Suitable Accommodations

Corbett moves through Crawford Manor with the silent confidence of a man who has walked the same halls for half a century without ever once getting lost. I follow him up the grand staircase while carrying my boots in one hand and the Peacemaker in the other. My damp bare feet leave faint prints against the polished dark wood floors.

Thunder growls somewhere outside beyond the towering windows. The manor feels even larger on the inside. Hallways stretch endlessly beneath vaulted ceilings crossed with ancient black beams. Candlelight flickers across oil paintings of dead Crawfords staring down from the walls with expressions ranging from disapproval to outright hatred.

Every few feet I spot another raven somewhere in the architecture. Carved into banisters. Worked into brass sconces. Hidden in wallpaper patterns. Watching. “You have a very… distinctive home,” I say finally.

“Indeed,” Corbett replies without slowing. “The Crawford family has occupied this estate continuously since the eighteenth century.”

“That explains the cryptic bird poetry.” For the first time, I think I almost see the ghost of a smile touch the corner of his mouth.

“Master Bertram was a superstitious man,” he notes.

“Was he wrong?” I query. Corbett does not answer. We climb another staircase, narrower this time, before he finally stops before a tall walnut door near the end of a quiet corridor. Rain taps softly against the enormous arched windows lining the hall.

Corbett opens the door and steps aside. The bedroom beyond is enormous enough to embarrass my last apartment. A massive four-poster bed dominates the room beneath a canopy of dark red velvet curtains. A fire burns quietly inside another marble fireplace, casting warm orange light across shelves of old books, polished antique furniture, and thick Persian rugs soft enough to swallow footsteps.

Floor-to-ceiling windows overlook the storm-drowned Blacklands beyond the manor grounds, though tonight they show little except rain and occasional flashes of lightning. A clawfoot bathtub sits partially recessed behind a folding privacy screen painted with ravens and dead winter trees. Beside it rests a silver tray holding crystal bottles of bath oils and soaps that probably cost more than my truck.

My truck. God, I hope nobody steals it. “This room belonged to Mistress Eleanor Crawford,” Corbett says calmly. “It has remained prepared for guests.” I step slowly farther inside, trying not to look too impressed. The air smells faintly of cedarwood, old paper, and fireplace smoke. It smells expensive.

Corbett moves toward an antique wardrobe near the fireplace. “Dry clothing shall be sent up momentarily. Dinner is served promptly at seven o’clock sharp. Mister Crawford requests your presence.”

I glance toward my soaked dress clinging unpleasantly to my skin. “I’m not exactly carrying formalwear in the truck.”

“I believe suitable accommodations can be arranged.” Something about the way he says that makes me slightly nervous. Corbett inclines his head politely toward the bathing area. “You are welcome to bathe before dinner, Miss James.”

“Honestly, that might be the nicest sentence anybody’s ever said to me.” Again, that almost-smile. Then the old butler steps back into the hallway.

“If you require anything further,” he says, “simply ring the bellpull beside the fireplace.” The door closes softly behind him. And suddenly I am alone in one of the oldest rooms in Crawford Manor while thunder shakes the windows and ravens scream somewhere out in the darkness beyond the glass.