Chapter Three - Secretum

A face blurred in the gold-framed mirror, which hung on the plain wall in a long corridor. The air felt still, almost expectant, as the image flickered into focus. Grey-green eyes stared intently at her. Dark hair with flecks of grey became clearer. A softly rounded face, with a tender mouth and slender nose. There was a hint of stubble.

It was whispering something, soft, rhythmic. She couldn’t make out the words. Her feet moved before her thoughts caught up, drawing her closer. She reached out, fingertips trembling. The mirror shimmered beneath her touch. The face smiled, slow and familiar, and nodded once.

“Come,” it said, faint as a breeze.

Her heart thudded. The voice tugged at something buried deep within. Then, just as suddenly, the image shattered into a jumbled mash of pixels. Gone.

She was alone once more, the corridor stretching endlessly behind her.

3:04

“Aargh,” Farran groaned into her pillow, willing this nightmare and that haunting face to end. All she wanted was one full night’s sleep, free of dreams and the recurring figure shadowing her nights. Who was this figure, anyway? Why did they keep coming back?

She flung back the sheets and crept through the darkened house. Silence pressed in, thick and suffocating. She made straight for the radio and flicked it on. A familiar voice filled the room, bringing a quiet wash of comfort. Leaving the hum of words and music to anchor the space, she moved into the kitchen to make a drink, her body moving on instinct.

Mug in hand, she returned to the living room and curled into her favourite corner of the sofa. Slowly, her breathing eased. The voice on the radio was warm and hypnotic, wrapping around her like a soft embrace, coaxing her mind to quiet. She wasn’t listening. She didn’t want to think; too tired for that. Instead, she let the voice soothe her, stroke her thoughts into silence. At last, she slept.

The face smiled.

“Come, Anne,” it whispered.

The name stirred something faint and distant within her, like a note half-remembered from a forgotten song. Her breath caught, though she didn’t understand why.

Then the image shimmered and faded, replaced by a garden bursting with colour. Spring flowers bowed and swayed in a gentle breeze. Deftly shaped bushes curved along gravel paths, and a perfectly mown lawn stretched beneath a sky of soft gold. Somewhere, birds sang in layered melody. A fountain leapt in the centre, its water catching the light like falling stars. The air was sweet with blossom. The scene pulsed with warmth and peace. She didn’t know this place, and yet… something about it ached.

Home, whispered the thought, unbidden.

6:29

Farran slowly opened her eyes, disoriented and unsure where she was. Gradually, the familiar shapes of her living room furniture came into focus, sunlight timidly filtering around the edges of the curtains. She blinked a few times, then stretched. The radio softly murmured, a newsreader calmly reporting on world events. She rose, made breakfast, and got ready for work.

The morning was unusually warm as she walked into town. Despite another restless night, she felt surprisingly composed, almost ready to face Darnell. His outburst from the day before still lingered, clouded by confusion, but she resolved that whatever burden he carried, it was his alone.

Stepping into the building, the faint hum of movement and voices drifted from corridors beyond. Rather than heading straight to her office, Farran turned into the exhibition hall. The glass cabinets stood unlit and still, dim shapes in the soft morning light. She wandered between them, letting the silence settle around her. Yesterday had been too chaotic to truly absorb anything. Now, the quiet felt strangely welcome.

She moved slowly from cabinet to cabinet, pausing at each plinth to study the contents. Her gaze lingered, not just admiring, but absorbing, as if trying to read the silence they held. Each label seemed to murmur of stories untold. A subtle thrill stirred, a rising tide of anticipation, threaded with shadowy whispers of the unknown.

Then she saw it, the seal. She leaned closer, eyes tracing every detail. The sphinx crouched low, chest curled protectively around the shield. Its head tilted slightly, hair thick and braided, like serpents coiled and waiting. Beneath it, a single word: Secretum. An invitation whispered in Latin. What hidden truths lie buried in the family’s history, locked behind that symbol? A chill ran through her, a warning or a promise, she couldn’t tell.

Her hand rose, fingertips brushing the glass. A soft rustle behind her broke the moment. She turned. Daphne was approaching with a warm smile. The simple normalcy of her presence grounded her. Farran drew her hand back from the case.

“Morning, Daph. How are you?” Farran asked, smiling warmly.

“Good, ta,” Daphne replied with her usual cheer. “I’m eager to get these paintings up,” she added, glancing around the room.

“Yes, me too,” Farran agreed. “Did you enjoy the rest of the evening? Sorry, I couldn’t stay long.”

“I did. It’s nice to relax after a busy day,” Daphne said. “Simon’s such a laugh.”

Farran smiled. “He does seem like a good chap.”

“Mmm, he is,” Daphne said, a subtle glow in her expression. “Darnell didn’t stay long after you left.”

“No?” Farran said, turning back to the cabinet. Her eyes were drawn once more to its contents. She didn’t want to think about Darnell. Instead, she let the objects pull her focus, each whispering its fragment of history.

“I’d better get up to the office, see what’s going on,” she said, glancing back at Daphne. “Will you be down here?”

“Yes,” Daphne nodded. “I was going to run a few checks. There’s a copy of The Faerie Queene I want to look at, too.”

“Ah, yes, an interesting piece.”

“Lo, I the man, whose Muse whylome did maske,

As time her taught, in lowly shepherd’s weeds,

Am now enforced a far more unfit task…”

“For trumpets stern to change mine oaten reeds,

And sing of knights and ladies’ gentle deeds;

Whose praises having slept in silence long…”

Daphne blinked. “Wow. I didn’t know you knew it so well.”

“Huh. Neither did I,” Farran murmured, puzzled. She shook her head gently. “I’ll be back down soon so we can start unwrapping the paintings.”

She cast one last glance at the seal before turning and making her way out of the hall, the air shifting behind her like breath held too long.

Darnell sat at his desk, head bent over a scattering of papers. As Farran entered, he glanced up briefly, then slid a piece of parchment beneath the clutter. His eyes followed her silently as she put her things away.

“Good morning, Darnell. How are you today?” Farran asked, a flicker of unease threading her voice under his steady stare.

“Fine,” he replied curtly, offering no warmth. “You’re late.”

The pointed remark made her pause. She met his gaze squarely. “I’ve been checking the exhibition and talking with Daphne, if you really want to know,” she shot back, narrowing her eyes.

Darnell’s gaze lingered, making her want to leave. “Fair enough,” he drawled, lowering his eyes. “The hoist will be arriving soon.”

“Yes, I’m heading back down to unpack the paintings with Daphne and Simon,” Farran said, glancing at her phone. She wanted to be anywhere but there with him.

“I’ll be there in a bit,” Darnell muttered, already returning to his papers.

Farran walked out, frustration tightening her chest. What was his problem? Yesterday, he’d seemed almost human; now he was distant and unbearable. She didn’t understand him.

In the hall, Simon and Daphne chatted and laughed as Farran arrived.

“How are you, Simon?” she asked.

“Good, thanks,” he replied with a smile.

“Right, let’s get started,” Farran said, heading for the stack of paintings. “We’ll begin with this one.” She selected the largest canvas.

Simon moved to the opposite side, and together they lifted the wrapped piece with care. Daphne knelt beside them, peeling back the protective cloth gently, careful not to damage the surface.

Slowly, the image revealed itself…

A man with dark, thick hair framing a pale face. His piercing blue eyes stared out beneath a strong brow and prominent nose. Full lips, unsmiling. He wore a rich brown Elizabethan doublet, seated at a table strewn with papers. Near his right hand rested a seal and a quill. Above him, a stained-glass window cast a soft glow, its colours bleeding into the surrounding shadows.

Farran gasped, her breath caught. “Darnell,” she whispered.

A voice came from behind. “What?”

She turned sharply. Darnell stood just behind her, gaze fixed on the painting. His face betrayed nothing, no shock, no emotion, but his stillness told her he recognised it.

“Crikey, Darnell,” Simon said, eyes wide. “The likeness between you and Richard Stephens is uncanny!”

Daphne nodded, still speechless.

“Do you think so?” Darnell said mildly, eyes never leaving the portrait. He cast a glance at Farran. “I can’t see it.”

“I’d say it’s the spitting image of you,” Simon insisted.

“I have to agree,” Daphne said softly. “The resemblance is… unmistakable.”

Darnell’s eyes locked on Farran. “What are you thinking, Farran?”

Her head swam. Heart pounding, she looked from the portrait to Darnell. “I think… I have to agree. It’s you.”

Darnell sneered.

Before she could press him, two men entered the hall, pushing a hoist and carrying a ladder. The spell broke. The questions and tension were suspended for now.

“Where do you want this, love?” one of the men called.

Farran gave directions automatically, mind spinning. Behind her, Simon and Daphne resumed unwrapping paintings, checking labels, quietly murmuring to each other. When she looked up again, Darnell was gone, like a shadow swallowed by the room.

Despite her best efforts, Farran’s gaze kept returning to the portrait of Richard Stephens. The uncanny resemblance to Darnell unsettled her every time. Each time she found herself drifting back to that haunting face, she forced herself to look away and focus on the next painting, hoping the distractions would steady her racing thoughts.

It was late in the day, and Darnell still hadn’t reappeared. Farran was exhausted. Only one painting remained to be unwrapped and hung. She turned to Simon and Daphne, her voice tinged with weariness and a hint of pleading. “Are you two okay to handle this last one? I’ve got some paperwork to finish up and really need to get home at a reasonable time.”

“No problem,” Simon replied easily. Daphne nodded in agreement.

The first painting hadn’t been mentioned again, and Farran said her goodbyes before heading up to the office. As she climbed the stairs, her mind drifted back to that portrait. The startling likeness between Darnell and Richard Stephens was unbelievable. She’d seen family resemblances before, sometimes uncanny, but this felt different, almost as if they were one and the same. It was the eyes, she decided, that same piercing look Darnell wore when annoyed. Farran had seen that look more times than she could count, often for no good reason.

Farran walked into the quiet office, closing the door behind her. Darnell looked up from his desk, sliding a piece of parchment beneath the clutter. They locked eyes before she spoke.

“I thought you’d gone.”

He shook his head. “No. Had some things to finish,” he said, watching her.

“Oh.” She shifted uncomfortably, walking to her desk. “Just got a couple of bits to finish, then I’m heading home.”

“Right.” He hadn’t looked away.

Farran shuffled through paperwork, but her mind wandered. Eventually, she gathered her things and moved to leave, only to find Darnell at the door.

“What are you doing?”

“I just… I don’t want the day to end like this.” His voice was quiet and pleading. “It really shouldn’t matter that the man looked like me.”

“No, I suppose it shouldn’t,” she said. “It was just… a shock.”

He laughed softly. “Yeah. Honestly, I don’t see the resemblance. But you all looked so spooked, I figured I’d give you space.”

There was something rehearsed in his tone. Something too calm.

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” she said quickly.

“Yeah. Sleep well,” he said.

She paused. The words landed oddly.

“You mentioned not sleeping,” he added.

She nodded faintly. “Thanks.” Then she slipped past him.

“Right,” he sighed, not to himself, exactly, but to the room. Or something listening in.

He watched the door long after it closed. Her scent lingered. So did the look in her eyes, confusion wrapped in something deeper. Not fear. Not yet. Just the impossibility of what she’d seen refused to settle into sense.

She couldn’t see it yet. But her bones knew. As if some long-lost part of her had recognised him first, and now waited, quietly screaming, to be heard. He let the pen fall. It skittered across the floor, a small rebellion against the calm he’d been pretending to hold. No one had told him how much it would ache. Or maybe they had, in a language he no longer understood. It didn’t matter.

He gathered the papers, useless decoys, because the weight of routine still helped. Still kept him tethered. Would going back solve anything? He looked toward the filing cabinet, where the shadows stretched long. They whispered the same thing they always did.

Not yet.

He turned off the light. Closed the door with care. And vanished into the dark.