Blackgrave Manor

Blackgrave Manor

A Gothic Romance

If the auditor of her work, when read in manuscript, shuddered under the grinding influence of natures so relentless and implacable, of spirits so lost and fallen; if it was complained that the mere hearing of certain vivid and fearful scenes banished sleep by night, and disturbed mental peace by day, Ellis Bell would wonder what was meant, and suspect the hearer of affectation.--Charlotte Bronte.

Chapter 1.

Narcissa stared out the window at the fog. It had already filled the valley, and now it was sending tendrils up the hillside. Soon her entire house would be enveloped in thick, soft cloud. Narcissa felt that she, too was floating in a silver fog. She was safe from nightmares. All she needed to do was gaze into the distance at dark mountains wrapped in cloud like her own. Narcissa thought she might look out the window forever.

Far away, near the edge of the valley, a dark figure appeared out of the mist. It seemed to be a tall man, dressed in black.

"Lucius, darling," said Narcissa, turning away from the window. "I think the spirit of the mountain has come to watch over us."

"Do be quiet, dear," said Lucius. "You’re imagining things, as usual. There’s nobody for miles around, not even giants."

Narcissa was quiet. The figure had disappeared, or, rather, she had imagined him in the first place. Narcissa allowed her mind to slip back into the mist.

A few minutes passed in silence, punctuated only by Lucius’ gentle laughter. Lucius always laughed when he was planning. Then a low moaning filled the house. Somebody was at the door-- except Lucius had said there was nobody for miles around, so there was nobody at the door.

"Is that a ghost visiting, darling?" Narcissa asked.

"Did I tell you to turn off all analytic thought, darling?"

"But you said there was nobody for miles around . . ."

"Nobody except our invited guests. Or unwilling pawns, as the case may be. Do you know, dearest, I’m not sure that long white nightdress of yours is suited for company. Perhaps you had better let me do the receiving."

Lucius was right. He always was; Narcissa preferred it that way. She drifted out of the parlour, into the small study, and settled down with a photo album. Here she was leaning from the tower of her family’s castle, pale hair swirling in the wind . . . Here was sweet little Draco in his pale green christening robe, making faces at the camera . . .

Narcissa heard a noise in the next room. That must be Lucius’ guest entering the parlour. Were they expecting him? She couldn’t remember inviting anyone-- oh, of course, this was the ugly Muggle Lucius was planning to enspell. He had to be brought to the Circle of Power willingly, and all of that. Narcissa pushed her hair out of her face and stuck out her tongue at the Draco in the photograph. He answered by displaying his own teensy pink tongue. He was utterly adorable. Hiding in the study was much more pleasant than pretending to socialize with people named things like Verdigris, Narcissa decided.

Glasses clinked in the parlour. Maybe Lucius required large infusions of alcohol to speak to this Mr. Dursley person without laughing at him. Mr. Dursley certainly seemed to talk a lot. He complimented the brandy, the sideboard, the house, the landscape, the black limousine that had delivered him to their threshold . . . Narcissa was glad Lucius had not permitted a fat Muggle to squash her carriage cushions. Though Narcissa would never dream of criticizing Lucius . . . She riffled through the album pages, looking for their wedding photographs. Yes, here she was, in her flowing cream lace. Such a beautiful dress.

Now the Muggle was boasting about some rich person he had known at school. Narcissa could hear the suppressed laughter in Lucius’ voice as he asked for details. That wasn’t very nice of him, was it? They were having rather an interesting conversation, though. All about the virtues of masculine friendship. Draco had written her some awfully sweet things about his feelings for one of the boys on his Quidditch team. Childhood admiration was so pure. Narcissa would have to send Draco another box of sweets, she decided; he had seemed rather thin last time he came home.

The conversation in the next room was getting stranger. It seemed to be about real old-fashioned public schools, and making toast. Why was making toast so important? Narcissa was not sure. She would never ask Draco to make nasty dry toast, and she would be surprised if he asked anyone else to do it for him. But then he had always been a self-sufficient child, which was good, since Narcissa spent rather a lot of time allowing her mind to drift among the clouds. It simply floated, the way her hair in this photograph was floating in the breeze.

"I have a proposal to make," said Lucius. His voice had a tight, mocking note, which Narcissa might have found unnerving, if her thoughts had not been wrapped in mist. Or dust, perhaps. Gentle, rippling gray dust. Should she persuade a ghost to dust the stones in the Circle of Power? Lucius’ ritual might work better then, but Narcissa hated going into the cellars, and she was always tripping over ancient and oddly shaped rocks. So much better to curl up here, in this warm armchair.

Lucius and the Muggle had been quiet for rather a while now. Narcissa was surprised that Mr. Dursley had managed to stop chattering. Had Lucius’ brandy gotten the better of him?

Narcissa heard a soft thud. She was beginning to wonder what was going on. Maybe she could lift herself out of the armchair, just long enough to peek into the parlour.

Narcissa’s first glance showed her Lucius seated in a green armchair, his head thrown back, a twisted grin on his face. Mr. Dursley kneeled at his feet. As Narcissa stared in horror, she saw Mr. Dursley’s head moving back and forth in a familiar rhythm. The fat around his neck jiggled as he moved.

Narcissa could feel fifteen years of safe, comfortable mist falling away from her. She was alone. She was betrayed.

Narcissa ran screaming into the night.