Teddy suspected Malcolm didn't like her. Admittedly, she had come off a bit strong on the whole business prospect. She couldn't help it. She was excited like she'd never been excited before. For the first time in her life, she felt a sense of purpose. A reason to get out of bed in the morning. A reason to be alive.
Still, Malcolm didn't know her, and to him she probably came off like a lunatic. Like a crazy person. Like "That Person." The one that's so focused on one thing that they become oblivious to anything else happening around them. She had never been That Person before. She always made sure to mind peoples' feelings, to speak with caution, to consider all opinions and perspectives before making any action.
She wasn't sure if she was growing — breaking out of her shell, as the school guidance counselor would've told her — or if her personality was changing altogether. Whatever it was, she was enjoying the freedom. It energized her, it took her away from fear and guilt.
There's a freedom in irresponsibility, in rudeness, in thoughtlessness, Teddy realized. If Malcolm believed she was insane, then maybe she was. It was the highest form of freedom there could be. Wasn't that what she wanted?
It was a playful thought, but it spoiled in her mind when she recalled the way Malcolm had looked at her that morning. It was as if he was looking at a picture of a very strange bug in a textbook. He had studied her with great curiosity and fascination, but there was an edge to it, a revulsion. Like he couldn't wait to turn the page and look at something nicer. Like he wanted to shut the book, crushing her within it, and look at a different book altogether.
So she was pleased when he left the house to retrieve his and Owen's things from their hotel room. And she was relieved he didn't bother asking her to join him on the trip, though it did somewhat confirm her suspicion that he couldn't stand to be near her. She supposed she could live with that. She was just glad to stay inside.
Inside. Warm and dry. Quiet and still.
Why don't we just get regular jobs? Malcolm had asked, and the moment he said the words Teddy knew the house was getting to him too. Pulling him in. She had wondered if it was just her, but now she knew. It was the only haunted house in the world that made you want to stay. It made sense. The house was full of magic and mystery. It was everything the world was not.
She loved the house on Thornewood Road, and now Malcolm was falling in love with it too.
It made her like him more.
***
Dear Diary,
The strange hysterics continue each and every night, and I am almost glad to be booted from this home in just a handful of days. I've yet to secure new accommodations (no surprise - I wouldn't hire me as a maid or a governess myself), but I would rather sleep in the woods than bear another night with the mistress.
Even so, I find myself entertaining silly thoughts and conspiracies during the long, dreadful days and the long, restless nights here at Thornewood House. It is the mystery of Edward Poole, the dark and brooding butler, and the lady of the house, the lady in mourning.
I am ever the outcast these days, as the unlikely pair continue to spend quite a bit of time together each and every day. I suspect they sit up late, as more recently the night terrors do not come 'til 3 or 4 o'clock in the morning, where they previously came at 1 or 2.
Some mornings, I discover the mistress's best goblets sitting out on the dinner table, stinking of spirits and sticky with the remnants of drink. I know nothing of alcohol, but by the smell I can say it is something mighty. I struggle to envision the pair sharing a night cap. What is discussed? What do they wear? (I blush to imagine the butler in his nightclothes!)
I've made my point - they are a strange, unlikely friendship. Forged quickly, and by what?
Oh how the mind wanders when left unoccupied. I would take up crochet if I had the supplies. (But isn't a mystery that much more fun?)
Anyway, there's something else on my mind today. Some man has arrived at the house quite unexpectedly, a boarding school friend of Poole's, I gather. The Whites never accepted guests prior to Mr. White's death (and I've never heard of a servant hosting a guest!), so I suspect this is a kindness from the mistress.
This man, a Mr. Allan, I believe, is quite the gentleman and very handsome. He is not quite as handsome as my beloved, but cut of a similar cloth (that is all I will say on that matter). I've only spoken to him but once, a short introduction, but he tells me he is a man of science.
It is the strangest thing, however. Mr. Allan has been with us two nights now, and I've only just realized I never made him a bed. (I have long accepted that I make a terrible maid, but has this surprised even me). I haven't the slightest clue where the man has been sleeping. In fact, I have hardly seen the man except at meals, and sometimes not even then. I suspect he is with the butler in that cold cellar, but for what? . . .
Teddy looked up from the diary, stirred by the sound of movement upstairs. She wasn't used to sharing the house, and the sound set off alarm bells in her mind.
She'd been reading Isabelle's diary in Rose's bedroom, enjoying the maid's increasingly curious passages. The diary was like a portal into the Thornewood's past, into Poole's past. And the history didn't disappoint. A place like Thornewood is bound to be sitting on centuries of mystery, gossip, and intrigue.
But the footsteps upstairs brought her back to the present, which, she had to admit, was still pretty mysterious. Malcolm had returned from his errand, Teddy guessed, and he was unpacking upstairs.
She wondered how he was feeling. Was he grieving? Can one grieve when the newly-departed isn't exactly . . . departed? She supposed he must be feeling something like grief. Grief adjacent. Or maybe something worse.
A feeling without a name. One that bogs you down, makes your eyelids heavy, makes your body ache and your heart race — but you can't call it grief. Grief is too simple.
Grief didn't exist in Thornewood House.
She put down the diary and headed for the stairs. The door to the bedroom was closed when she reached the landing, but she could hear a low voice speaking within. It was Malcolm. She couldn't hear whoever he was talking to.
". . . calling to see what I can do about withdrawing from courses for the upcoming semester..."
Teddy's stomach dropped. She felt somehow responsible for roping him into this world — her world — and for the fact that she hadn't even considered the very real consequences of staying at Thornewood House.
"Yes, uh, yes. I understand," Malcolm said, his voice a muffle through the door. "Yes, I'm sure. Okay. Okay. Thank you very much."
Malcolm sighed and then all was quiet. From the landing, Teddy held her breath, suddenly afraid he would hear her and hate her more for eavesdropping. She waited a moment longer before knocking lightly on the door.
"Hey, can I come in?" she said.
"Uh, sure," Malcolm said.
He was sitting on Isabelle's bed when she entered the room. He looked wrecked. There were dark circles under his eyes and his shoulders were slumped.
"How are you holding up?" she asked.
Malcolm rubbed his eyes with the backs of his hands.
"I think I'm alright," he said, and she was surprised to see his brow furrow, as if he were earnestly trying to find the right answer. He laughed. "I guess I don't really know how to feel."
Teddy nodded. "It's a lot to take in all at once."
He met her gaze, and she braced herself for that look of disgust. But he only looked tired, defeated.
"Listen," Teddy continued. "You don't have to stay here. I know you want to help, but—"
"I'm staying," he said, his voice firm as a locked door. "Owen needs—"
"I can deal with Poole. We'll still help Owen—"
"—I'm staying."
She nodded, and she understood. He needed to see this through with Owen. But she also knew that that was only part of it. For the first time, she wondered about the force that seemed to hold her there. Was there really some power, holding them inside the walls of Thornewood House? Or was it simply a deep, internal desire? A desire to escape, to hide from the world forever.
If that were the case, then her and Malcolm had more in common than she first thought.