing each item while Darnell checked them off. Colleagues placed the artefacts into displays, adding handwritten labels with quiet efficiency. The room buzzed with energy, focused, collaborative, quietly thrilling.
Near the bottom of the crate, Farran’s fingers closed around a small box, about the size of a watch case. She eased it into the light, her hands instinctively careful. Lifting the lid with deliberate precision, she uncovered a seal nestled within.
The handle was unusual, wooden, bulbous, and slightly worn by time. The base gleamed: silver, highly polished. She turned it over and caught her breath.
There it was: the Stephens crest.
A winged sphinx with plaited hair, enclosed within a shield. Beneath it, a single word etched in fine lettering:
Secretum.
Secret.
A tremor passed through her body. The lights around her dimmed, as if some unseen veil had fallen. A shadow, soft and steady, slipped silently to her side, unseen by others but keenly felt, an ancient presence guiding her away from the crate. Her feet moved before her mind could follow, drawn by something beyond reason.
Colours bloomed behind her eyelids, vivid, startling, like fragments of forgotten memories surfacing from deep beneath the surface. A whisper brushed through her thoughts, soft, urgent, unintelligible, but carrying the weight of secrets that had slipped through the cracks of time. A sharp ache bloomed behind her eyes, followed by a rolling wave of nausea.
“Farran! Farran!”
He crouched beside her, face etched with concern. “Are you okay? What happened?”
She blinked, struggling to focus. The room slid back into place, the fog receding. A scent drifted by: rosemary. Clean, sharp, grounding.
Her voice came out thin, a breath more than a word. A box appeared before her, silent, perfectly timed, and she reached for it just as the nausea crested. Quiet, grateful relief. Moments later, a cool glass pressed into her hands. She drank deeply, the cold water soothing her throat, steadying her nerves.
Darnell gently prised the seal from her grip. He turned it over, studying the details, eyes narrowing slightly. For a moment, something flickered across his face, recognition? Surprise? and then it was gone.
“It’s an interesting design, isn’t it?” Farran managed, her voice steadier now.
A flush rose to her cheeks.
Embarrassment.
Confusion.
And something else, something she couldn’t yet name.
Darnell nodded distractedly. “It is,” he said, handing the seal to a woman nearby. “Put it straight into cabinet three.”
Then he turned back to Farran, his gaze narrowing. “What happened to you?”
“I don’t know,” she said honestly. “I was fine, then suddenly this wave just… hit me.”
She took another sip of water, grateful for its cool, steadying calm.
“How are you feeling now?”
His hand rested lightly on her shoulder.
She froze. The touch was soft, even caring, but her spine tightened, instinct flaring sharp beneath her skin. The urge to pull away buzzed just under the surface.
“I’m fine,” she said, shifting in the chair. “Whatever it was, it’s passed. Probably just the excitement.”
Darnell smiled, the tension in his face easing. “Yeah, I can see that. Go get some fresh air, we’ll pick up in twenty.”
Farran stood, brushing her hands down the front of her skirt, grateful for the excuse to move. She stepped outside into a rush of spring air, warm sunlight washing over her like balm. The pressure in her chest loosened with each breath. She hadn’t realised just how tightly wound she’d been until the threads began to slip free.
She wandered to a quiet wooden bench overlooking the town square and sank with a sigh. Around her, planter boxes overflowed with colour: pansies, tulips, trailing lobelia. A few pigeons strutted across the flagstones, pecking at invisible crumbs, unfazed by the passing feet. Stillness settled around her like a soft blanket.
For now, at least, she could breathe.
She became aware of a shadow beside her and turned to see Darnell standing quietly by the bench.
“Would you mind if I sat with you?” he asked, voice low, almost cautious.
Farran hesitated a fraction, a flicker of warning, but then shook her head. He lowered himself onto the bench beside her. She shifted slightly, keeping a polite distance.
“Are you alright? Really?” His tone softened, carrying a note of concern, sincere, perhaps, or at least expertly practised.
Farran met his eyes briefly, searching for truth beneath the surface. Was this a rare moment of kindness, or another move to unsettle her? She chose to trust the moment, at least for now. “Yes, I’m fine. Really,” she said softly…
“Simon and Daphne are checking that the labels are correct,” Darnell added, falling back into his usual drawl.
She began to move, “I should go and clean up.”
He watched her closely, the faintest crease of tension returning to his brow. “No, it’s okay,” he said, voice low, following her movement with his eyes. “Daphne’s sorted it.”
That small, watching look unsettled her more than any harsh word ever had.
“That was thoughtful of her. A flush crept into Farran’s cheeks, embarrassment prickling at the thought of someone else tidying up after her.
“You know Daphne,” he said quietly. “She just gets on with things.” Then, after a pause: “She’s worried about you.”
He stood too, stepping closer. “We all are. You’ve been looking pale. Tired.”
His hand reached for hers. Farran jerked back instinctively, her voice sharper than intended. “I’m fine. Just a few bad nights. Nothing to worry about.”
She didn’t wait for a reply. Chin lifted, pulse racing, she walked briskly toward the museum doors. The dreams. The scent. The seal.
None of it concerned him… did it?
Darnell remained still, watching her disappear through the glass into the vaulted hush.
He had wanted to tell her he’d felt it too; that wave of nausea, the flicker of something ancient when his fingers brushed the seal. The ghost-scent of rosemary. The whisper that didn’t belong in this world.
He exhaled slowly, jaw tight. The memories surged, faces, voices, the weight of choices made long ago. They weren’t dreams. They were real.
And still, the same question gnawed at him:
How much damage had he already done?
A bitter laugh escaped.
Recent memories.
What a joke.
Pushing the thought aside, he shook his head and followed her path back inside.
The rest of the unpacking went without a hitch. Soon, only the paintings remained to be hung. Farran strolled between the plinths and cabinets, admiring the items on loan for the exhibition: silver buckles, lace cuffs, letters written in a tight hand, tokens of grief and ceremony. Darnell joined her.
“It looks good, doesn’t it?” she said quietly.
“It does,” he replied.
They strolled around the room for a moment in companionable silence.
“I’m looking forward to seeing the paintings up,” Farran added. “They’ll have to wait until tomorrow, though. A few more pieces are still due to arrive; some were in storage and missed the shipment.”
Darnell nodded but said nothing. His gaze had drifted. He stopped in front of the cabinet housing the seal. It sat beside a set of quills, an ink pot, a selection of yellowed letters and a diary. The soft backlighting cast warm glints across the polished glass, as if the past itself were being coaxed into view.
Farran joined him, her eyes on the seal. “It’s an interesting design,” she murmured.
“Yes,” Darnell replied, his voice distant. “A family of secrets.”
There was a weight in his tone, too heavy for a casual comment. Farran turned, studying his face. His eyes were slightly hooded, unreadable.
“I get the feeling you know more about Richard Stephens than you’re letting on,” she said, frowning.
He gave a soft laugh, evasive, practised. “Just an educated guess. Any crest with a sphinx usually suggests there’s something to hide.”
“I suppose,” she said, still watching him. Her fingers tingled, an odd and sudden urge rising, impulsive, insistent, to reach into the case and touch the seal again. Not now, she told herself, forcing the feeling down.
They turned as footsteps echoed across the tiled floor behind them. Daphne approached, her face alight with happiness.
“Thank you so much for earlier, that really isn’t in your job description,” Farran said with a laugh, though inwardly she cringed.
“No problem,” Daphne beamed. “It’s been quite an exciting day.”
Darnell nodded. “Yes. It has.”
“Have you and Simon finished for today?” Farran asked.
“Yeah,” Daphne replied. “We can’t hang the paintings until the hoist is in place. That’ll be mid-morning tomorrow.”
“Okay,” Farran said. “I’m really looking forward to seeing them up. Everything’s coming together beautifully. Once the paintings are hung, it’ll be the icing on the cake.”
“Do we know which ones they’ve sent?” Darnell asked casually.
“I looked through the description labels,” Farran said, “but none of them were familiar. The collection’s always been closely guarded; hardly any images exist online.”
“Mmm,” he murmured, brushing at an invisible speck on his shirt sleeve.
“We’re heading to the Wheatsheaf for a quick drink if you want to join us,” Daphne said, looking at them both with a hopeful smile.
Farran groaned inwardly. The last thing she wanted was to extend the day, especially with Darnell’s unpredictable presence hovering nearby.
Before she could respond, Darnell’s voice cut in smoothly. “Sure, we’ll come.”
Heat flared up her neck. How dare he decide for me? Was this another of his power plays, or had he misread her silence?
She forced a smile. “Of course. But I won’t be able to stay long.”
Darnell’s quick grin was unsettlingly confident, like a man who’d just won a small victory. She turned toward the exit, her footsteps echoing more sharply than she intended. Irritation bristled under her skin. A presence fell into step beside her, Darnell again, silent, matching her pace. They walked in silence back to the office, gathered their coats and bags, and headed out to meet the others.
Evening had softened the light, and the pub wasn’t overly crowded. As Farran stepped through the door, her eyes swept the room. The long bar stretched along one wall, and stools occupied by quiet drinkers and murmuring groups. Tables dotted the floor, some full, some empty, voices blending into the low hum of music. A large mirror opposite the bar reflected the scene, doubling space and movement.
She spotted Daphne and Simon already seated and made her way toward them, her steps steady, though her mood still brittle. In the mirror, she caught Darnell’s reflection trailing behind, smug smile in place. Her jaw tightened. Who does he think he is, making decisions for both of us?
She draped her jacket over the back of a chair while Darnell slid onto the leather bench beside Simon.
“What would you like to drink?” he asked, his gaze flicking to hers.
“A small Diet Coke, please. I really can’t be late home,” she said, light but firm.
He paused, then turned without a word and headed to the bar.
Farran filled the silence with small talk, chatting quietly with Daphne and Simon until he returned and set their drinks down.
“So,” Darnell said, glancing around as if to smooth over what had passed, “what’s been your favourite part of the collection so far?”
Daphne answered quickly. “The jewellery from his first wife, Margaret Audley. That pearl necklace… exquisite.” Her eyes lit up. “I can’t wait to see her portrait. I think it’s arriving tomorrow?”
Simon nodded. “I was impressed by the armoury. For someone who wasn’t military, Stephens had quite the collection.”
Farran’s thoughts drifted to the seal and diary she hadn’t yet had time to explore. “The written pieces,” she said quickly. “I just love seeing what people thought and said. You really get to know them.”
Darnell raised an eyebrow, his voice taking on a teasing edge. “Didn’t think you were that interested in people.”
Farran felt the sting beneath the words. “People from the past are different,” she replied, trying to keep her tone light. “What they endured, how they survived…”
“They can’t answer back or ask questions. So you’re safe,” he cut in, his voice suddenly low and flat.
The shift punched the air out of the conversation. Daphne and Simon glanced at each other, awkwardness settling in.
Farran blinked. There it was again, one moment disarming, the next bruising. Was he trying to make up for something? Or did he enjoy keeping her off balance?
“Have I upset you, Darnell?” she asked, carefully.
He stared at her, too long. Then laughed. Abrupt. Forced. “Of course not. I’m just having a bit of fun.”
But the tension had already frayed the edges of the group. Farran turned her eyes to her drink, and this time she didn’t meet his gaze.
When the moment felt right, she murmured her goodbyes and slipped away, relieved when Darnell didn’t follow. He was deep in conversation with Simon, their voices low, drifting toward talk of the weaponry collection.
But he noticed her leave. Tracked her with his eyes. Said nothing. His thoughts spun. He had believed he could manage this, being near her without falling apart. But it was proving impossible. And still, what choice did he have?
They would take her soon. That much he knew. And once they did, she would be gone forever. That thought, losing her again, was unbearable. Did he even have the right to stop it? He doubted it.
He drained his drink, stood, and murmured a few quiet farewells. Then he stepped out into the cool spring evening, the fading light softening the town’s edges. Without thinking, he turned into a narrow alleyway where the lamplight couldn’t reach. And let the shadows swallow him.
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