Chapter Text
Long ago, in a grand house that loomed above a small village, there lived a lady of striking beauty and sharper pride. Lady Mary Grantham had wealth, elegance, and every worldly grace. Yet she had no love in her heart.
One winter’s night, a wealthy traveler came to her gates — a man named Sir Richard Carlisle.
Certain she could not refuse him, he asked for her hand in marriage, offering a single red rose as a token of his devotion.
But Mary, repulsed by his presumption and arrogance, laughed at the gift and turned him away.
Enraged by her cruelty, Carlisle revealed his true power and cursed her. Her beauty twisted into a beastly form, terrible to behold. And as punishment, all who lived in the manor were likewise transformed — bound to strange shapes, their humanity slipping away.
The rose he had offered became a truly enchanted rose. From it, a single petal fell, then another, marking the passage of time.
“This curse shall remain,” he vowed, “until you learn to love another, and earn their love in return. If not, when the last petal falls, you and your house shall remain as you are — forever.”
Ashamed of what she had become, Mary withdrew into the shadows of her castle. Its gates shut, its windows grew dark, and an unnatural fog settled over the land. Slowly, the memory of the house and all who dwelled within faded from the minds of the villagers below, as if it had never been there at all.
And so the years passed, the petals falling, and hope withered away.
For who could ever learn to love a beast?
The morning sun warmed Matthew’s shoulders as he crossed the village square, book tucked beneath his arm. The air smelled of bread from the baker’s stall, sharp herbs from the apothecary, and the smoke of a dozen chimneys.
“Morning, Mr. Crawley!” someone called. He nodded politely, though his thoughts lingered on the passage he’d just finished reading. If he didn’t keep his place fixed in his mind, he would lose it before he could sit down again.
Snatches of voices reached him as he moved through the bustle.
“Odd sort, isn’t he?” one of the butcher’s boys muttered.
“Strange, maybe,” said the miller’s daughter, shifting her basket against her hip, “but he sure is easy on the eyes.”
Matthew felt the prickle of stares as he passed — the familiar tug of whispers following behind him. He kept his eyes on the fountain at the square’s center, smiling faintly to himself. Better a book in his hands than the endless gossip of the market.
Matthew passed the apothecary and heard his mother’s voice carrying above the din. Isobel Crawley was already in fierce debate with the shopkeeper about a new tonic she had read of in London. Half the villagers were listening in, half pretending not to. Matthew quickened his pace, hoping to slip past before she noticed him and dragged him into the argument.
From the far end of the square came a sudden stir: Mabel Lane Fox had returned from the hunt. She strode down the path with a stag’s antlers slung across her shoulders, her boots spattered in mud. Her dark hair gleamed in the sunlight, glossy as raven feathers, catching every eye without her needing to try.
Behind her, Tony Foyle stumbled under the weight of bows, quivers, and muddy snares. “Make way! Finest hunter in England, right here!” he exclaimed, almost tripping over his own feet.
Children broke into cheers, a knot of drinkers clapped, and a few vendors paused to stare — but most of the village carried on, too busy with their morning trade to spare her more than a glance.
Matthew heard the swell of noise, caught the flicker of her shadow at the edge of his vision, and immediately bent over his book. He found his place with exaggerated care, fixing his gaze to the page as though he hadn’t noticed her at all.
If he was lucky, she’d pass by, content with the admiration of others.
But luck had never favored him where Mabel was concerned.
Matthew heard the shift in footsteps before he saw her shadow fall across the page. He turned another leaf in his book, though he hadn’t finished the sentence on the last one.
“Morning, Matthew,” Mabel’s voice rang out, rich and confident.
He looked up briefly, offering the faintest of smiles. “Lady Lane Fox.” Then his eyes dropped back to the book.
“You bury yourself in those pages every day,” she said, setting the stag’s antlers against the fountain with a heavy clatter. Tony wobbled beside her, nearly falling in as he tried to juggle her hunting gear. “Don’t you think life would be far more exciting if you joined me? Out in the woods, chasing real beasts?”
Matthew tapped his finger against the spine. “I’m already chasing one,” he murmured, without looking up. “This author has a particularly slippery argument.”
A few villagers overheard and stifled laughs. Mabel’s eyes narrowed, but her smile never faltered.
“You could use a bit of fresh air,” she pressed, tossing her hair over her shoulder.
Matthew finally glanced at her, his expression polite, almost amused. “Well, I am outside already.”
Villagers chuckled into their hands. Mabel’s smile froze for a heartbeat before curving wider, sharp as the antlers at her feet. To her, it wasn’t rejection. It was challenge.
Matthew closed his book with deliberate care, rising from the fountain. The villagers’ chatter swirled on behind him — Mabel’s laughter, Tony’s eager remarks, the rustle of the marketplace — but he paid it little mind.
The town’s library was hardly more than a single room tucked beside the magistrate’s office, its shelves thin and dusty. Still, Matthew stepped inside as though entering a cathedral.
“Back again, Mr. Crawley?” Clarkson looked up from behind the counter, spectacles perched on the end of his nose. “I daresay you’ve read more of these volumes than I have.”
“Possibly,” Matthew said, with the smallest trace of humor. He set his book gently on the counter. “But even familiar company can be worth revisiting.”
Mr. Clarkson chuckled, shaking his head as he took the book. “Strange lad,” he muttered fondly. “Though if half the village read as much as you, I’d be out of work.”
Matthew smiled faintly and moved to the shelves, fingertips brushing the spines. Most of the titles he knew by heart, their words etched into memory. Yet he still searched, hopeful for something he’d overlooked — some page that might surprise him.
At last he selected one he often returned to: The Odyssey.
As he pulled the slim leather-bound volume from the shelf, Mr. Clarkson’s eyebrows rose. “That one? But you’ve read it twice!”
Matthew smiled again, tucking the book under his arm. “Then I shall read it a third time. I find it improves upon each visit.”
Clarkson huffed a laugh, sliding the returned volume onto a pile. “You know, most men your age are chasing wives, not worn-out poetry.”
“Then most men are braver than I,” Matthew murmured, still scanning the shelves.
“Books won’t keep your heart warm, mind you.”
“Perhaps not,” Matthew replied, turning to leave, “but they’re far less noisy.”
Clarkson shook his head with a smile. “Good luck to you, Mr. Crawley.”
Matthew inclined his head politely and stepped back into the bustle of the square.
The sun had reached its peak when Matthew found his mother again, basket looped over her arm as she came out of the baker’s.
“There you are,” Isobel said, falling into step beside him without missing a beat. “I’ve managed to secure a promise from Mrs. Hale to try a new tonic for her cough. She may pretend she doesn’t trust my advice, but I know she listens.”
Matthew smiled faintly, shifting The Odyssey under his arm. “You always win them over eventually.”
“Not always,” she admitted briskly, “but often enough.” She glanced at the book. “Another one?”
“The same one,” Matthew said, his voice carrying just the faintest dry amusement.
Isobel shook her head, though her eyes softened. “Strange lad.” She slipped her free hand through his arm, and together they started along the lane toward home.
The village noises faded behind them, replaced by the quiet stretch of fields and the hum of insects in the hedgerows. Isobel spoke of neighbors, of medicines, of the world beyond their little town. Matthew listened, half attentive, half lost in thought, the weight of the book a steady comfort against his side.
By the time they reached their small house at the edge of town, the sun hung high but warm, slanting through the windows in bright afternoon light.
Isobel pushed open the door with her shoulder, basket still looped over her arm. The familiar scent of dried herbs and bread rose up to meet them. Papers and pamphlets cluttered the table; a shawl trailed off the back of a chair; a vase of flowers, cut that morning, already tilted toward the sun. The house had the air of perpetual motion — cluttered in its details, yet calm at its heart, ordered in its own way by Isobel’s tireless energy.
Matthew set his book on the sideboard and slipped out of his coat. “You’ve acquired half the apothecary again,” he remarked, eyeing the bottles and jars lined up on the counter.
“They’ll be useful,” Isobel replied briskly, unloading her basket. “Mrs. Hale will need something stronger if her cough lingers, and Mr. Cooper’s boy is still limping on that leg. Honestly, I don’t know how they’d manage without someone keeping watch.”
Matthew leaned against the doorframe, fond exasperation in his eyes. “The village ought to erect a statue in your honor. Though I doubt they’d find one that talks quite as much.”
Isobel shot him a look, though her lips twitched. “Better talk than silence, Matthew.”
He smiled faintly, reaching for his book again. “On that point, we may never agree.”
The little house hummed with its usual rhythm — Isobel bustling from counter to cupboard, Matthew listening with half a smile as he trailed a hand along the book’s worn spine. Odd they might be to the village, but here, everything felt perfectly in place.
After a moment, Isobel swept into the kitchen with her characteristic briskness, and Matthew followed. She went straight to the shelves where her collection of bottles stood, lifting each one to the light, giving them a quick shake, muttering under her breath as if they might vanish if she didn’t keep close account.
Matthew raised an eyebrow, amused. “Checking to make sure they haven’t disappeared since breakfast?”
“It never hurts to be certain,” she said. Her tone was sharp but not unkind. She paused, frowning at a half-empty vial. “And look at this — nearly finished. It won’t do.”
Matthew stepped closer. “What won’t?”
“This tonic,” she said, tilting the bottle toward the window as though sunlight might conjure more of it. “The apothecary has run short of the key ingredient. I’ll have to fetch more from the next town. Their supplier keeps it in stock.”
Matthew frowned. “It’s a long road.”
“Long, but manageable,” Isobel replied, already resolved. “I could be there and back within a day if I start early.”
“You don’t have to be the village’s physician single-handedly, Mother.”
She turned to him then, her expression softening. “If not me, then who? Mr. Smythe will be out of work for weeks without it, and Mrs. Miller’s pregnancy is already at risk as it is. A little inconvenience is nothing in comparison.”
Matthew shook his head, closing his hands over the back of a chair. “At least promise me you’ll wait for morning.”
Isobel patted his arm as she passed, reaching for another bottle. “Always the cautious one. Don’t worry — I’ll manage.”
Matthew stood a moment longer in the doorway, watching her fuss and bustle, the warm little house humming with its familiar rhythm. Yet unease tugged faintly at the edges of his thoughts.
Perhaps sensing it, Isobel glanced over her shoulder. “What shall I bring you back from the town? To lighten your spirits.”
Matthew hesitated, then smiled faintly. “A rose. If you should happen upon one.”
Her brows lifted in mild surprise, but her expression softened. “A rose?”
He shrugged, a little self-conscious. “Father used to grow them by the gate… I haven’t seen one in some time. Just a reminder that there’s more to life than this little town.”
Isobel’s expression softened, though she shook her head with a smile. “Of all the things you might have asked for, you choose a flower. You are your father’s son.”
Matthew gave a grin. “And here I thought I’d grown stranger than he ever was.”
She glanced at him, her mouth curving. “Impossible.”
Notes:
i hope you enjoyed the first chapter!!! so many fun things to come!!!
Chapter Text
The next morning was clear, the air carrying the warmth of summer and the faint promise of rain. Matthew stood at the gate of their little house, his hand resting on the worn wood as Isobel fastened her basket to the saddle.
“Are you certain the road is safe?” he asked for the fifth time.
“Perfectly,” Isobel replied briskly, though she adjusted the straps one more time to satisfy him. “It’s only the next village, Matthew,” she reminded him. “I’ll be back by nightfall.”
“Half a day there, half a day back,” he countered. “That’s a long ride alone.”
She gave him a look — half exasperation, half affection. “I’ve done it before, and I’ll do it again. There’s nothing on that road but hedgerows and sheep.”
Matthew didn’t answer, only glanced down at The Odyssey tucked beneath his arm. “Just… be careful.”
“I always am.” Her tone softened, the briskness slipping for a heartbeat. “Don’t look so grim. I’ll be home before you’ve finished that book for the third time.”
Matthew managed the ghost of a smile. “Bring me my rose,” he said, lifting a brow, amusement glinting in his eyes.
Isobel smiled, her eyes warming. “You shall have it.”
With that, she swung herself into the saddle, straight-backed and confident, and took up the reins. Matthew opened the gate, and the horse stepped forward with a snort. He watched as his mother rode down the lane, her figure growing smaller against the green fields until the hedgerows closed behind her.
Left alone, Matthew tightened his grip on the book and turned back toward the house. Yet unease lingered, faint but insistent, curling in his chest like a shadow.
The rooms felt emptier without her bustle — only the faint hum of flies at the window and the creak of the old floorboards as he crossed to his chair. He settled down, opened his book, and let his eyes skim the familiar lines.
He had barely started reading when an insistent knock rattled the front door. Matthew closed his eyes briefly, as though gathering patience, then rose to answer.
On the step stood Mabel Lane Fox, her dark hair gleaming, Tony Foyle hovering loyally at her shoulder with an awkward grin. Mabel leaned one arm against the doorframe, a smile curving her lips.
“Your mother’s off to the next village, isn’t she?” she said, as though it were common knowledge. “How fortunate. That leaves you free to enjoy my company.”
Tony bobbed his head eagerly. “Oh yes, Lady Lane Fox thought of you at once — didn’t you, my lady? Thought you might like a bit of… companionship.”
Matthew tightened his grip on the book. “How very considerate,” he said dryly.
Mabel’s smile widened, unbothered. She brushed past him as though the house were hers, Tony scurrying in behind. “You know, Matthew, I’ve been thinking. A man as handsome as you shouldn’t spend his days buried in books or rattling about this little house with only his mother for company.”
“I manage,” he replied, shutting the door with a sigh.
“Manage?” Mabel laughed, tossing her hair over her shoulder as she circled the small room, inspecting it with disdain. “You ought to thrive. And there’s only one way you’ll do that.” She turned, eyes gleaming. “By marrying me.”
Tony nearly dropped the bundle in his arms. “Oh, yes! Lady Lane Fox and Mr. Crawley — the finest pair in the county!”
Matthew blinked at her a moment, then allowed himself the faintest polite smile. “An interesting proposition. Though if you’re so intent on a match, perhaps Tony would make the better candidate.”
For a beat, silence hung. Then Tony let out an unhelpful little giggle, cheeks flushing red. “Marry her? Oh, imagine that!”
Mabel shot him a glare sharp enough to still him on the spot, then turned back to Matthew with a dazzling smile that didn’t reach her eyes. “You’re clever, Crawley. I like that. You’ll come around.”
Matthew lifted his book again, his tone even. “I assure you, Mabel, I won’t. I’m never going to marry you. I’m sorry.”
For a heartbeat, the room held its breath. Tony blinked, pale, while Mabel’s smile froze.
Before she could recover, Matthew moved to the door and pulled it open. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’d like the rest of the afternoon in peace.”
Tony scrambled toward the threshold, still clutching the bundle, casting Mabel a lovesick glance as he went. She lingered a moment longer, her eyes glittering, her pride stung, but Matthew’s calm gaze didn’t waver.
At last she swept past him with a toss of her head, her boots striking hard against the floorboards. “We’ll see about that,” she said, her voice low and edged with promise.
Matthew closed the door behind them and leaned against it for a moment, the silence pressing heavy in the little house. Then, with a sigh, he crossed to the back, slipped out quietly, and cut across the yard into the open field.
The tall grass brushed his hands as he walked, the summer air warm and full of the hum of woodland creatures. He drew in a long breath, tilting his face toward the wide sky, as if its vastness might clear the last trace of Mabel’s perfume from his senses.
“Can you imagine?” he muttered to himself, shaking his head. “Me — marrying that woman.”
A wry laugh escaped him, low and bitter. He pressed his hand against his side, as though anchoring himself. “Is that all they see for me? A clever remark, a decent face — and then a life spent with her, as if nothing more were possible.”
He stopped at the crest of the hill, the village small behind him, the fields and hedgerows sprawling before him like a map. His chest rose and fell with a sigh that seemed to come from deeper than his lungs.
“I want so much more than that.”
The words hung in the air, swallowed by the breeze, but Matthew felt the truth of them settle like a stone in his chest.
Isobel pulled her shawl tighter around her shoulders, urging the horse onward as the road narrowed into the trees. The afternoon had begun clear enough, but the sky had shifted, low clouds dragging across the horizon. A fine rain had started to fall, threading cold against her cheeks.
She clicked her tongue, peering through the shadows. “Steady now. We’ll be through soon.”
The horse tossed its head uneasily, hooves slipping in the mud where the path curved and split. Isobel slowed, frowning. The road she remembered so well seemed to have twisted upon itself — hedgerows where there should have been markers, a fork she could not recall.
“Confound it,” she muttered. “Which way…?”
The trees pressed closer, the leaves heavy with rain, dripping steadily into the gloom. The path she chose narrowed further still, until it seemed less a road than a track. The horse snorted, stamping, as though it too sensed the wrongness.
Then the silence broke. A low growl shivered through the air.
The horse froze, ears flat. Isobel twisted in the saddle, peering into the shadows. Two eyes gleamed back at her — then four, then six. Wolves, slipping soundlessly from the undergrowth, their fur bristling dark and wet in the rain.
Her breath caught. “Go!” she cried, digging her heels into the horse’s flanks.
It bolted forward, hooves pounding mud, branches whipping at Isobel’s arms as the pack gave chase. The snarls grew louder, jaws snapping at her heels. Rain lashed harder, blurring the path, turning the world into a whirl of trees and teeth and terror.
Her satchel, jostled loose in the chaos, slipped from her shoulder. She reached for it, but a sharp lunge from the horse sent it tumbling to the ground. Glass shattered, herbs scattered, the tonic she had come to fetch spilling into the mud — gone in an instant.
Isobel clenched her jaw but didn’t dare stop. She bent low over the horse’s neck, urging it on as the wolves closed in.
A wolf leapt, teeth snapping for the horse’s flank, but the beast lunged ahead, narrowly breaking free. Just as Isobel thought they would be overtaken, the trees thinned, the shadows splitting apart.
And there — looming through the mist and rain, impossibly tall, its dark turrets stabbing the sky — was a castle.
Isobel’s heart thudded, fear and relief tangled in her chest.
She clutched the reins, urging the horse toward the only refuge in sight. The wolves howled behind her, their cries echoing through the dripping trees.
The great iron gates loomed ahead, black and towering. For a breath she thought they were shut fast — then, with a long, groaning creak, they swung open on their own.
The horse plunged through, hooves clattering against the stone path. The instant they crossed the threshold, the gates thundered shut behind them, cutting off the wolves with a crash that rang in the rain-heavy air.
Silence followed — heavy, unnatural. Only the patter of rain on stone and Isobel’s own ragged breath filled the courtyard.
She slid from the saddle, legs trembling, and turned slowly in place. The castle rose around her like a shadow, its dark turrets clawing at the sky. Windows gaped black and empty, watching.
Isobel’s heart beat hard in her chest. “What is this place…?” she whispered.
She pressed a hand to the horse’s trembling neck, murmuring softly until its shivers eased. A covered alcove stretched along one wall of the courtyard, half fallen to ruin, but enough to shelter them from the rain. Isobel led the horse there, unfastened the sodden straps of what little remained, and stroked its muzzle with steady hands.
“There now,” she whispered. “Safe for the moment.”
The horse snorted uneasily, ears flicking back toward the looming castle doors. Isobel followed its gaze, her stomach tightening.
The great doors stood slightly ajar, dark and yawning, as though the house itself breathed and waited. Rain dripped from the eaves, pattering in the silence.
Isobel drew a sharp breath, squared her shoulders, and stepped across the courtyard. “Hello?” Her voice carried thinly, swallowed almost at once by the cavernous space beyond.
She pushed the doors wider and entered.
The vast hall inside was colder than the rain, shadows stretching high above, broken only by the flicker of a torch guttering in its sconce. Furniture loomed in the gloom, shapes she could not make out, and the echo of her own footsteps rang far too loudly.
“Is anyone here?” she called again, her words trembling slightly despite her best effort.
For a moment, silence. Then — soft whispering. Barely more than a breath, carried from the far side of the room.
Isobel’s heart lurched. She turned sharply, eyes darting to the corner where the sound had come.
There, on a narrow side table beneath a cracked mirror, rested only a candle and a squat little clock. Perfectly ordinary things, yet somehow… not. The candle’s flame wavered though no draft stirred, and the clock’s hands gave a faint, mechanical twitch.
She took a step closer, frowning. But the whispering had stilled.
“Foolishness,” Isobel murmured under her breath, drawing her shawl tighter. Still, she couldn’t shake the sense that the shadows were watching, waiting.
She moved on, her footsteps echoing. A flicker of warmth drew her gaze to the far side of the hall, where a fire crackled in a great stone hearth. Its light spilled across the flagstones, the only sign of life in the cavernous space.
She approached slowly, the heat a welcome balm against the damp chill clinging to her. A small table stood beside the hearth, set neatly with a teapot and a single cup. Both steamed faintly, as though they had only just been poured.
Isobel frowned. “Someone is here,” she whispered.
Cautiously, she reached out, her hands chilled from the rain. The porcelain was warm against her fingers. She lifted the cup and took a sip. The tea was strong, sweet, and impossibly hot — far too fresh to have been abandoned.
For a moment, comfort softened the edge of Isobel’s fear. She lowered the cup slightly, letting the steam curl against her face.
And then — a whisper. Small, high, almost shy.
“Mrs. Patmore doesn’t want me to say anything. But I just wanted to say hallo.”
Isobel froze, the cup suspended halfway to her lips. Slowly, her eyes dropped to it.
The porcelain was delicate, painted with tiny roses, and inside, the tea still trembled faintly. But what made her breath catch was the faintest curve of a smile etched into the cup’s rim, as though the design itself had come alive.
Her hand shook. She set the cup back on the table with care, taking a step back.
The teapot beside it gave the faintest rattle, as if warning, and the little cup fell silent again.
Isobel staggered back from the hearth, her breath catching in her throat. The cup sat perfectly still on the table, as though it had never spoken at all.
“No,” she whispered, her voice shaking. “No — this is madness.”
She spun and hurried across the hall, her footsteps echoing like thunder. The great doors groaned as she wrenched them open, and the rain-washed courtyard yawned before her.
Her horse nickered nervously from the alcove, stamping its hooves as if it, too, sensed the wrongness. Isobel rushed to it, fumbling at the reins with trembling fingers. “We’re leaving,” she muttered, breathless. “Now.”
She pulled the horse into the open, the gates looming dark ahead. And that was when she saw them.
Off to the side, half-hidden by the courtyard wall, a garden stretched in impossible bloom. Roses — hundreds of them, red as spilled wine, heavy with rain, their scent rich and sharp even through the storm.
Isobel froze, reins slack in her hands.
Matthew’s voice came back to her, soft and almost sheepish: “A reminder that there’s more to life than this little town.”
She turned toward the garden, heart pounding. Against all reason, against her own fear, she found herself taking a step closer.
Her hand lifted, trembling, reaching toward the nearest bloom.
Before her fingers brushed the petals, a voice cut through the storm — low, cold, terrible.
“Who dares?”
Isobel gasped, spinning around. The shadows by the garden wall shifted, coalescing into a figure cloaked in darkness. Rain slicked across the stones, but the figure moved as though untouched, the air itself heavy with its presence.
Her horse shrieked and tore free of the reins. Isobel spun, reaching, but it bolted into the storm, hooves clattering madly until it vanished into the mist.
“Please,” she cried, her voice breaking. “I meant no harm.”
The figure came closer, slow, deliberate. No face showed beneath the hood, only the faint glint of eyes.
“You’ve trespassed,” it said, the words echoing like iron. “And trespassers…”
The sentence trailed away into the storm.
Isobel flinched as something closed around her wrist — not a hand, but claws. Cold, sharp, inhuman.
Her breath caught in her throat. The figure pulled her toward the castle’s gaping entrance.
The great doors groaned open of their own accord, shadows yawning wide to receive her. And before she could cry out again, they slammed shut behind her.
Notes:
isobel noooooo
Chapter Text
Morning broke bright and clear, the storm of the night before swept clean from the fields.
Matthew stepped out into the yard with heavy eyes. He had not slept — not truly. He’d sat up by the fire until the embers turned cold, listening for the sound of hooves that never came.
She had said she’d be back by nightfall. She always kept her word.
But the night had passed, and the house was still empty.
He was fastening the latch on the garden gate when he heard it: the rapid drumming of hooves on the lane.
Relief surged so swiftly it almost hurt. Matthew’s head snapped up, his mouth already set in a half-scolding line. “Mother,” he muttered under his breath, ready to give her a piece of his mind for putting him through such a night.
But then the horse burst into view — wild-eyed, foam flecking its mouth. And the breath caught in Matthew’s chest. No rider. The reins trailed loose, snapping against its flanks as it thundered toward him. Mud caked its legs, its eyes rolled white with terror.
Matthew’s heart dropped. “No…”
The horse barreled through the gate, nearly colliding with him before it shuddered to a halt. He caught the reins, his voice sharp. “Easy. Easy!”
The animal trembled beneath his grip, sides heaving as though it had fled some unspeakable terror. Matthew pressed his palm against its damp neck, trying to steady his own breath as much as the beast’s.
“Where is she?” he whispered. “Where did you leave her?”
The horse only snorted, stamping the earth, tugging hard at the reins as if desperate to turn back.
Matthew’s jaw set. His fear hardened into resolve. “Then take me to her.”
Without another thought, he swung into the saddle. The horse reared once, then bolted back down the lane, hooves striking sparks against the stones as it carried Matthew toward the shadowed woods.
The horse thundered down the lane, hooves striking mud and stone, carrying Matthew faster than he thought possible. Branches whipped at his shoulders as they plunged into the trees, but the beast needed no urging — it ran with the wild certainty of something retracing its steps.
Matthew bent low over the saddle, his jaw clenched against the wind. He could feel the animal’s muscles bunch and strain beneath him, hear the rasp of its breath. Whatever had driven it home in terror was still lodged deep in its bones.
The path grew narrower, twisting between dark hedgerows. And then Matthew saw it — a splash of brown in the mud.
He pulled sharply on the reins. The horse skidded to a halt, sides heaving. Matthew slid down, boots sinking into the damp earth.
There, half-buried in muck, lay his mother’s satchel. The clasp was broken, its contents scattered — shards of glass glittering faintly, herbs matted into the mud.
Matthew crouched, fingers trembling as he lifted it. The strap was torn clean through.
“She was here,” he whispered.
The forest around him seemed to hold its breath.
The horse stamped and snorted, tossing its head as if urging him onward.
Matthew straightened, his grip tightening on the reins. “Go on, then,” he said dryly. “Take me to her.”
The animal surged forward again, pulling Matthew deeper into the woods.
The air grew colder, shadows pressing close. Matthew’s gaze darted between the trees, every rustle making his pulse quicken. He half-expected wolves to lunge from the undergrowth, but none appeared. It was as though the woods themselves held back, watching.
Then the trees began to thin. Mist curled low over the ground, veiling the path.
And there — rising out of the fog like a vision from some half-remembered nightmare — stood a castle. Its turrets clawed at the sky, black stone dripping with rain, windows gaping dark and empty.
The horse slowed of its own accord, hooves echoing hollow against the stones of a vast courtyard. Mist clung to the ground, curling around Matthew’s boots as he swung down from the saddle.
The animal snorted, sides still heaving, its ears pinned flat. It refused to go farther, hooves stamping anxiously against the stones.
Matthew gave the reins a firm tug, then released them, patting its damp neck. “Stay,” he murmured.
His eyes swept the courtyard. Weeds pushed up between cracked flagstones, and shadows clung to the high walls. Near the steps of the castle doors, a broken branch lay in the mud.
Matthew stooped, lifted it, and tested the weight in his hands. Crude, but better than nothing.
Straightening, he fixed his gaze on the looming doors. They stood slightly ajar, as though waiting for him.
Gripping the branch, Matthew set his jaw and strode across the courtyard. With each step, the horse’s restless snorts grew fainter behind him, until all he could hear was the echo of his own boots and the slow creak of the doors as they yielded to his approach.
The air that met him was damp and cold, carrying the faint tang of stone long shut away. He stepped inside, clutching the branch tightly.
“Mother?” His voice rang across the cavernous hall, swallowed quickly by the shadows. He took another step, his boots echoing against the flagstones. “Can anyone hear me?”
Silence pressed in, vast and heavy.
“Somebody?” His tone cracked, raw with urgency. “Anybody?”
For a moment, nothing. Then — a sound.
Whispering. Low, hurried, too faint to catch. It slid through the hall like a draft, curling around him from behind.
Matthew spun, heart hammering. The doors loomed shut, the torches guttered faintly against the walls. But there was no one there. Only empty air and shifting shadows.
He drew a long breath, steadying himself, though unease prickled at the back of his neck.
Then he heard it — faint at first, but unmistakable. A cough. Ragged, human.
His blood went cold. “Mother?”
The sound came again, echoing from somewhere above. Not whispers this time. Not tricks.
Real.
Matthew broke into a run, boots striking hard against the stone. His voice carried up the stairwell as he climbed two steps at a time. “Mother! I’m here!”
The castle seemed to twist around him, corridors long and uneven, shadows bending strangely with each flicker of torchlight. But he followed the cough, sharper now, closer.
At last, he reached a narrow stair twisting into a tower. The air grew colder with every step, damp seeping through the stones. His hand brushed the wall as he climbed, heart pounding faster the higher he went.
Another cough split the silence, harsh and close now. Matthew stumbled onto a landing, his eyes catching on a heavy iron-bound door. Rust streaked its hinges, and behind it came the sound of his mother’s ragged breath.
“Mother!” he cried, and with a desperate shove he forced the door wide.
The room beyond was little more than a dungeon — bare stone, dripping with moisture, chains bolted to the walls. And in the dim light, huddled on a narrow bench, sat Isobel.
She looked up at him, her face pale in the gloom. “Matthew,” she whispered, her voice breaking. “You must leave this place at once—”
Matthew rushed to her side, dropping the branch to the floor with a clatter. He knelt and pulled at the chains fixed to the wall. “Hold on, Mother — I’ll get you out of this.”
“No!” Isobel’s hand shot out, gripping his wrist with surprising strength. Her eyes were wide, fever-bright in the dimness. “You must go. At once.”
“I won’t leave you here,” Matthew said, tugging harder at the iron cuffs. “Not like this.”
“You don’t understand,” she whispered fiercely. “She’ll find you.”
Matthew froze, breath ragged. “She?”
Isobel shook her head, panic tightening her voice. “Go, Matthew. Before it’s too late.”
He ignored her, bracing himself against the wall, trying to wrench the bolt free. The iron groaned but did not give.
Isobel gripped his face between her hands, tears in her eyes.
“I would rather rot here a hundred years than see her lay one finger on you.”
Matthew stilled, his breath catching. “Who?”
The word echoed off the stone walls.
And then, from the shadows behind him, a voice answered. Low. Cold. Final.
“Me.”
Matthew spun, heart hammering. The dungeon stretched dark around him, the single torch sputtering weakly against damp stone. He squinted into the stairwell beyond, but the figure there was half-swallowed in shadow — tall, cloaked, only the faint glint of eyes visible.
He could not make out her face, nor the full shape of her body. Just the impression of something vast and inhuman, lurking at the edge of sight.
Isobel gave a strangled cry, pulling at her chains. “No!”
The figure shifted, and for an instant Matthew thought he saw claws flash in the torchlight before the shadows folded back around them.
His grip tightened on the iron cuffs binding his mother. He straightened, voice steady despite the tremor in his chest. “Whoever you are — let her go.”
Silence pressed thickly against the stones. Then, a low sound — a laugh, or perhaps a growl.
“Bold,” the figure murmured.
“She’s done nothing to you,” Matthew pressed, jaw tight. “Free her. Now.”
From the shadows, the figure’s voice cut through the air, low and unyielding.
“She’s stolen from me.”
The words reverberated against the stone, chilling in their finality.
Matthew’s brow furrowed, his heart pounding. “Stolen? She would never—”
The figure’s voice deepened, each word sharp as iron. “She tried to take what is mine. A rose.”
Matthew froze, then shook his head sharply. “A rose?”
“Yes,” the voice rumbled. “From my garden.”
Matthew turned to Isobel, horror and guilt rising. She wouldn’t meet his eyes, her shoulders trembling in the chains.
His throat tightened. “That was for me,” he said hoarsely, facing the shadows again. “She only meant to bring it home. She has nothing to do with this.”
He stepped forward, planting himself between the dungeon door and his mother’s bound form. His voice rang steady in the cold air. “Let her go. If punishment is due, it should fall on me.”
For a moment, silence. Only the drip of water along the stones, the rasp of Isobel’s breathing.
Then the figure shifted. Slowly, deliberately, she stepped forward.
The torchlight licked across her at last — not enough to show her fully, but enough. Matthew saw the curve of claws glinting at her side, the ragged sweep of a cloak that seemed more like a beast’s mane, and eyes that burned faintly in the dark.
His breath caught, but he did not move.
The voice came again, low and resonant. “You would take her place?”
Matthew swallowed, forcing the words out through the tightness in his chest. “Gladly.”
Behind him, Isobel let out a strangled cry. “No, Matthew!”
Her burning eyes lingered on him. Then, with a sound that was neither laugh nor growl, she stepped fully into the dungeon.
Quickly, with a movement swift and sure, she reached for the wall. Iron groaned, and the chains binding Isobel fell slack.
Isobel gasped, clutching her wrists to her chest as though scarcely believing her freedom.
The voice filled the chamber, low and merciless. “Say your goodbyes.”
Matthew turned instantly, gathering his mother into his arms. She trembled against him, her breath ragged.
“No,” she whispered, clutching at his coat. “I won’t leave you.”
“You must,” he said fiercely, holding her tight. “This is the only way.”
She shook her head, eyes wet, desperate. “Matthew, please—”
But her shadow loomed closer, her presence heavy as stone.
Matthew brushed a hand through her hair, steady even as his throat ached. “Stay alive. That’s all I ask of you. Go home. Be safe.”
She shook her head, tears spilling freely now. “My son…”
He kissed her temple, whispering, “Always your son.”
A low growl rolled through the chamber, rattling the chains along the wall. The creature’s voice cut like iron. “Enough.”
In a blur of motion, something cold and unyielding seized Matthew by the shoulders. Claws scraped against stone as iron cuffs snapped shut around his wrists, pinning him to the wall where his mother had been moments before.
“Matthew!” Isobel cried, struggling in vain against the invisible force that wrenched her away from him. Her fingers reached for his, but they slipped apart, their grasp broken.
“Go!” Matthew shouted, twisting against the chains. “Go now!”
But his words were drowned out as the figure’s shadow swept between them, vast and terrible.
With a sweep of her cloak, the door groaned open, and Isobel was thrust into the stairwell beyond.
Her voice echoed one last time, thin and anguished. “Matthew!”
Then the door slammed shut, leaving him alone in the darkness, the weight of the chains biting into his arms.
The iron was cold against his skin, but colder still was the truth: he had traded his freedom for hers, and there would be no going back.
Notes:
i hope im making this accurate to the downton characters but also to the story of beauty and the beast! lmk
Chapter Text
The cold bit into his back, waking him. Matthew shifted, chains clattering faintly against stone.
For a moment he thought he dreamt it all — the storm, the castle, the monstrous figure in the shadows. But the ache in his wrists told him otherwise.
“Sir.”
The voice made him start. Low, measured, but not unkind. He lifted his head, searching the darkness.
A shape gleamed in the torchlight — a clock, tall and polished, ticking faintly even as it spoke.
Matthew’s breath caught. “Good Lord—”
“Steady,” came another voice, brisk and practical. A candlestick leaned forward from a shelf, three flames flickering atop its arms. “He looks fit to fall apart.”
Matthew pressed back against the wall, his chest tightening. “What… what are you?”
The clock cleared his throat with a sharp click. “Servants, sir. Though perhaps not in the form you expect.”
He leaned forward, and with a solemn creak of his wooden frame produced a small brass key from his side. “Now — if you’ll permit me.”
Before Matthew could protest, the clock pressed the key into the first shackle. With a crisp turn, the iron sprang open. Another turn, and the second cuff clattered to the floor.
Matthew rubbed his wrists, stunned. “How—”
“No time for questions,” the candlestick cut in, hopping down so its light danced across the stone. “You’ve no chance of walking out alone.”
The clock inclined his head. “We mean you no harm. Tell us your name, and let us help you.”
Matthew hesitated, still pressing his raw wrists, then said warily, “Matthew. Matthew Crawley.”
The clock gave a grave little nod. “Mr. Crawley, then. I am Carson.”
The candlestick flickered brightly, dipping in something like a curtsy. “And I am Mrs. Hughes. At your service.”
Matthew blinked, incredulity warring with exhaustion. “A clock. A candlestick. Talking.”
Carson clicked his pendulum sharply. “Yes, yes. Quite impossible, and yet here we are. Now come — the dungeon is no place for conversation.”
Mrs. Hughes extended one steady flame toward him. “Lean on me if you must. We’ll see you safe upstairs.”
Matthew eyed the candlestick’s outstretched flame with suspicion. His body ached, his wrists raw, but pride stiffened his spine.
“I can walk,” he muttered, forcing himself upright. His legs trembled beneath him, the dungeon spinning slightly as he pushed off the wall.
He managed a step, two — then stumbled.
Carson clicked reproachfully. “Stubbornness will do you no credit, Mr. Crawley.”
Mrs. Hughes caught his sleeve before he could fall, her flame steady and warm against the fabric. “There now. Nothing wrong with leaning when the ground’s unsteady.”
Matthew’s breath came fast, humiliation and gratitude tangling in his chest. He gave a short nod, allowing her to guide him forward while Carson moved at his side.
The chains lay abandoned on the stone behind him as they led him into the corridor, the flicker of Mrs. Hughes’s light pushing back the dark.
They found her at dawn — hair matted, shawl soaked through, her hands scratched raw from brambles.
“Mrs. Crawley?” Mrs. Green called, rushing from her porch.
Isobel looked up sharply, eyes wild. “You have to help me,” she said. “My son — Matthew — he’s been taken.”
“Taken?”
“There’s a castle in the woods,” she said breathlessly. “I saw it. He’s a prisoner there. Please, you must send someone—”
Mrs. Green hesitated. “There’s no castle near here, dear.”
“There is!” Isobel cried. “Hidden by a curse, or by something worse — I don’t know! But he’s there.”
A few villagers gathered, murmuring among themselves.
“She’s ill,” someone whispered.
“She’s been out all night.”
“She’s talking nonsense.”
Isobel turned on them, frantic. “You don’t understand! He’s alive!”
But the faces around her only grew more guarded — more pitying.
Then Mabel Lane Fox stepped forward, her red cloak bright against the gray morning. “Poor Mrs. Crawley,” she said softly. “Come with me. You need rest.”
Isobel tried to pull away. “I don’t need rest. I need help.”
Mabel’s grip tightened, just slightly. “You’ve had enough excitement for one night, haven’t you?”
The villagers nodded. No one met Isobel’s eyes.
And as Mabel led her gently down the street, Isobel realized the truth — they didn’t believe her.
Not one of them.
The climb through the corridors was slow, Matthew’s steps unsteady, his hand gripping Mrs. Hughes’s sleeve more than once. Shadows clung to the high walls, and he swore the flicker of eyes followed them as they passed.
At last, they pushed open a pair of doors and stepped into a chamber warm with firelight. Matthew blinked against the glow. The room was crowded — not with people, but with things.
A teapot bustled forward, steam curling from her spout. “He looks half-starved, poor lad. Sit him by the fire, Mrs. Hughes.”
A tiny teacup hopped at her side, its porcelain chipped. “Hallo,” it piped, voice small and eager.
Matthew staggered, staring. “Good Lord.”
A broom gave an awkward bow, bristles splayed. “Welcome, sir. Molesley, at your service.”
Carson cleared his throat primly. “Mr. Crawley, the household staff.”
Matthew sank into the chair they steered him toward, overwhelmed. The warmth of the fire did little to ease the knot in his chest. “Household staff,” he echoed faintly.
The broom bristled forward, leaning on its handle. “This is your home now, sir. Free to go wherever you like.” Then, almost as an afterthought: “Except the West Wing!”
The words dropped like stones into water.
Carson’s pendulum swung with a sharp tick. “Molesley.”
Mrs. Hughes’s flames sputtered with disapproval. “Honestly. Must you always flap your bristles?”
The teapot gave a scandalized whistle. “Not a word about the West Wing, you know that!”
Molesley shrank back, bristles drooping. “I only meant—well, it slipped out…”
Matthew’s brow furrowed. “What’s in the West Wing?”
“Nothing,” Carson said swiftly. “Absolutely nothing of interest to you there.”
The others muttered agreement, their unease thick enough to choke the room. Matthew glanced from one to the other, suspicion stirring despite his exhaustion.
His eyes lingered on the broom, but he let the question slip away — for now. His voice was hoarse but steady. “If I’m to stay here, perhaps I should at least know who I’m speaking to.”
The teapot gave a pleased little whistle of steam. “Mrs. Patmore, at your service. And this—” she nudged the tiny teacup forward “—is Daisy.”
The little cup bounced eagerly, nearly tipping over. “Hallo, Mr. Crawley!”
Matthew blinked, then inclined his head with polite disbelief. “A pleasure. Tell me… are there more of you?”
“Oh yes!” Daisy piped, her porcelain rattling with excitement. “Much more!”
“Daisy,” Mrs. Patmore hissed, giving her a sharp nudge. “Mind your manners.”
But it was too late. A wardrobe creaked open at the far wall, a gown fluttering from within.
“Anna,” she said warmly. “If you need anything — anything at all — you’ve only to ask.”
By the hearth, a coat rack stood sentinel, its hooks lifted like attentive shoulders. “Bates,” came the low, even voice. “Make yourself comfortable, sir.”
And on a console table, a tall mirror tilted just enough to catch the firelight. “Thomas,” it said with cool precision. “I suppose we’re entertaining.”
Matthew stared, caught between wonder and disbelief. “Much more, indeed,” he murmured.
“And that’s just the staff!” Daisy chimed brightly, bouncing in place so hard she nearly tipped. “You haven’t even met all the people who live here!”
Mrs. Patmore gave a sharp whistle of steam. “Daisy!”
Carson’s pendulum swung in irritation. “Really, child. Must you flap your handle at every turn?”
Daisy shrank a little under their scolding, though her chip quivered with mischief. “Well… it’s true,” she muttered.
Matthew frowned, curiosity sparking. “Who else lives here, then?”
The room went very still.
At last, Daisy whispered, unable to hold it in: “There’s Cora, Robert and Violet. And Lady Sybil. And Lady Edith too.”
“And the one who brought me here? The… figure in the shadows?”
Silence.
It was Daisy, of course, who blurted it. “That’s Lady Mary.”
The name rang in the air, final and unshakable.
He repeated it softly, almost to himself. “Mary.”
At once the fire seemed to crackle louder, shadows leaping against the walls. Carson’s pendulum swung with a sharp tick. “That is enough, Daisy.”
Mrs. Patmore let out a puff of steam, fretful. “You’ve said far too much, girl.”
Daisy shrank, her chip trembling, but her little voice wavered on. “Well, he ought to know who she is, oughtn’t he?”
Matthew’s gaze swept over them all, his chest tightening. “So she has a name, then. A lady. Not just a monster in the dark.”
The room bristled. Carson spoke first, voice clipped. “Mind your tongue, sir.”
A pause — then Mrs. Hughes added, quieter but firm, her flames bending low. “She may not be what she once was, but she is no monster.”
The rest of the room stayed silent, unease thick in the air.
Matthew looked from one enchanted face to the next, incredulous. “I don’t understand. She cursed you. All of you. This… this is her doing.”
Anna’s wardrobe doors creaked open a crack, her voice barely more than a whisper. “No, Mr. Crawley. Not her.”
The words hung heavy, unanswered by the others.
Matthew’s breath caught. If not her — then who?
Carson’s pendulum ticked sharply, cutting through the silence. “That is enough for tonight. Rest, Mr. Crawley.”
The fire popped, the room settling back into uneasy quiet. But Matthew could not rest. The name — Mary — still burned in his mind, and the question gnawed at him: if not her, then who had cursed them all?
He pushed himself from the chair and crossed the room, ignoring the servants’ murmurs. A tall window stood half-shuttered, its glass cold beneath his fingers as he pulled it open.
The night air rushed in, damp and sharp. He leaned out, heart pounding, and looked down.
Far, far below, the courtyard stretched into darkness. The drop was sheer, dizzying. No footholds, no ledges — only slick stone plunging into shadow.
Matthew drew back, swallowing hard. There would be no climbing down. Not from here.
He shut the window firmly, the weight of the lock clicking into place. For the first time, he felt the truth settle in his chest like iron:
He was trapped.
“You gave him a bedroom?” Mary’s voice cut like glass.
Carson’s pendulum ticked once, slow and deliberate. He bowed his head slightly. “You are right, my lady. I should never have allowed it. A prisoner belongs in a cell, not a chamber.”
Mrs. Hughes’s flames sputtered, dimming with dismay. “Carson—”
But Mary silenced her with a single look.
The silence stretched, brittle as ice.
Then, from the mantle, a silver bell gave the faintest ring, delicate and clear. Sybil’s voice chimed, bright against the heaviness: “You must treat him kindly, Mary. If you ever hope the two of you will…” She faltered, then let the words fall anyway. “Fall in love.”
The room went rigid.
Mary turned slowly, her shadow stretching longer across the chamber. Her voice, when it came, was rawer than she meant it to be.
“No one could fall in love with someone as hideous as me.”
Even Carson stilled, his pendulum frozen.
Inside, Mary cursed herself. Foolish, foolish to let the thought escape, to let them hear the truth she carried like a brand. She saw their faces — pitying, stricken — and it sickened her. Better they feared her than pitied her. Better the mask than the wound beneath.
Her gaze swept the chamber — the clock, the candlestick, the teapot, the little bell that still trembled from speaking. A pang pierced through the armor she wore. They had not chosen this. None of them had. And though the curse was not her doing, they bore it because of her.
Her voice dropped, low and unsteady, almost swallowed by the fire’s crackle. “I never meant for you to be bound this way. I’m… sorry.”
The apology tasted bitter on her tongue. She hated how small it made her feel.
She drew herself up at once, masking the slip with steel. “Hope can be a dangerous thing, Sybil.”
Without waiting for an answer, she turned sharply on her heel, her shadow trailing after her into the hall.
But as the doors closed behind her, the echo of her own words lingered like a poison she could not swallow back.
Hideous.
Unlovable.
And worst of all, true.
Notes:
mary crawley my complex queen
Chapter 5
Notes:
sorry i haven't uploaded in a few days! life's been super crazy, i hope i'll start updating more regularly soon xx
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Matthew woke to a room still shrouded in gray light, the fire on the hearth reduced to a bed of coals. For a disoriented moment he thought he was home, that the dungeon and the talking teacups and the shadowed woman were all some fever-dream.
Then Carson’s solemn voice broke the silence. “Up, Mr. Crawley.”
Matthew turned, blinking at the tall clock standing beside the bed. His heart sank. It had not been a dream.
Mrs. Hughes flickered nearby, steady flame in her hand. “You’ll take breakfast,” she said firmly, as though it were not up for debate.
He sat up slowly, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. “A prisoner, but one fed and clothed,” he muttered. “A curious kind of captivity.”
Neither answered. Carson and Mrs. Hughes guided Matthew through the long corridor, their voices hushed, the echo of his footsteps swallowed by the vast stone walls. The castle seemed endless — staircases that twisted upward into shadow, doors that remained firmly shut, portraits that watched him with eyes that seemed far too alive.
He rubbed at the raw skin of his wrists, his mouth set. Prison or palace, he could not decide which this place was meant to be.
“This way,” Carson said, opening a heavy door.
The scent of bread and smoke drifted through, warm and startling against the chill. A dining chamber stretched before him, the long table gleamed but lay empty — save for a single place setting at one end.
As Matthew hesitated, the doors at the far wall creaked open and a cart rolled forward all on its own, wheels squeaking across the stone. Platters lifted their lids, releasing the steam of warm bread, cheese, and a pot of tea that poured itself neatly into the waiting cup.
A spoon clinked against the saucer and chirped, “Careful, it’s hot!”
“Don’t frighten him,” a butter dish scolded primly as it slid into place.
Matthew started back, his chest tightening. “Good Lord…”
“Breakfast,” Mrs. Hughes said briskly, as if this display were the most ordinary thing in the world.
And waiting by the fire stood a towering suit of armor, polished but time-scuffed, visor lowered.
Heat shimmered across the metal; when it spoke, the sound rang low from within the helm.
“So this is the boy,” the armor said, stern and clipped. “The one we are to keep like some honored guest.”
Carson sighed gravely.
Matthew stiffened. “And you are?”
The armor straightened, dignity in every line. “Robert. Lord of this castle once, and still its master in spirit. Do not mistake hospitality for acceptance. You are here because she permits it, not because I do.”
Matthew’s brow furrowed. “She.” He knew who Robert meant, but the name went unsaid.
A faint glow kindled behind the visor, then dimmed. “Eat. Then stay out of trouble.”
Carson pulled back the chair, and Matthew sat warily. His voice was cautious. “Will she join us?”
“I doubt it,” Robert said at once, metal creaking as if with displeasure. “She doesn’t enjoy leaving her rooms much anymore.”
The words fell heavy into the silence, and Matthew bent over his plate, appetite dulled despite the warmth of the food.
Matthew forced himself to take a few bites, though the watchful presence of Robert at the fire and the occasional clink from the over-attentive spoon made every mouthful taste like ash.
When at last Carson declared the meal finished, Matthew pushed back from the table with a sigh of relief.
Mrs. Hughes moved to guide him back toward his chamber, but Daisy bounced eagerly ahead, rattling with excitement. “There’s so much more to see!”
Carson ticked reproachfully. “The less he roams, the better.”
Matthew offered a faint smile. “I’ve nowhere to run, Mr. Carson. Only walls and locked doors.”
Carson’s pendulum ticked louder, but he said nothing more.
They started back through the corridor, yet Matthew slowed when he caught a sound — faint, delicate, drifting from a side passage. Music. A melody so tender it hardly seemed possible in a place so heavy with shadows.
He hesitated, straining to hear it. Mrs. Hughes sighed, her flames dipping. “Best keep moving, sir.”
But Matthew had already turned, following the sound until his hand pressed against a carved oak door. He pushed it open.
Sunlight spilled into the chamber beyond, pale and soft against a harp that gleamed golden in the light. Its strings moved without touch, releasing notes that shimmered like water.
The harp spoke, her voice rich and low. “Cora. It’s been some time since we had a listener.”
Matthew lingered on the threshold, struck by her calm grace. “You’re Mary’s mother,” he said quietly.
The strings quivered, releasing a low, trembling chord. “I am. Once we were a family. Now we are scattered pieces, bound by a curse we cannot break.”
Her voice dimmed to little more than a whisper. “Mary belongs to herself now, and that is the tragedy. But before…” The harp shuddered, her final note breaking. “Before, she belonged to us.”
Matthew took another step forward. “Then what happened? What curse could do this—”
“Enough,” came Carson’s voice from the doorway, firm as a tolling bell. He and Mrs. Hughes stood there, the candlelight from her hands spilling gold across the floor.
“The lady has said her fill,” Carson continued, the tick of his pendulum sharp. “You’ve wandered far enough for one morning.”
Matthew looked back toward the harp, but Cora’s strings had gone still, her light dimming to silence.
Mrs. Hughes gestured gently toward the corridor. “Come along now, Mr. Crawley.”
Reluctantly, he followed them out, the door closing softly behind him — and with it, the faint echo of music that refused to leave his mind.
They walked him back through winding corridors, but Matthew barely heard a word Carson said.
His thoughts were still tangled in the echoes of music and sorrow, in Cora’s calm voice and the word family.
When they left him alone at last, he crossed to the window. The sky outside was gray again — not storming, but heavy, as though the light itself struggled to reach this place.
Far below, the forest stretched in every direction. No road, no smoke from a village hearth, no familiar hill in sight. Just endless green and stone walls that looked older than memory.
He rested his hand against the glass. “She must be terrified,” he murmured.
He meant his mother. He could almost picture her now — Isobel standing in their kitchen, the apothecary bottles lined up neatly on the shelf, trying to convince herself he’d simply gone riding too long. Trying not to imagine the woods swallowing him whole.
A pang caught in his chest. The thought of her alone in that small house — his book still on the sideboard, the chair still pulled out — made the castle feel colder.
He turned from the window, the silence pressing in. The fire had burned low again, and the room smelled faintly of wax and dust.
He should have listened to her, he thought. He should have stayed home.
But then, unbidden, came the memory of a rose. Of her laughter when she promised to bring him one back. Of how something as simple as a flower had led him here — to this cursed place, and to the woman who ruled it.
Mary.
Her name lingered in his mind like a half-remembered dream.
The castle always seemed colder in the mornings. Even with the fire burning, the stone walls held the night like a grudge.
Mary sat near the window, a book open in her lap, though she hadn’t read a single word. The pages had blurred hours ago.
“Your tea, my lady,” came Mrs. Hughes’s voice from the doorway. The candlestick entered, setting a tray neatly on the table beside her.
Mary didn’t look up. “Thank you.”
Behind Mrs. Hughes came the soft ring of Sybil’s bell and the faint sweep of Molesley’s broom.
They never arrived alone anymore — they always came as a group, whispering and glancing at one another as though carrying out a plan she wasn’t supposed to notice.
“You’ve kept him shut away since last night,” Mrs. Hughes said carefully. “He’s been given food, yes, but not much company.”
“He’s fine,” Mary said flatly. “He’s alive, isn’t he?”
“That’s a start,” Mrs. Patmore muttered under her breath.
Sybil’s chime gave a hopeful trill. “You could invite him to dinner.”
Mary’s head snapped up. “Excuse me?”
“Well,” Sybil went on innocently, “you did bring him here. It seems only fair you make him feel welcome.”
“Welcome?” Mary repeated, incredulous. “He’s my prisoner.”
“Guest,” Mrs. Hughes corrected quickly. “He’s your guest.”
“Same difference,” Mary said, shutting her book with a sharp snap.
“Not to a curse,” came a crisp voice from the wall.
A portrait — Violet, regal and unblinking — gazed down. In the painted scene, her snuffbox lid clicked shut of its own accord, punctuation as imperious as ever.
“Granny,” Mary said through gritted teeth. “Do you make a habit of appearing whenever I’m already irritated?”
“It’s my best timing,” Violet replied. “Really, Mary, what harm would one dinner do? You might even enjoy the conversation. He has a face, doesn’t he? That’s half the battle.”
Mary stared. “You want me to dine with him?”
“Not just dine,” Sybil chimed, practically vibrating. “Ask him yourself! Properly!”
Mrs. Patmore puffed approvingly. “A dinner invitation from the lady herself — that’s bound to soften the mood.”
Mary’s expression turned dark. “You’re all out of your minds.”
“No, dear,” Violet said smoothly. “We’re cursed. There’s a difference.”
Even Carson, who had been pretending not to listen, gave a heavy tick of agreement. “My lady, the staff feels… it might be beneficial. For everyone.”
Mary glared at them, a low growl of frustration escaping her throat. “You want him to fall in love with me.”
The silence that followed was immediate — and damning.
Sybil’s bell gave a tiny, guilty ring. “Well… yes.”
Mary stared at them all, disbelief warring with something more fragile beneath it. Then she gave a sharp exhale, shaking her head. “You’re all mad.”
“Mad and hopeful,” Violet said, her painted lid snapping shut. “Now off you go, dear. Go ask him to dinner before you change your mind.”
Mary’s glare could’ve frozen sunlight, but she finally muttered, “Fine. If it gets you all to stop pestering me, I’ll do it.”
“That’s the spirit,” Mrs. Hughes said warmly.
As they all bustled out, Sybil gave a delighted chime. Violet lingered last, watching her granddaughter with something almost like affection.
“Progress,” she murmured. “However stubbornly achieved.”
Mary turned back to the window, muttering under her breath. “Dinner. What a ridiculous idea.”
But her reflection in the glass — pale, tired, and faintly curious — didn’t quite agree.
He’d been pacing his room for the better part of an hour, counting the pattern of the stones along the wall. It was quieter than usual — no faint chatter from the hall, no whisper of servants outside. Just the slow, constant tick of something far away.
Then came a knock.
Firm. Controlled.
He stopped mid-step. “Yes?”
Silence. Then — “It’s me.”
He recognized her voice immediately. That same low, clipped tone that had filled the dungeon only a night ago.
He hesitated, unsure if he should open the door. “Lady Mary,” he said carefully.
A beat passed. Then, through the wood: “I’ve come to extend an invitation. For dinner.”
“Dinner,” he repeated.
“Yes. This evening,” she said, her words measured, as though she were forcing each one out. “It’s been suggested that you join me.”
“Suggested,” Matthew said, a faint smile tugging at his mouth. “By whom?”
Her answer came too quickly. “That isn’t important.”
He could almost picture her — stiff-backed, chin high, pretending this wasn’t beneath her. “I appreciate the thought,” he said finally, “but I think I’ll stay here.”
A pause. Then, sharper: “You’re refusing me?”
“I’m declining dinner,” he replied, tone mild. “Not declaring war.”
Her voice dropped lower, colder. “Most men would be grateful for an invitation from their host.”
“I’m not most men,” Matthew said quietly. “And you’re not exactly a host.”
The silence that followed was heavy. He almost wondered if she’d left — until he heard her inhale.
“Fine,” she said, each syllable clipped. “Starve, for all I care.”
“I never said I wouldn’t eat,” he said before he could stop himself.
“You won’t with me, evidently,” she snapped. “So forgive me for saving us both the trouble.”
There was the sharp rustle of her skirts, and then — the sound of her boots on the stone floor, fading fast.
He stood there a moment longer, staring at the door she’d spoken through.
“Well done,” he muttered under his breath. “Two conversations with her, two catastrophes.”
He let out a sigh, rubbing the back of his neck. “And here I thought prison might be quieter.”
Mary’s steps carried her, almost without thought, toward the west wing. The castle was quiet there — too quiet — dust motes swirling through beams of lamplight.
She slipped inside the room where the rose glowed faintly beneath its glass dome, the heart of their curse pulsing with each breath of air.
On the table beside it, the mirror lay untouched.
Mary hesitated before picking it up. Her reflection blurred, rippling faintly — and then she whispered, “Show me the prisoner.”
The glass shimmered.
There he was: Matthew Crawley, sitting by the small window of his room, the untouched dinner tray beside him. He wasn’t reading, wasn’t pacing — just staring into the dark, his hands folded loosely in his lap.
Not angry. Not frightened. Just… quiet.
He moved suddenly, reaching for a book, and her lips parted in surprise — because even here, trapped in a castle full of enchantments, he looked utterly ordinary. And somehow that made him harder to look away from.
She touched the mirror’s edge lightly, voice softer now. “You don’t belong here.”
For a moment, she almost smiled. “Neither do I.”
The image wavered, then went dark again.
Mary set the mirror down, turned to the rose, and whispered — almost as if the room could hear her — “He won’t last long.”
The fire in his room had burned low. He sat by it, book open but unread, when the knock came — light and musical, followed by a delicate chime.
“Mr. Crawley?”
He looked up, startled by the brightness in the voice.
“Yes?”
“It’s Lady Sybil,” came the reply, soft and lilting, like laughter caught in metal. “And Lady Edith.”
The door eased open, and a soft silver glow spilled across the floor.
Sybil floated in first — a bell of polished silver, her curved sides gleaming in the firelight. With every small movement she made, a clear, gentle note rang through the air. She seemed to hum without meaning to, her very presence light and kind.
Behind her came Edith — a tall, elegant quill, carved from dark wood with a glinting gold nib. Her feathers were soft but slightly ruffled, ink still faintly staining her edges. When she spoke, her voice had a brisk precision to it, like the scratch of pen on parchment.
“We’ve come to fetch you,” Sybil said brightly, her tone as musical as her chime.
“For dinner,” Edith added, tapping her nib against the doorframe in impatience.
Matthew frowned. “I told Lady Mary—”
“Yes, yes, we know,” Sybil interrupted cheerfully. “You said no.”
“She’s not coming,” Edith said flatly, as if she’d long stopped expecting her sister to appear at meals. “So you’ll dine with us instead.”
Matthew hesitated, brow furrowed. “You’re Lady Mary’s sisters.”
Sybil’s chime rang softly in confirmation. “We are.”
“Or were,” Edith muttered. “Depending on how you look at it.”
Matthew blinked, trying to process the sight — the bright, kind bell and the restless quill, both looking at him with impossible familiarity. “I’m not sure I was given a choice.”
Sybil gave a delighted little ring. “Exactly!”
He exhaled slowly, the corner of his mouth twitching. “You don’t take no for an answer, do you?”
“Not when there’s food involved,” Edith said crisply.
And before he could protest again, they each positioned themselves on either side of him —
Sybil chiming softly with every movement, Edith muttering about being late — and guided him into the corridor.
As they passed through the long hallway, the castle seemed to wake around them. Candles flared to life. Curtains rustled as though stirred by a breeze. Somewhere in the distance, Mrs.
Patmore’s kettle gave a cheerful whistle.
Sybil hummed, light and cheerful. Edith sighed. “This had better work.”
Matthew glanced down at her. “Work?”
“To make her less impossible,” Edith said simply.
He almost smiled. “You mean Lady Mary?”
Sybil’s bell rang once, soft and knowing. “Who else?”
The moment they pushed open the great dining-room doors, the castle seemed to come alive.
Candles leapt to life across the chandelier, sending a spill of light through the room. The long table, empty moments before, filled itself with gleaming dishes, plates, and shining silver. Napkins fluttered into place.
Matthew stood frozen. “Good heavens,” he murmured.
Carson straightened from his post near the hearth. “Dinner is served, Mr. Crawley.”
Mrs. Hughes gave a brisk nod beside him. “Do try to enjoy it.”
“I—” he began, but Sybil’s bell chimed brightly, cutting him off.
“Sit!” she sang. “You’ve had nothing since morning, have you?”
“Not since my captor offered and I refused,” he said dryly, taking a seat.
Edith clucked — or whatever the quill equivalent of clucking was. “Then you’ve only yourself to blame. Honestly, Mary’s bad temper must be contagious.”
The words were still hanging in the air when Mrs. Patmore rolled forward, steam puffing proudly from her spout. “Don’t talk about your sister while the soup’s on, Edith. It curdles the broth.”
Daisy gave a giggle from her teacup. “It’s true! I saw it once.”
Robert’s armor shifted by the hearth, a soft creak of metal. “Decorum,” he intoned, though the faint glow behind his visor betrayed amusement. “Even a cursed household can maintain standards.”
“Standards, he says,” Mrs. Patmore muttered. “You try keeping standards when your plates sing louder than your guests.”
Sybil gave another joyful chime, spinning lightly in the air. “Oh, hush, Mrs. Patmore! This is fun!”
The silverware began to move as if on cue. Forks twirled. Platters spun. Bread rose into the air, slicing itself neatly before floating toward Matthew’s plate.
He watched in disbelief as a small chorus began — clinks and clatters and laughter, everything synchronized in perfect, ridiculous harmony. The castle had been sleeping for so long, yet here it was — alive again, if only for a moment.
Sybil twirled, her bell-song mingling with the hum of the room. “See?” she said softly to Matthew. “It isn’t all gloom here.”
He smiled — the first genuine smile in days. “Apparently not.”
The meal passed in laughter and noise, plates refilling themselves, cups chiming in rhythm,
Edith occasionally muttering at utensils that weren’t “staying in line.”
When at last the last course vanished, the candles dimmed on their own, as if sighing in contentment.
Matthew leaned back, dazed but smiling. “That was… extraordinary.”
Mrs. Patmore puffed with pride. “Oh, it’s nothing when we put our minds to it.”
Sybil floated nearer, her silver gleam soft in the candlelight. “You’ll stay for dessert next time.”
“Next time?” he asked, amused.
She only gave a gentle chime in reply.
Edith, ever practical, flicked a bit of invisible dust from her quill tip. “You’re the first person who’s laughed in this hall in years,” she said quietly. “Don’t ruin it.”
He chuckled, touched by the strange tenderness in her voice.
For the first time since arriving, the silence that followed didn’t feel unfriendly.
Notes:
the servant banter is one of my favourite parts of this fic LOL
Chapter 6
Notes:
meant to post this last night but i fell asleep haha
hope you enjoy!
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
The castle had fallen quiet again, though the laughter from dinner still echoed faintly in Matthew’s mind. The warmth of the meal lingered, softening the edges of the stone walls as he wandered the corridor with Sybil at his side — her bell glimmering faintly like a pocket of light in the dim hall.
Tom Branson clanked along just ahead of them, the sound of metal against stone echoing faintly. He was a sturdy spanner — polished steel with a nick or two along the edges, a tool that looked as though it had seen both hard work and mischief.
“Never thought I’d see the day,” Branson was saying, his Irish lilt light and teasing. “Someone actually making that dining room laugh again. You’ve done us all a favor, lad.”
Matthew smiled faintly. “I think your staff did all the work.”
“Staff?” Branson scoffed. “We’re family here, whether we like it or not.”
Sybil gave a bright little chime beside them. “He was wonderful, Tom. Don’t you think? He even smiled.”
“I did notice that,” Branson said with mock seriousness. “A rare sight around here.”
Matthew’s cheeks colored slightly, though he smiled. “I don’t make a habit of being the evening’s entertainment.”
Sybil’s bell glowed warmly. “You were very kind, that’s all. Most people would’ve been frightened.”
“Of dinner?” he teased.
“Of us,” she said simply.
That quieted him. They walked a few more steps in silence — the faint hum of Sybil’s movement mingling with Branson’s metallic creak.
Eventually, Matthew said, “There’s something I’ve been meaning to ask.”
Branson tilted his spanner head toward him. “Aye?”
“The west wing,” Matthew said carefully. “Why is it forbidden?”
For the first time since dinner, Sybil didn’t glow. Her silver light flickered uncertainly.
“Who told you that?” Branson asked, his tone no longer playful.
“Someone mentioned it,” Matthew said. “More than once.”
Branson’s handle turned slightly, the motion small but tense. “Then take their advice. Best keep to your side of the castle.”
Sybil’s bell chimed — soft and sad. “Please, Matthew. Don’t go there. It isn’t safe.”
He frowned. “Safe from what?”
Neither answered.
Branson only said, “Some rooms are better left to memory.” Then he turned, clanking off down another corridor.
Sybil lingered a moment longer. “Goodnight,” she said quietly.
“Goodnight,” he replied.
Her light faded around the corner, and the hall returned to shadow.
Later, in his room, Matthew found himself unable to sleep. The castle creaked around him — faint groans of age and wind, but something else too, something that sounded almost… alive.
He rose, pulling on his coat, and stepped into the corridor.
The moonlight pooled along the floor, cold and blue. The air grew heavier the farther he walked.
At the top of a long staircase, he found it — a grand archway veiled in dust, the doors massive and carved with roses now cracked and gray.
It took only a moment of hesitation before he reached for the handle.
It gave beneath his hand with a slow, reluctant groan.
The air inside the West Wing was colder than the rest of the castle — as though warmth itself had been banished.
Dust lay thick on every surface. A torn curtain hung in tatters by the window, its edges shifting faintly in the draft. The faint scent of decay lingered beneath something faintly sweet, like the ghost of a flower long dead.
Matthew stepped carefully across the room, each footfall stirring a cloud of dust.
On a carved vanity near the wall, he saw a collection of things that hadn’t been touched in years — delicate perfume bottles clouded with age, a silver brush tangled with long-forgotten strands of dark hair, a few half-opened jars of rouge and powder. The mirror above it was fractured down the center, slicing one reflection into two.
He trailed his fingers lightly over the surface of the vanity, then stopped at the edge of the table where a small embroidered handkerchief lay folded. The initials stitched into the corner — M.G. — were almost hidden beneath a layer of dust.
A chill ran through him.
He turned, his eyes catching on the far wall — a great, once-beautiful portrait.
The canvas showed a family gathered in a sunlit garden: a man and woman seated together — Robert and Cora, unmistakably — and beside them, three daughters. Sybil stood with a book in her hands, Edith poised at her mother’s shoulder, her expression hopeful and bright.
And then, in the center, where another figure should have been — the eldest — there was only a smear of destruction. The woman’s face had been violently scratched away, the paint clawed down to bare canvas.
Mary.
Matthew took a step back, heart pounding.
The silence pressed closer now, alive with something he couldn’t name. His eyes drifted toward the far end of the room — toward a glimmer of red amid the dust.
There, on a small marble pedestal, beneath a dome of glass, stood a single rose.
Its petals glowed faintly, the color impossibly vivid against the ruin around it. But as he watched, one loosened, curling at the edge before falling soundlessly to the floor.
Matthew drew closer, breath shallow. The stem pulsed faintly — alive, somehow, as if the flower itself were breathing.
He reached out a hand, almost without realizing it.
And then, from somewhere deep in the shadows, came a sound — a low growl, soft but unmistakable.
Matthew froze.
The glass dome shimmered faintly in the moonlight.
He turned slowly toward the sound, heart hammering.
And then she stepped into the light.
Her cloak was half-fallen from her shoulders, her hair wild around her face. For a heartbeat she looked almost human — until he saw her eyes. They caught the faint red glow of the rose, burning with a fury that made his breath catch.
“What are you doing here?”
Her voice filled the chamber, sharp and cold enough to crack stone.
Matthew took a step back. “I— I was only—”
“You were told never to come here!” Mary shouted. Her voice echoed through the vast, ruined room, shaking dust from the ceiling.
He stared at her, startled by the violence of it. “I didn’t mean—”
“Didn’t mean?” she cut in. “You’ve touched what doesn’t belong to you!”
“I didn’t touch anything!” he protested, glancing toward the rose.
Her gaze followed his — and when she saw it, her fury faltered for just an instant. Her shoulders lowered, breath unsteady, as though the sight of it pained her more than she could bear.
“Get out,” she said, voice raw now.
“Mary—”
“Get out!”
The air itself seemed to vibrate with her rage.
Matthew stumbled back, nearly tripping over a shattered chair leg as he turned toward the door.
He hesitated only once — just long enough to look back at her, standing beside the pedestal, her hands clenched, her expression twisted between fury and something that looked almost like grief.
“I’m sorry,” he said quietly.
“Go,” she whispered.
And he ran.
His footsteps echoed through the corridor, the cold air burning his lungs. Behind him, he thought he heard her cry out — a sound that wasn’t quite a shout and not quite a sob.
The castle that had felt almost warm earlier now seemed to close in — torches flaring, shadows stretching, doors slamming of their own accord.
He passed the ballroom, the glow of candlelight spilling beneath the door. Inside, he caught a flash of movement — Mrs. Hughes, half-turned toward him, calling his name. “Mr. Crawley! Wait—!”
But he didn’t stop.
Further down the hall, Sybil appeared at a corner, her bell glimmering faintly. “Matthew, please! Don’t go out there!”
Behind her, Edith’s voice rose, sharp with alarm. “He’s running!”
“I have to go,” Matthew gasped, not daring to slow. “Tell them I’m sorry.”
Sybil’s bell rang after him — soft, desperate — as he pushed through the front doors and into the cold night.
The wind struck him like a wall. The courtyard stones gleamed slick with frost, his breath rising in clouds.
He sprinted across the bridge, boots slipping once on the ice, before finding the stables.
The horse snorted softly as he entered, its breath misting in the dark.
“Come on,” he whispered, fumbling with the reins. “We’re leaving.”
He mounted quickly, glancing back only once.
At the castle entrance, tiny points of light glowed — Mrs. Hughes’s candle, Sybil’s bell, even Carson’s steady clock-face gleaming in the doorway.
They stood there silently, watching him go.
Then he turned his face to the storm and kicked his heels, the horse surging forward into the night.
The wind howled. The forest loomed.
And high above, in the tower’s shattered window, the faint red light of the rose flickered once — like a heartbeat in the dark.
The woods swallowed him whole.
Branches clawed at his coat as he rode, the wind slicing through the trees. The air bit sharp with cold, breathless and endless, every sound swallowed by the storm.
“Come on,” Matthew urged, urging the horse forward. The poor creature’s flanks gleamed with sweat despite the frost, its breath misting in white plumes. The path twisted and disappeared beneath them. Behind, the castle had already vanished into the dark.
Then — a howl.
Low. Far away.
He stilled the reins, heart pounding. The horse shifted uneasily, ears pricking. Another howl answered the first, closer this time — then another, from the other side of the clearing.
“Easy,” Matthew murmured. “Easy—”
The first wolf stepped into view. Gray. Lean. Eyes bright with hunger.
Then came the others.
The horse reared in panic. Matthew held tight, but claws scraped against the snow, teeth flashed, and in seconds the clearing erupted with motion.
One wolf lunged for the horse’s flank — it kicked, catching the creature’s shoulder — and then the pack surged forward as one.
Matthew tried to turn the horse, to drive them back toward the path, but one wolf leapt for the reins, snapping at his hand. He struck out, lost his balance, and the world went white with impact.
He hit the ground hard, the breath slamming from his chest. The snow stung his skin, cold burning through his clothes.
The wolves closed in — a ring of growls and flashing eyes.
He grabbed a branch from the ground and swung, catching one across the muzzle. It yelped, reeled back, but two others lunged for his legs. He kicked, striking one, rolling toward the horse — but the animal only circled frantically, unable to flee, trapped between its master and the pack.
“Go!” Matthew shouted, voice raw. “Run!”
But the horse wouldn’t leave him.
Another wolf sprang. Teeth met fabric — and then—
A roar tore through the clearing.
Everything stopped.
The wolves twisted toward the sound, hackles raised. The horse screamed. The roar came again — deeper this time, shaking snow from the branches.
Out of the dark came Mary.
Her cloak whipped behind her, her face half-lit by moonlight. She moved like something not entirely human — strength and fury bound into one.
The first wolf lunged. She met it head-on, striking it away with impossible force. Another followed; she spun, claws flashing, the air ringing with the sound of her breath and their snarls.
Matthew could only watch, stunned — the woman who had cursed him, who terrified him — fighting to save his life.
The wolves broke, retreating into the trees, their howls fading into silence.
Mary stood at the center of the clearing, chest heaving, blood and snow streaking her cloak.
he fury that had carried her here drained all at once, leaving her pale and trembling.
Then, without a word, she stumbled — and fell.
“Mary?”
He struggled to his feet, wincing as pain seared his shoulder. “Mary!”
No answer. She lay still in the snow, her cloak fanned around her like a dark wing.
For a moment, he just stood there, breathing hard, his heart pounding. He could leave — get on the horse, ride until the dawn, never see the castle again.
But she had saved him.
He looked at her — the woman who had terrified him, spared his mother, fought wolves for him — and felt the decision land like a weight in his chest.
He couldn’t leave her.
He dropped to his knees beside her. Her pulse fluttered faintly beneath his fingertips. Her skin, cold as the snow.
“Damn it,” he whispered.
He turned to the horse, still trembling but waiting. “We’re taking her back.”
It seemed to understand.
He gathered her carefully, lifting her into his arms. She was lighter than he expected, her head falling against his shoulder. The smell of frost and rose petals clung to her hair.
He mounted with difficulty, holding her close, her cloak trailing over his arm.
The horse turned toward the path on its own, hooves crunching through the snow, heading back the way they came.
The forest loomed, silent now but watchful.
As they crossed the bridge, the castle rose out of the mist — dark and immense, its towers lit faintly by the red glow in the highest window.
Matthew tightened his hold around her.
“Almost home,” he murmured.
Home.
Notes:
tysm for 200 hits <33
Chapter Text
The castle doors flew open with a crash that shattered the night’s silence.
Carson’s pendulum froze mid-swing. Mrs. Hughes dropped her candle. Sybil gasped, the soft note of her bell ringing through the entrance hall.
And there he was.
Matthew stumbled across the threshold, soaked to the bone, snow clinging to his hair and coat. In his arms, pale and motionless beneath her cloak, lay Lady Mary.
“She— she collapsed,” he managed, his breath ragged. “In the woods.”
For a heartbeat, no one moved. Then the hall erupted into motion.
“Quickly!” Mrs. Hughes cried. “Upstairs, to her chamber!”
Carson led the way, his clock hands trembling faintly. Sybil chimed ahead to light the path, her silver glow spilling across the staircase. Edith hurried alongside, her quill trembling ink at the edges as though even she couldn’t write fast enough to keep up with her worry.
Matthew followed, holding Mary carefully, her head resting against his shoulder. She was cold — terrifyingly so.
When they reached her room, the fire was already lit, blankets piled high on the bed. He set her down gently, brushing damp hair from her face.
Carson bustled to her side, checking her pulse with a practiced hand. “She’s breathing. Just fainted clean away, poor soul.”
“Poor soul?” Mrs. Hughes muttered, but even her voice had softened.
Sybil hovered nearby, her light trembling faintly. “You brought her back,” she said quietly. “You saved her.”
Matthew shook his head, still catching his breath. “She saved me.”
The words silenced them all for a moment.
He looked at her — her face softer now, no anger in it, only exhaustion. Something in his chest shifted.
“Let her rest,” Mrs. Hughes said firmly. “She’ll wake when she’s ready.”
Matthew nodded, stepping back. His clothes were heavy with snowmelt, his hands shaking.
Carson turned toward him with a small, solemn bow. “You have our thanks, Mr. Crawley. Every one of us.”
It was the first time Matthew realized how many eyes were on him — every servant, every family member, every flicker of light in the hall. And that was when it struck him.
They weren’t afraid of her.
For all their grumbling and whispering, every one of them cared for her. Fiercely, hopelessly, as if the worst of her temper had only made them love her more.
He lingered in the doorway a moment longer, taking in the sight — every one of them gathered around her, their glow and clatter and hum gentler than he’d ever heard before.
Despite everything, they loved her.
Dawn came gray and pale over the hills, the kind of morning that looked half-asleep itself.
Matthew hadn’t rested much. When he finally rose, his clothes had dried by the fire, and the castle was quieter than he’d ever heard it — not silent, but hushed, like the whole place was holding its breath.
He hesitated outside Mary’s door, listening. Somewhere down the corridor, a faint humming drifted — familiar, steady.
Anna rolled from around the corner, her wardrobe doors clicking softly, a neat stack of folded linens perched in an open drawer.
“Good morning, Mr. Crawley,” she said kindly, lowering her voice. “You’re up early.”
“I couldn’t sleep,” he admitted. “How is she?”
Anna’s doors eased in a fond little nod. “Better, thank heaven. She stirred before dawn — frightened us all half to death when she sat up and demanded to know who’d left her cloak on the floor.”
Matthew’s mouth twitched. “That sounds about right.”
“She’s resting now,” Anna said, warmth threading through her tone. “Mrs. Hughes made her take broth — though Lady Mary insisted she didn’t need it.”
“I imagine she rarely admits she needs anything.”
“That she doesn’t,” Anna agreed softly. “But she’s lucky, all the same. We all are.”
Matthew frowned a little. “Why do you say that?”
“Because you brought her home.”
He looked down, the words catching him off guard. “She would have done the same.”
Anna’s hinges gave a knowing creak. “Perhaps. But not everyone would have carried her up those stairs. She may not thank you for it, but… we all will.”
For a moment, neither of them spoke. The morning light fell between them in stripes, dust turning gold in the air.
Finally, Anna said, “Would you like to see her?”
He hesitated, then nodded. “If she’s awake.”
“She is,” Anna said with a smile. “And in a mood to be argued with.”
“That sounds familiar,” he murmured.
Anna chuckled, wheeling aside so he could pass. “Good luck, Mr. Crawley.”
He smiled faintly. “I think I’ll need it.”
The curtains in Mary’s room were drawn halfway, letting in a spill of pale winter light. She was propped against the pillows now, her hair brushed and her face still pale but composed.
For a heartbeat, Matthew thought she might not look up. But she did.
Her voice came first. “You again.”
He hesitated by the door. “Anna said you were awake.”
“She worries too much.”
“She worries the right amount,” he said simply.
Mary’s gaze flicked toward the table, where a tray of broth and tea sat mostly untouched. “I’m fine.”
Matthew stepped closer, eyes catching on the bandage wrapped neatly around her forearm.
“You shouldn’t move it yet.”
“I said I’m fine.” She reached for the teacup, and the moment she did, her hand trembled. She hissed softly and pulled back.
Matthew crossed the room before she could stop him. He picked up the clean cloth from the basin, wrung it out, and pressed it gently to her arm.
She startled. “You don’t need to—”
“I know.” His tone was calm. “Just hold still.”
“It hurts,” she said after a moment, quieter this time.
“I’m sorry.”
The apology seemed to unsettle her more than the pain itself.
He worked in silence, careful not to meet her eyes. The only sound was the faint crackle of the fire and the steady drip of melting snow outside.
When he finally spoke, his voice was steady, almost matter-of-fact. “You should rest properly this time.”
Mary’s eyes stayed on the flames. “You make that sound like an order.”
“It’s just advice,” he said. “You don’t seem very good at taking it.”
That earned him a small, weary exhale that might have been the ghost of a laugh.
When he finished, he folded the cloth neatly and set it aside. “There,” he said. “That should help a little.”
Mary flexed her fingers, testing the bandage. “It does,” she admitted reluctantly.
“Good.”
He stepped back toward the door. For a long moment, neither spoke.
Then, very quietly, she said, “Thank you.”
Matthew paused, then nodded once. “You’re welcome.”
He left the room as he’d found it — still, quiet, the firelight catching on her face as she watched him go.
The corridor outside was dim, the torches burning low. Matthew closed the door behind him as softly as he could, the echo of her “thank you” still lingering in his mind.
A warm voice drifted from the far end. “Ah—Matthew.”
Cora approached, her harp’s curve glinting faintly in the morning light; the air seemed to hum with a quiet chord as she moved. Beside her, Robert paced in his suit of armor, polished plates whispering with each step, visor tilted as if in concern.
“We heard she’s awake,” Robert said. “How is she?”
“She’s recovering,” Matthew replied. “Still a bit pale, but in better spirits.”
Cora’s strings thrummed thoughtfully. “You’ve been in to see her?”
He nodded. “I only meant to check on her — ended up staying longer than I intended.”
Robert’s helm inclined, a hint of wryness in the gesture. “That happens with Mary. She has a way of keeping people where she wants them.”
“She didn’t seem to want me there,” Matthew said honestly.
“If she truly didn’t,” Cora murmured, a soft arpeggio answering her words, “you wouldn’t have made it through the door.”
That drew the smallest, surprised breath of laughter from him. “Noted.”
Robert’s voice gentled. “You’ve done her a great kindness, Mr. Crawley. She’s… not been herself for some time.”
“Because of the curse?”
Neither answered at first.
Then Cora said quietly, “Because of loneliness.”
The word seemed to settle in the air between them.
“She’s never been good at asking for help,” Robert added. “Even before all this.”
“I don’t think she’s as unfeeling as she wants people to believe,” Matthew said.
Cora’s strings gave a small, approving chord. “No. She never has been.”
Robert straightened. “Breakfast is being laid in the east hall. You’ll find it more inviting now that the castle’s awake.”
“That sounds good. Thank you.”
“Good morning, Mr. Crawley,” Cora said, inclining her harp in a graceful nod.
“Good morning,” he answered softly, and as they turned down the corridor — her faint music fading into sunlight — he looked once more toward Mary’s door.
The light spilling from beneath it was warm and golden, carrying the soft hum of life returning to the castle.
After days of being ignored, Isobel Crawley had had enough.
They whispered when she passed in the square — the baker, the seamstress, even the vicar’s wife — pretending sympathy that didn’t reach their eyes.
“Poor Mrs. Crawley,” she heard one of them murmur. “Still insisting he’s been taken.”
Taken.
As though Matthew were a missing basket, not her son.
So when Mabel Lane Fox appeared at her gate that afternoon — red cloak gleaming, smile sharp as a blade — Isobel’s patience snapped.
“Come to tell me I’ve lost my mind as well?” she said coolly.
Mabel’s brows lifted. “I’ve come to offer help. You’ve upset half the village with your stories.”
“They’re not stories.”
“Then let’s prove it.” Mabel’s tone was maddeningly bright. “Show me where this invisible castle of yours stands, and I’ll see it for myself. Tony!”
The young man appeared behind her, lantern in hand, looking like he’d rather be anywhere else.
“Miss?”
“Mrs. Crawley’s invited us on an expedition,” Mabel said lightly. “Fetch another lantern, and mind your step.”
They entered the forest as the sun began to sink, the air thick with the smell of pine and damp earth.
Isobel led the way, sure-footed, muttering directions under her breath. She knew this path. She’d seen the gates, the gardens — the very stones of the castle.
But the deeper they went, the more the trees seemed to shift, crowding together until the road disappeared.
“No,” she said sharply. “It was here. There was a clearing — the gate stood just there.”
Mabel glanced around, lips curving in polite pity. “All I see are trees.”
“Look harder.”
“Perhaps,” Mabel said sweetly, “you’ve confused dreams with memory.”
“I don’t dream about cages,” Isobel snapped. “I saw it — my son is in there!”
The forest swallowed her voice. Even the birds had gone quiet.
Tony cleared his throat. “Maybe we ought to turn back, miss. It’s near dusk.”
Mabel sighed. “You hear her, Tony? Poor woman hasn’t slept in days. It’s little wonder she’s imagining things.”
“I’m not imagining things!” Isobel’s shout startled a crow from a nearby branch. “You think this is some fever story? You think I’d walk half the county in the rain if it were?”
“Matthew Crawley left of his own accord,” Mabel said softly, almost kindly. “Everyone knows it. You can’t bear to admit it.”
Isobel’s breath caught. “He wouldn’t.”
Mabel stepped closer. “Then where is he?”
The words struck like a slap.
For a long moment, neither moved. Then Isobel turned away, staring into the fog, willing the castle to show itself — the gates, the stone, anything.
But the woods remained silent. Empty.
Finally, Mabel sighed, brushing dirt from her gloves. “Come, Tony. Let’s see Mrs. Crawley home before she gets lost again.”
Isobel didn’t follow. “Go on, then!” she shouted after them. “Run back to your tidy houses and pretend the world ends where your fences do!”
Her voice echoed through the trees, fierce and lonely.
Mabel didn’t look back.
Tony hesitated once — just once — before lowering his lantern and walking after her.
And when the last of their footsteps faded, Isobel stood alone in the fog, jaw set, eyes blazing.
“They’ll see,” she muttered. “Sooner or later, they’ll all see.”
Notes:
having surgery tomorrow so idk when ill update next! wish me luck xx
Chapter 8
Notes:
recovering slowly but surely! enjoy this chap xx
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
A week passed before the castle began to feel alive again.
The air had changed — softer somehow, carrying the scent of blooming roses through the open halls. The quiet was no longer tense but familiar, threaded with small sounds of movement and life: footsteps, laughter, the clatter of dishes from the kitchen.
And Mary was walking again.
Matthew saw her that morning in the gallery, sunlight spilling over the polished floor. She stood by the tall windows, one hand resting lightly on the sill, her injured arm bound but steady.
“You shouldn’t be walking this much,” he said.
“I’ve been walking all week,” she replied without turning. “It’s hardly fatal.”
“You call this taking it easy?”
She glanced over her shoulder, eyes bright but cool. “If I took it any easier, I’d lose my mind.”
He couldn’t help a quiet laugh. “I believe that.”
Mary’s mouth twitched, just barely.
He hesitated, then said, “Mrs. Hughes told me the whole castle’s been fussing over you.”
“She’s exaggerating,” Mary said. “They always do.”
“I think they were worried.”
“I frighten them less when I’m upright,” she said dryly.
“Not everyone’s frightened of you.”
That made her turn. “You’re not?”
“Not anymore.”
Her eyes softened — not quite a smile, but not far from it either. “Well, that’s something.”
They fell quiet for a moment. Through the open window came the hum of cicadas and the faint rustle of leaves in the wind.
“I never thanked you properly,” she said at last.
“You did,” he replied. “You just don’t remember.”
“Then I’ll say it again.” She drew in a breath. “Thank you.”
He inclined his head slightly. “You’re welcome.”
There was no need to say more.
They stood in easy silence for a while, side by side in the sunlight.
Then she said, almost teasingly, “I hear you’ve been making yourself useful with Carson.”
“Trying to,” he admitted. “He lets me hold tools and pretends not to notice when I hand him the wrong ones.”
That earned him a quiet laugh — a real one this time. “He must like you, then. He never tolerates help.”
“I wouldn’t go that far,” Matthew said. “He just hasn’t found a polite way to get rid of me yet.”
Mary looked amused, though she hid it behind a shake of her head. “You’re very persistent, Mr. Crawley.”
“It’s been mentioned.”
Before either could say more, the soft chime of Sybil’s bell echoed from the corridor. “There you are!” she called brightly. “Mrs. Patmore insists you both come down — tea’s in the courtyard, and she’s threatening to pour it out if you don’t hurry.”
Mary sighed. “She’s said that every day for a week.”
“And she means it every time,” Sybil replied cheerfully before floating off again.
Matthew looked at Mary. “You don’t have to go.”
“I should,” she said, smoothing her sleeve. “If I don’t, they’ll all talk.”
“They’ll talk either way.”
“True,” she said, and this time, the smile actually stayed.
They started down the stairs together, the air warm and golden, the castle humming softly around them. And for the first time since Matthew’s arrival, the distance between them didn’t feel so impossible to cross.
The courtyard had never looked more alive.
The stone walls, once gray and cold, were now dappled with sunlight. Mrs. Patmore had insisted on setting the long table beneath the ivy-covered arch, declaring the kitchen far too stuffy for “decent tea.”
Matthew arrived with Mary, though neither of them would have admitted they came together. He’d slowed his pace to match hers; she’d refused to notice.
Sybil’s silver bell chimed as soon as she saw them. “Finally! We thought you’d both gotten lost again.”
Mary gave her a look. “You’re insufferable.”
“That’s my charm,” Sybil replied brightly.
Molesley swept past them with a broom almost as tall as he was, grumbling about crumbs before Mrs. Patmore chased him off with a spoon.
“Out! You’ll raise more dust than you sweep!”
“I was only trying to help—”
“Out!”
He vanished back into the corridor, muttering something about being underappreciated.
Matthew hid a smile as he took a seat. The air smelled of warm bread and lavender — and, faintly, the roses that climbed along the courtyard wall.
Cora’s harp rested nearby, her strings catching the light with a soft hum. “It’s good to see you both out here,” she said.
Mary lifted her teacup with deliberate grace. “I was told there would be mutiny if I didn’t appear.”
“Not mutiny,” Robert said from the opposite end of the table, the light glancing off his visor, “just mild despair.”
That earned a ripple of laughter from the others — even Carson, who coughed to disguise his amusement.
Mrs. Hughes poured tea with practiced precision. “Well, it’s a fine morning for company. And it’s been far too quiet lately.”
“I’ve noticed,” Matthew said. “The castle doesn’t echo quite so much anymore.”
“It never did when there was laughter,” Cora said softly.
For a moment, everyone went still. Then Mary cleared her throat. “Mrs. Patmore, these scones are excellent. Far too good to waste on gossip.”
Mrs. Patmore beamed. “High praise, that.”
“They’re just scones,” Mary muttered.
“Not when you’ve been living off broth for a week,” Sybil said with a grin.
“Broth I didn’t ask for,” Mary shot back.
Robert leaned toward Matthew. “You see what I live with?”
Matthew smiled faintly. “I do.”
Mary caught his look — and, to his surprise, didn’t glare. “Careful, Mr. Crawley,” she said. “You’ll end up sympathizing with them.”
“I already do.”
That earned him a smothered laugh from Sybil and a strangled cough from Carson. Even Mary’s mouth curved a little before she hid it behind her teacup.
The sunlight shifted higher, and the courtyard filled with the quiet murmur of conversation — laughter, clinking china, the rustle of leaves. For the first time since his arrival, Matthew thought the castle sounded like a home.
He looked around the table — at Sybil’s bright silver, at Robert’s steady helm, polished plates catching the light, at Cora’s harp gleaming in the sun — and then at Mary.
She was turned slightly toward him, her expression calm, her eyes distant but not cold. When she noticed him looking, she arched a brow.
“What?”
“Nothing,” he said quickly. “Just… it’s good to see you well.”
For a moment, she seemed ready with some sharp retort — but it never came. Instead, she said, almost quietly, “It’s good to be.”
The warmth of the sun reached them both, and neither looked away first.
Days passed, and still no one believed her.
The villagers had grown used to her knocking on doors, appearing in shops, demanding that someone — anyone — follow her into the woods again. Most simply smiled and nodded now, speaking softly to avoid provoking her.
But Isobel refused to stop. She couldn’t. Every night she saw the castle again in her dreams — the garden, the locked gates, the faint flicker of candlelight in one of the towers. Matthew was alive. She knew it as surely as she knew her own name.
And so she went to Mabel Lane Fox. Again. And again.
By the fifth time, Mabel stopped pretending to be kind.
“Mrs. Crawley,” she said one morning, voice sharp as glass, “I’m beginning to think you enjoy causing scenes.”
Isobel didn’t flinch. “I enjoy the truth. And I’m the only one in this village with enough sense to see it.”
Mabel’s red cloak caught the sunlight as she turned. “You’ve been pestering half the town with your tales — frightening the children, interrupting decent people’s work. For what? Some fantasy about a castle no one else can see?”
“It’s there,” Isobel said, low and certain. “You’ve seen where it should stand. You just can’t admit it.”
Mabel’s eyes narrowed. “Admit what, exactly?”
“That Matthew’s alive. That he didn’t run off to escape this place — or you.”
A flash of color rose in Mabel’s cheeks. “You overstep, Mrs. Crawley.”
“Do I?” Isobel said. “He was never yours, Mabel. And if you can’t have him, you’ll do what you always do — destroy what’s left.”
The silence that followed was thick and dangerous.
When Mabel spoke again, her voice was calm. Too calm. “You need help,” she said. “Proper help. It’s cruel to let you go on like this.”
Isobel’s stomach dropped. “You wouldn’t.”
Mabel smiled faintly. “I won’t. But I’ll see that someone else does.”
It was later that afternoon when Carson found him in the corridor, polishing a brass lantern with unnecessary vigor.
“Lady Mary would like a word with you, sir,” he said, his tone unusually formal.
Matthew blinked. “Now?”
“If it’s convenient.”
He doubted it mattered whether it was or not. “Of course.”
Carson inclined his head and led him down a long hallway Matthew hadn’t seen before. The air smelled faintly of dust and old wood — a part of the castle untouched by the life that had returned to it.
When they reached the heavy double doors at the end, Carson stopped. “In there,” he said, and before Matthew could ask another question, the old clock had already retreated the way they’d come.
Matthew hesitated only a moment before pushing the doors open.
The room beyond took his breath.
Shelves lined the walls from floor to ceiling, the uppermost lost to shadow. Light streamed in through tall arched windows, touching the spines of hundreds of books — some new and gold-leafed, others so old their titles had worn away. Dust motes danced like flecks of gold in the air.
Mary stood at the center of it all.
She looked oddly uncertain, her hands clasped before her. “You like books,” she said, as though that explained everything.
“I do,” Matthew said quietly, stepping inside. “But this—this is—”
“Yours,” she interrupted.
He turned to her sharply. “Mine?”
She nodded, not meeting his gaze. “You’ve read every volume in the town library twice over. I thought you might need something… more.”
He looked around again, almost in disbelief. “Mary, this must be thousands of books.”
“Most of them are Papa’s,” she said. “And his father’s before him. I never read much myself.”
“That’s a tragedy,” he said softly.
“I’m sure I’ve survived worse.”
That earned him a small smile.
He stepped further in, running a hand along the edge of one of the shelves. “It’s extraordinary,” he murmured. “I don’t know what to say.”
“You could say thank you,” she said lightly, though her tone betrayed the faintest edge of nerves.
He turned toward her, still half-stunned. “Thank you, then. Truly.”
Mary inclined her head, but didn’t move to leave. “I thought you might like a place that felt like yours. Everyone should have one.”
He met her eyes. “And do you have one?”
She hesitated, the smallest flicker of surprise crossing her face. “Once,” she said finally. “I suppose it’s here again now.”
Matthew didn’t trust himself to answer.
The air between them shifted — not heavy, but full, like the space between two pages just before they’re turned.
Finally, Mary broke the quiet. “Well,” she said briskly, “I hope it’s to your liking.”
“It is,” he said. “More than you know.”
She nodded, clearly fighting a smile. “Then I’ll leave you to it.”
But as she reached the doorway, she stopped — turned back just long enough to add, softly, “I meant what I said earlier. It’s good you’re here, Matthew.”
And before he could reply, she was gone.
He stood alone among the shelves, the silence not empty this time but alive — full of words, sunlight, and something that felt dangerously like hope.
Mary didn’t go far.
She’d meant to. She’d told herself she would simply show him the room, make the gesture, and leave before it could feel like… anything.
But she lingered just outside the door.
From the corridor, she could hear faint movement — the soft thud of books being shifted, the whisper of pages opening. Then a sound she hadn’t expected: a low laugh.
She couldn’t remember the last time anyone had laughed in that room.
Cora’s voice floated from the far end of the hall. “You did it, then.”
Mary turned sharply. “You were listening.”
“Only a little,” her mother said gently, the golden curve of her harp glinting as she moved closer.
“It was a kind thing to do, darling.”
“I wasn’t being kind,” Mary said quickly. “He was simply… bored.”
“Of course,” Cora murmured, a soft vibration humming through her strings. “And it had nothing to do with the way he makes you smile when you think no one’s looking.”
Mary folded her arms. “You’re imagining things.”
“I used to imagine a great deal,” Cora said softly. “Until I realized imagination and hope were the same thing.”
Mary looked away. “Hope is dangerous.”
Cora’s harp gave a gentle, wistful chord. “So is shutting it out.”
Before Mary could reply, a familiar, dry voice drifted down the corridor. “Good heavens, is everyone brooding in hallways again?”
Mary groaned. “Granny.”
Violet’s portrait tilted ever so slightly in its gilded frame, her painted expression one of polite suffering. “If you’ve reduced your mother to philosophy, the situation must be dire indeed.”
Cora sighed. “Violet, please—”
Violet sniffed. “No, no, let her glower. It’s practically a family tradition. But really, Mary, if this young man makes you even slightly less impossible to live with, I should think we’d all be grateful.”
Mary shot her a look. “He doesn’t make me anything.”
“Then why are you eavesdropping?”
“I am not—”
“Of course not,” Violet interrupted sweetly. “You’re simply loitering with feeling.”
Cora tried not to laugh, the soft pluck of one of her strings betraying her amusement.
Mary pressed her lips together, refusing to take the bait. “You both have far too much time on your hands.”
“That may be,” Violet said, her painted eyes glinting with dry humor, “but at least I use mine wisely — observing the obvious.”
Before Mary could retort, movement inside the library caught her attention. Matthew’s shadow passed across the light spilling from the doorway.
Cora’s voice softened. “He’s still in there.”
“I know,” Mary said.
“And yet you’re still out here,” Violet murmured.
Mary exhaled — a quiet, resigned sound — and finally pushed open the door.
Inside, Matthew stood near the table, several books stacked before him. He turned at the sound. “I thought you’d gone.”
“I changed my mind,” she said.
He smiled faintly. “You do that often?”
“Constantly.”
She nodded toward the table. “If you’re going to read in here, you should do it properly.”
“Properly?”
“With tea,” she said simply. “And quiet. And someone to listen when you find a sentence worth repeating.”
When she looked back, he was still watching her — smiling in that quiet, uncertain way of his.
“All right,” he said. “Then I’ll read aloud.”
“God help me,” she muttered, but she didn’t leave.
As he began, his voice low and even, the sunlight turned soft across the shelves, and for the first time in years, Mary Grantham let herself sit still and listen.
Notes:
tysm for 300 hits!
Chapter Text
Weeks passed, and the castle changed.
It happened slowly — the way ivy crept up a wall or light found its way through a crack in the clouds. The air grew warmer, the halls brighter. Laughter, once a stranger to these rooms, had become a familiar sound.
And at the center of it, always, was Mary.
Matthew had stopped trying to count the hours they spent together — in the library, the gardens, even the small morning room where she claimed she went to “escape the noise” but never seemed to mind if he followed. She would read; he would listen. Sometimes they argued about books, sometimes about nothing at all.
The silence between them no longer felt sharp. It had become something else entirely — gentle, expectant, alive.
That evening, the castle hummed softly with the last traces of daylight. Mary had been in the library again, leaning over the desk to show him a passage she liked, her voice low and amused. When she looked up, their faces were closer than either intended.
Neither spoke.
He cleared his throat. “You know,” he said lightly, “I think I’ve read every book in this library twice now.”
“Then you’ll have to find a new hobby,” she replied, smiling faintly.
“I was thinking of learning to dance.”
That earned a soft laugh. “You can’t be serious.”
“I’m entirely serious,” he said. “Though I’ll need a teacher.”
She arched a brow. “Surely you can find someone better qualified than me.”
“I doubt it.”
Mary turned back to her book, but her expression betrayed her amusement. “And what brought this on?”
“I passed the ballroom earlier,” Matthew said. “Carson mentioned it hasn’t been used in years. Seems a shame, don’t you think?”
Her tone softened. “It was my parents’ favorite room. They used to host dinners there, before the curse.”
“Then maybe it’s time someone danced in it again.”
She looked up sharply, studying him as though trying to decide whether he meant it.
He did.
“I’d make a fool of myself,” she said finally.
“I’m quite certain I’ll make one of myself first.”
That earned him the smallest, reluctant smile — the kind that changed the whole shape of her face. “You’re impossible.”
“I’ve been told.”
She sighed, though her eyes glimmered. “Very well, then. One dance.”
Mary had spent an hour pretending not to care.
The yellow gown had been Anna’s idea. It was one of the few that hadn’t gathered dust, tucked carefully away in a wardrobe that hadn’t opened since before the curse. The fabric shimmered faintly under candlelight — not gold, not cream, but something in between, like sunlight captured in silk.
“Too much,” Mary said flatly as Anna fastened the last clasp, her wardrobe doors clicking in satisfaction.
“Not enough,” Anna said, stepping back. “If tonight doesn’t do it, I don’t know what will.”
Mary turned to her, brow furrowing. “Do what?”
“Break it,” Anna said simply. “The curse. You know it’s supposed to lift when someone truly—”
“Anna,” Mary warned.
But Anna’s smile was too hopeful to scold. “You should kiss him, my lady.”
Mary spun around. “Excuse me?”
“Just a little one! A small kiss. It doesn’t have to be dramatic—”
“Anna.”
Her maid laughed softly. “All right, all right. But if you ask me, it’s about time someone did something romantic around here. You’ve been looking at each other like two people in the middle of a novel.”
Mary folded her arms. “You read far too many books.”
“I live in a castle under a curse, my lady. What else is there to do?”
That drew the smallest flicker of a smile from Mary, though she quickly looked away. “He’ll make a fool of himself, you know. He can’t dance.”
“Then teach him,” Anna said.
Before Mary could reply, Cora’s harp hummed from across the room, her strings warm and approving. “She’s right, darling. It’s only one dance. What harm could it do?”
Mary glanced toward the mirror. Her reflection looked foreign — alive in a way she hadn’t seen for years. She exhaled softly. “You’re all conspiring against me.”
Cora’s voice smiled through the strings. “We’re just reminding you what happiness feels like.”
From the wall, Violet’s portrait chimed in. “Heaven help us, that’s almost sentimental.”
“Almost,” Cora said.
Mary shook her head. “You’re all insufferable.”
Anna only smiled. “And you’re stalling.”
Mary gave a long, theatrical sigh and finally reached for her gloves. “Fine. But if he steps on my gown, I’ll kill him before the curse ever can.”
Across the castle, Carson was adjusting Matthew’s coat for the fourth time.
“Hold still, sir,” he said, his wooden face solemn as his brass hands tidied a lapel. “You’ll wrinkle the fabric.”
“I didn’t realize this was a formal affair,” Matthew said dryly.
“There’s nothing informal about Lady Mary,” Mrs. Hughes replied from the doorway, her candle-flames steady and practical.
Tom Branson, the sturdy spanner with a nick or two along his steel, leaned against the mantel, grinning. “He’s right, though. You’d think we were sending him to a royal banquet, not a dance.”
Carson straightened. “This is Lady Mary Grantham’s ballroom, Mr. Branson. It hasn’t seen a proper dance in years. A little respect wouldn’t go amiss.”
Tom tilted his wrench-head. “So you’re saying if she doesn’t bite his head off, we’ll call it progress?”
Bates, a solid coat rack stationed by the fire, gave a warm creak. “Progress would be her smiling without scaring him.”
Matthew glanced between them. “I feel oddly reassured.”
Mrs. Hughes crossed the room, tightening his cravat just slightly. “Don’t let her scare you. She’s more bark than bite.”
“That’s not what I heard,” Tom muttered.
Carson gave him a look sharp enough to silence him.
Matthew sighed. “You’re all behaving as though this is important. It’s just a dance.”
Carson paused, his pendulum ticking once. “In this house, Mr. Crawley, even small things can make a difference.”
Mrs. Hughes nodded softly. “Aye. Sometimes that’s how it starts.”
He frowned, uncertain. “Starts what?”
“Something better,” she said simply.
The words lingered as Carson stepped back and surveyed him with pride. “There. Fit for polite company, at least.”
Tom tapped the hearth with his handle. “Try not to fall in love.”
Matthew rolled his eyes. “I’ll do my best.”
“Good luck with that,” Bates said, his voice rustling like old cloth.
When he stepped out into the corridor, the castle felt different — alive, warm, expectant.
He couldn’t have said what he was walking toward exactly. Only that he wanted to see her.
At opposite ends of the castle, they both paused before leaving their rooms — each still, each uncertain, both thinking the same impossible thing.
It’s just a dance.
Neither of them believed it.
The ballroom had not shone like this in years.
Hundreds of candles burned along the mirrored walls, scattering gold across the marble. A faint breeze stirred through the open windows, carrying the scent of roses from the gardens below.
Matthew stood waiting, his heart hammering in a rhythm that didn’t belong to him. He’d never known silence could sound so expectant.
And then she appeared.
Mary stepped into the light.
Her gown shimmered a deep yellow, the color of candlelight caught in silk. Her hair, gathered loosely at the nape, gleamed like dark wine under gold. For the first time, she didn’t look distant. She looked alive.
He forgot to breathe for a moment.
“You’re late,” he said softly.
“I changed my mind,” she replied, though there was the ghost of a smile on her lips.
“About the dance?”
“About letting you wait.”
He laughed quietly. “Then I’ll call that progress.”
She inclined her head. “We’ll see.”
When he offered his hand, she hesitated only a heartbeat before placing hers in it.
Cora’s harp began to play — slow, tender, familiar. A melody that seemed to rise from the walls themselves. The music filled the air, soft and full of memory.
They began to move.
At first, they were careful. Her steps measured, his unsure. But something changed — the rhythm found them, the hesitation dissolved, and soon it felt as though they’d done this a thousand times before.
He smiled faintly. “You were right.”
“About what?”
“You do remember how.”
Mary’s eyes glinted. “And you don’t dance half as badly as I expected.”
“High praise,” he murmured.
The corners of her mouth curved. “Don’t let it go to your head.”
He didn’t. He couldn’t — not when she was this close, her hand warm in his, the soft fabric of her gown brushing his sleeve with every turn.
As the music swelled, Mary let out a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding. The weight she’d carried for years — guilt, fear, solitude — all of it softened, just for a moment.
When the final chord faded, they didn’t step apart. Not right away.
“See?” he said quietly. “That wasn’t so terrible.”
She looked up at him — truly looked — and for a heartbeat, something in her expression broke open. “No,” she said softly. “It wasn’t.”
Silence fell. Only the faint sound of night drifted in from the windows.
Mary turned toward the balcony. “Come,” she said. “The air will do us good.”
Men had her by the arms now, boots slipping on the dust as they pulled her toward the waiting carriage.
The villagers stood silent. No one moved to help.
And at the edge of them, Mabel Lane Fox stood in her red cloak, hands folded neatly. Calm, sympathetic. Watching.
Isobel jerked against the men’s grip, her voice breaking. “Stop! You can’t do this!”
Mabel’s expression didn’t change.
“Listen to me!” Isobel cried. “Matthew’s alive — he’s alive! You’re making a mistake!”
The taller man murmured, “Please, ma’am. Don’t fight.”
They reached the step of the carriage. Isobel planted her feet, eyes fixed on Mabel. “You know I’m telling the truth. You know where he is. What do I have to do for you not to do this?”
Mabel stepped closer, voice low enough for only Isobel and Tony Foyle to hear. The sweetness slipped from her tone, revealing steel beneath.
“Give me your word,” she whispered. “Swear to me that the second we find your son, he will marry me. Say it, here and now, and I’ll stop all of this.”
Isobel stared at her, breathless. “You’re insane.”
Mabel’s smile widened, sharp as glass. “Not insane. Determined. I’ve waited long enough, Mrs. Crawley. Give me your son, and I’ll give you your freedom.”
“I will never promise him to you.”
“Then you leave me no choice.”
The garden below shimmered silver in the moonlight. The air was cool and still, carrying the distant scent of wet stone and roses.
They stood side by side at the balustrade, the candlelight flickering behind them, the quiet hum of the castle at their backs.
For a long while, neither spoke.
Then Mary said softly, “Are you happy here?”
He turned to her, surprised. “Happy?”
She kept her gaze on the garden. “You’ve been here weeks. I’ve hardly asked.”
He thought for a moment. “It’s… strange. Peaceful, sometimes. But yes — I think so.”
Her voice lowered. “Only sometimes?”
He smiled faintly. “I suppose I miss my mother. The house feels quieter without her.”
Mary’s hands rested lightly on the stone railing. “She must be a remarkable woman.”
“She is,” he said. “She has a way of believing the best in people — even when she shouldn’t.”
The quiet stretched between them again, comfortable this time — until Mary broke it with sudden, startling honesty.
“I suppose,” she began slowly, “I ought to apologize.”
He glanced at her, surprised. “For what?”
“For…” She hesitated, her chin lifting slightly, as though bracing herself. “For imprisoning your mother in a dungeon.”
Matthew blinked, then huffed a laugh he couldn’t suppress. “Ah. That.”
“Yes, that,” Mary said, folding her arms. “It was—” she grimaced, searching for the word, “—an error in judgment.”
“That’s one way to put it.”
“I’d say I was provoked, but that seems… insufficient.”
He smiled. “You might be the only person I’ve ever heard apologize like it’s a military confession.”
Her lips twitched. “It’s not something I practice often.”
“I can tell.”
Silence again, gentler this time.
Then Matthew said, quietly, “For what it’s worth, I forgive you.”
Mary’s gaze flicked to him, surprised — as though forgiveness were rarer than magic. “You’re very strange, Mr. Crawley.”
“I think you’ve mentioned that before.”
She turned back toward the garden, though her voice softened. “Well… thank you.”
A small silence followed — lighter, but still full of something neither of them could quite name.
Then Mary said quietly, her voice softer than before, “Do you wish to see your mother?”
Matthew looked at her, startled by the question.
“I—” he began, then stopped. “Yes. Of course. But…” He hesitated, searching her face. “I didn’t think that was possible.”
Her gaze didn’t waver. “Perhaps it is.”
She turned abruptly, her skirts brushing the stone as she stepped back through the open doors of the ballroom.
He followed.
They walked in silence through the winding halls, the air cooling as they passed from gold-lit corridors into shadow. The castle seemed to hold its breath.
They reached a tall, carved door at the end of the corridor. Mary paused, her hand on the latch, then looked back at him. “What you’re about to see isn’t for everyone.”
Before he could ask what she meant, she pushed the door open.
The air inside was still, heavy with the scent of dust. Light spilled in through a cracked window, catching on a single glass dome resting in the center of the room.
The rose still glowed faintly at the room’s center beneath its glass dome, fragile as breath.
Matthew stepped closer, his voice barely above a whisper. “It’s beautiful.”
Mary’s expression was unreadable. “It’s dying.”
He turned to her. “What does it mean?”
“It’s precious,” she said. “It once meant hope.”
He followed her gaze to a small mirror resting beside the rose — its frame silver, the surface clear as still water.
Mary’s tone softened. “Think about the person you really want to see.”
Matthew hesitated.
“Go on,” she urged quietly.
He lifted the mirror. For a moment it only reflected his face, the flicker of the candles — and then the image rippled, like water disturbed by a breath.
Dark shapes pressed close together, faces distorted by movement. The light was dim — gray daylight under a thick sky. The villagers. He recognized the square, the crooked rooftops behind them.
Then, his mother appeared.
She was in the middle of them, her shawl pulled tight around her shoulders, her face pale with fear. Her lips moved, but the mirror gave no sound. He could only see her eyes — frantic, pleading.
Someone seized her arm. The motion was sharp, rough.
The crowd swelled, shifting like a living thing. And at its head — Mabel Lane Fox.
Even through the haze of the glass, Matthew could see her expression: cold, triumphant, her mouth moving in a command that sent others into motion.
The mirror’s image lurched as though the world itself had tilted.
Two men stepped forward, hauling a narrow iron-barred carriage into view — the kind used to take the unstable to the asylum.
Isobel stumbled as they pulled her toward it. Her hands clawed at the air, reaching for someone, anyone to help her.
Matthew’s breath caught, his hand tightening on the mirror’s frame. “No,” he whispered.
But the image kept moving. Isobel was forced inside; the door slammed. A flicker of torchlight gleamed off the iron latch.
And then the mirror went still.
He stared at it, unable to breathe. His reflection blinked back at him — pale, shaking, the rose’s red glow burning in the corner of his vision.
Matthew’s breath came uneven. “They’re taking her away.”
Mary didn’t move for a moment. Then she said softly, “She’s alive.”
He nodded. “Alive, but not for long if they—” His voice broke. “I have to go.”
She turned to look at him fully. “Then you must.”
He hesitated. “If I leave—”
Her gaze softened, though her tone stayed even. “She’s your mother, Matthew. You can’t stay here while she’s in danger.”
He shook his head slightly, torn. “And you?”
Mary’s mouth curved into the faintest smile — not bitter, not quite sad, just certain. “This is my place.”
“You’ll be all right?”
“I’ve lived alone before,” she said. Then, quieter, “And I’ll live alone again.”
She stepped closer to the table, lifting the mirror from its stand. “Take this. It will show you the way.”
He looked down at it, the glass gleaming faintly in her hands. “You’re giving it to me?”
“Yes.” Her voice softened. “And if you ever wish to look back…”
Matthew met her eyes, and for a heartbeat, neither spoke. Then he nodded once, solemnly. “Thank you.”
Mary handed him the mirror. “Go to her. Quickly.”
He glanced toward the door, then back to her. “I’ll come back.”
Her lips parted, but no words came. Instead, she inclined her head, the smallest, saddest gesture of belief.
He left without another word, his footsteps fading down the corridor.
Mary stood alone, the air still trembling from where he’d been.
She turned toward the rose. Its glow pulsed faintly, another petal trembling loose.
“Go,” she whispered to the empty room. “Even if you don’t come back.”
The petal fell, landing silently beside the rest.
The great hall was quiet. Candles burned low, their flames wavering as if the air itself held its breath.
Mary stood by the tall window, her back to the room. The faint glow of the rose from the west wing pulsed through the cracks of the doorways — a heartbeat the whole castle could feel.
Footsteps gathered behind her: Carson and Mrs. Hughes first, then Cora and Robert — his visored helm catching the firelight — Violet’s portrait flickering faintly in its frame. Daisy peeked from behind Mrs. Patmore, and even Molesley shuffled in from the corridor, broom in hand.
“Why did Matthew go?” Cora asked gently, her voice echoing through the stillness.
Mary didn’t turn. Her hands were clasped tightly in front of her, white-knuckled. “His mother needed him,” she said quietly. “I let him go.”
A ripple of shock passed through the group.
Robert frowned. “You let him? After all we’ve endured—?”
“Why would you do that, my lady?” Carson asked, voice heavy.
Mary’s eyes stayed fixed on the window. “Because it was right.”
Mrs. Hughes took a step forward, her voice softer. “Because she loves him.”
The room went still.
Daisy’s little voice broke the silence. “Then why hasn’t the curse been broken?”
No one breathed.
Mary finally turned, her face pale in the firelight, her expression calm but trembling around the edges. Her gaze swept the room — her family, her servants, the only souls left in her world.
“Because,” she said softly, “he doesn’t love me.”
The words landed like a stone dropped into still water.
Mrs. Patmore sighed sadly. Robert looked away. Mrs. Hughes bowed her head. Daisy sniffled quietly, and even Carson’s stoic composure faltered.
From the far end of the hall, the harp gave a single, trembling note — Cora’s strings echoing her daughter’s heartbreak.
Somewhere above them, another petal fell from the rose.
No one spoke again.
Notes:
tysm for 400 hits!!
Chapter Text
The horse tore through the woods, branches clawing at Matthew’s sleeves. The mirror lay pressed to his chest beneath his coat, still warm from Mary’s hands. Every pounding hoofbeat echoed one thought: hold on, Mother.
The trees broke open, and the village came into view — roofs gray with ash, the air thick with shouting.
Then he saw it: a black carriage beside the fountain, two magistrate men holding his mother by the arms.
“Let her go!”
He was off the horse before it had stopped. The crowd gasped as he shoved through them — mud on his coat, eyes wild, the ghost of a man they’d buried in whispers.
“Let her go!” he said again, pulling his mother into his arms.
Isobel’s voice broke. “Matthew… you’re alive—”
“She’s not crazy!” he said fiercely. “Everything she told you is true!”
A silence spread — uneasy, disbelieving.
Mabel Lane Fox stepped forward, her red cloak blazing against the dull square. Her voice was calm, practiced. “Matthew,” she said, “you’re unwell. You’ve frightened everyone half to death. Whatever’s happened to you—”
He ignored her, pulling the mirror from his coat. “You want proof? You want to know where I’ve been? Look for yourselves.”
“Proof?” Mabel repeated, her smile tightening. “Proof of what?”
He held the mirror high. “Show them,” he whispered. “Show them her.”
The glass rippled — and gasps broke out.
The image took shape: a stone room lit by firelight. And in the center — a woman.
Mary.
Her hair fell in dark waves, her skin pale as marble. Her eyes caught the light like silver — too sharp, too alive. The villagers recoiled and leaned closer all at once, unsure what they were seeing. She wasn’t a beast, but she wasn’t like anyone they’d ever known.
For a moment, no one breathed.
Then the whispers began.
“That’s her?”
“She’s not human.”
“She bewitched him.”
Mabel stared at the mirror — truly stared. For the first time, her composure faltered. “It’s real,” she breathed.
“It’s hideous,” Tony Foyle blurted, hovering at her shoulder, eyes flicking to her mouth as if praise might win him a glance.
“No, she’s not!” Matthew snapped. “She’s real! So you can let my mother go and leave her in peace!”
A thin, uneasy laughter skittered through the square.
Before he could say more, one of the magistrate men muttered, “It sounds as if you care about that creature.”
The words rippled through the crowd like lightning.
Heads turned.
Matthew’s throat tightened. “She saved my life!”
But the crowd wasn’t listening. The fear that had hung in the air all along hardened into something uglier.
“Witchcraft,” someone hissed.
“She’s cursed him!”
“She’ll curse us all!”
Mabel blinked once — the shock burned off, replaced by something cold and gleaming. She took a slow step forward, voice rising.
“You see?” she said, calm at first. “She’s real. This creature — this thing — has stolen one of our own, twisted his mind.”
She turned to the villagers, her tone sharpening, commanding. “If he will not save himself, then we must save him!”
The silence cracked.
“Gather your torches!” she cried. “Your blades!”
The square erupted — roaring, frantic. Pitchforks scraped against cobblestones, torches flared to life from the nearest lamps.
“Kill the beast!” someone shouted, and the words spread like wildfire.
“Kill the beast!”
Mabel climbed the steps of the fountain, her red cloak catching the wind like a flag.
“Tonight,” she said, voice clear and sharp, “we end her spell.”
“No!” Matthew shouted.
Mabel’s eyes softened with mock pity. “I’m sorry, Matthew,” she said, her voice barely trembling. “This is for your own good.”
Before he could react, she snatched the mirror from his hands. The glass flickered once in her grip — its light catching the edge of her smile.
“Now we’ll see where the creature hides.”
“Mabel, don’t!” Isobel cried, but it was too late.
Mabel turned to the magistrate men. “Lock them up until we return.”
“What?” Matthew lunged forward, but one of the men caught his arm. The other shoved Isobel toward the open carriage.
“Wait— you don’t understand—!”
“Enough!” Mabel barked, already descending from the fountain, already gathering the villagers behind her.
Torches flared. Boots pounded.
And as Matthew and Isobel were forced into the carriage, the mob surged toward the woods — a tide of fire and shouting.
Mabel mounted her horse, the mirror flashing once in her gloved hand.
“To the castle!” she cried. “Kill the beast!”
The carriage doors slammed shut.
Through the narrow window, Matthew caught one last glimpse of her red cloak vanishing into the trees — and the mirror glowing faintly in her grip, pointing the way.
The square had emptied in a storm of boots and shouting. Now, silence pressed against the carriage walls — thick and unyielding. Only the echo of torches snapping in the distance remained.
Matthew slammed his shoulder against the door again. The latch rattled but held firm.
“Stop that,” Isobel hissed, catching his arm. “You’ll only hurt yourself.”
He turned toward her, breathing hard. “We can’t just sit here. They’re going after her.”
“Let them!” Isobel said, disbelief sharpening her voice. “After everything she’s done— Matthew, she kept you prisoner!”
He sank back against the seat, his chest rising and falling. “She’s… not what you think,” he said quietly.
Isobel frowned. “Not what I think? She locked you away!”
“Yes,” he admitted, meeting her eyes. “And still— she’s… not cruel. Not really. She’s angry, and proud, and alone. But there’s more to her than that.”
“Matthew,” Isobel said, her voice soft but incredulous, “you can’t possibly defend her.”
He hesitated, staring at his hands. Then, almost to himself, he said,
“She’s not what I expected. And I’m not who I was before her.”
The words hung in the small space between them, fragile and final.
Isobel searched his face — for enchantment, for madness — and found only certainty. The realization struck her like cold water.
“You sound as though you pity her,” she whispered.
“I don’t,” he said. “I just… understand her.”
Outside, the wind rattled the door. The mob’s voices were gone now — swallowed by the forest.
Isobel folded her hands tightly in her lap, her gaze drifting to the mirror lying dark beside him. She didn’t ask anything more.
Because the look on his face — quiet, certain, almost tender — told her what words couldn’t.
He loved her.
Isobel gripped her son’s sleeve. “You can’t go after them,” she whispered. “They’ll kill you too.”
“I have to try,” Matthew said. “She doesn’t deserve this.”
Isobel drew breath to argue — but a sound outside made them both freeze.
Footsteps. Slow, deliberate. Then a hesitant voice through the door:
“Mr. Crawley?”
Matthew blinked. “Clarkson?”
A faint scrape, the click of metal. The latch shifted, and the door creaked open. Mr. Clarkson stood in the square, lantern in one hand, the other hovering awkwardly at his side. His face was pale from the cold — or maybe from fear.
“I— I stayed behind,” he said. “Someone had to. The others… they’re half-mad with it.”
“You believe me?” Matthew asked quietly.
Clarkson hesitated. “I believe you believe it,” he said. “And I believe that woman, whatever she is, doesn’t deserve to die screaming in the woods.”
He looked at Matthew, his tone firm now. “Go. Before someone sees you.”
Matthew climbed down first, helping his mother after him. “They’ll think you’re a coward for not going,” he said.
Clarkson managed a weary smile. “Let them. I’ve no stomach for killing.” He adjusted his lantern, voice lowering. “Find her before they do, Mr. Crawley. I’d rather have my conscience than their courage.”
Matthew’s throat tightened. “Thank you.”
Clarkson nodded once. “Go.”
Matthew turned to his mother. She opened her mouth — maybe to tell him not to, maybe to say she understood — but no words came. She just pressed his hand once and let him go.
He ran into the forest, coat snapping behind him, the night swallowing him whole.
Clarkson stood watching until the last trace of him was gone, then turned to Isobel. “He’s a good lad,” he murmured.
Isobel’s voice was quiet. “Yes,” she said. “He is.” Her gaze lingered on the darkened trees. “And God help them all if he’s too late.”
The castle had been silent for hours.
Mary hadn’t moved from the chair by the rose. She couldn’t have said when the others had drifted away, or when the candles had guttered down to embers. The only light left came from the rose itself — that faint, impossible glow pulsing inside the glass.
She hadn’t left this room since he’d gone.
Since she’d told him to.
Now she sat there, still as the marble beneath her feet, eyes fixed on the flower as if willing it to stop. But the petals were falling faster — trembling loose, one after another, in a rhythm that mocked the beating of her own heart.
Another fell.
And another.
She pressed her hands to her knees, forcing them to stay still. “Stop it,” she whispered. The sound of her voice startled her — rough from disuse. “Please.”
But the rose didn’t listen.
It had listened once, she thought. When he was still here.
Mary’s throat tightened. She didn’t know how long she’d been sitting there — minutes, hours. The shadows had changed shape, the wind outside had shifted, but time felt strange now, stretched thin.
The word she’d spoken kept looping through her head: Go.
She’d meant it. She had.
And yet…
She closed her eyes. For one aching moment, she let herself imagine it — the sound of boots returning down the corridor, his voice calling her name. The way the room would feel warmer instantly, the air lighter.
But when she opened her eyes, there was only the rose, burning faintly against the dark.
A single petal loosened and fell, curling as it touched the floor.
Mary didn’t look away.
She couldn’t.
Her gaze drifted toward the window. The storm outside had quieted; even the wind seemed to have lost its voice.
For a while, there was nothing.
And then — light.
Faint, wavering, low against the trees.
She frowned, pushing herself up from the chair, the joints of her knees stiff from hours of stillness. At first she thought it was moonlight catching the branches. But it moved. Dozens of small, flickering shapes weaving through the forest below.
Torches.
Her stomach turned cold.
She stepped closer to the window, breath fogging the glass. The lights were multiplying now — a swarm of fire pressing toward the castle, their reflections scattering across the frozen lake. She could almost make out the noise beneath it: shouts, the clatter of hooves, the faint metallic scrape of blades.
Her hand lifted to the glass without thinking.
“Carson!”
Her voice rang through the West Wing, brittle but commanding.
He was the first to appear, polished wood and brass glinting dimly as he hurried through the doorway. Mrs. Hughes followed close behind, her candle-flames steady but pale. From farther down the corridor came the faint squeak of wheels — the old serving cart trundling forward of its own accord, Mrs. Patmore perched upon it and muttering to herself — and Daisy’s frightened voice trailing after.
“My lady?” Carson said. “We saw the lights— the villagers are—”
“I know,” Mary cut in. Her tone was sharp, but not unkind. “They’re nearly at the gates.”
The servants froze — fear settling over the room like dust.
“They’ve come to destroy what they don’t understand,” Mrs. Hughes murmured.
Mary’s eyes flicked toward the window again. The glow was brighter now, flames threading through the trees. “Then let them,” she said quietly.
Carson’s gears clicked. “My lady—”
“No,” she said, turning to face them fully. “Listen to me. You must warn the others. My father, my mother, my sisters — all of you. Tell them to hide.”
“Hide?” Daisy squeaked. “But— but what about you?”
Mary drew a breath, steady but shaking faintly at the edges. “They want me. If they think I’m gone, they’ll tear this castle apart. I won’t let them find you too.”
Mrs. Hughes stepped closer. “You can’t mean to face them alone.”
“I do,” Mary said. “This is my curse, not yours.”
The silence that followed was thick, suffocating. Even the rose on its pedestal seemed to flicker with unease.
Finally Carson spoke, his voice low. “My lady, you’ve done everything to protect us. Let us do the same for you.”
“You’ll protect me by staying alive,” she said firmly. “Now go. That’s an order.”
For a moment, no one moved. Then, one by one, they bowed their heads. Carson turned first, ushering the others out with trembling hands.
As the last of them disappeared down the corridor, Mary turned back to the window.
The torches were almost at the gates now — a wave of fire and shouting surging closer with every breath.
She rested one hand on the glass dome, the rose trembling beneath it.
“Let them come,” she whispered. “It ends tonight.”
Mary moved quickly through the corridor, her skirts whispering against the stone. The noise outside was growing louder — shouts, the clang of metal, the low thunder of boots striking the bridge.
She climbed the spiral stairs toward her tower, the one place she’d always gone when she couldn’t bear to be seen. The air grew colder as she ascended, dust swirling in the thin shaft of moonlight from the high windows.
By the time she reached the top, she could see everything. The courtyard below blazed with torches. Villagers swarmed the gates like ants, striking at the iron with poles and axes.
She pressed her hand against the window, breath fogging the glass.
“Fools,” she whispered.
Then a sound rose from below — a crash, followed by shouts. But not all the voices were human.
Her heart caught.
From the shadows near the gate, she could hear Mrs. Patmore’s shrill scolding — “Mind where you swing that, you great oaf!” — and the clang of Carson’s clockwork frame colliding with a pike. Somewhere, Daisy squealed something about “boiling water!” and Mary could’ve sworn she heard Sybil’s bright little chime ring out like a warning bell.
She closed her eyes, exhaling a single, disbelieving laugh through her nose.
“They never listen,” she murmured.
For a fleeting second, the corners of her mouth softened — pride and exasperation tangled together. They were supposed to hide, but of course they hadn’t. Not her stubborn, loyal, ridiculous household.
The smile faded as another crash echoed through the courtyard, followed by a scream.
Her fingers tightened on the windowsill.
It wasn’t supposed to end like this.
She turned away from the window, the air thick with smoke drifting up from below. The rose’s faint glow still reached this high, bleeding through the cracks of the tower door.
Mary drew herself up, spine straight, chin lifted — the last act of defiance she had left.
“Let them come,” she whispered again, quieter now.
From this height, the world below looked almost unreal — torches flickering like fireflies, smoke rising in thin, curling ribbons. The shouts and clangs from the courtyard quieted, fading into the distance. Somewhere far below, she thought she heard Carson’s voice calling orders, the faint clatter of metal against stone.
It didn’t matter.
They’d hold out as long as they could.
She pressed her forehead to the glass. The air was cool, the stone colder still. The rose glowed faintly behind her, a heartbeat she could no longer trust.
For a while, there was only silence.
And then — a voice.
Low. Confident. Too close.
“So this is where you hide.”
Mary froze.
Her reflection in the window shimmered with the torchlight now filling the room behind her. Slowly, she turned.
A woman stood in the doorway. Her red cloak was torn and damp from the rain, her hair tangled, her face flushed with triumph and fury. In one hand she held a pistol, in the other, the mirror — its surface still glowing faintly, as though it recognized its thief.
Mary’s lips curved in a faint, bitter smile. “You found me.”
The woman stepped closer, eyes gleaming. “You made it easy.”
“Most monsters do,” Mary said.
The smile didn’t waver. “You don’t frighten me.”
Mary tilted her head, dark hair falling across her shoulder. “No,” she said softly. “That’s the problem.”
Outside, the wind rose, scattering ashes from the courtyard below.
For a long, suspended moment, they simply stared at one another — the cursed woman and the self-appointed hero — each seeing in the other something they refused to name.
Fingers tightened around the pistol. “It ends tonight,” Mabel said. “No more hiding, no more curses. No more lies.”
Mary’s eyes flicked once to the window behind her, then back to Mabel. She stepped backward, slow and deliberate.
“Careful,” Mabel said, a laugh trembling in her throat. “There’s nowhere left to run.”
Mary’s lips curved into the faintest smile. “You’d be surprised.”
And before Mabel could move, Mary spun, seized the edge of the window, and vaulted out into the night.
For a heartbeat she was only a silhouette against the firelit sky — hair and skirts streaming, hands gripping stone. Then she dropped, landing catlike on the sloping roof of the next wing of the castle. Tiles shattered under her boots, a burst of sparks rising from the torches below.
“Get back here!” Mabel shouted into the wind.
But Mary was already moving — darting across the tiles, leaping from one parapet to another, the castle’s jagged roofs unfolding beneath her like a dark sea. She moved with a surety born of years spent in these heights, barefoot at midnight, avoiding the eyes of her household.
The mob below gasped, pointing their torches upward. To them she must have looked like a phantom — a streak of black hair and yellow silk flashing across the castle roofs, untouchable and strange.
Mary reached the far edge and turned once, her breath sharp, hair whipping in the wind. She met Mabel’s eyes across the gap of air and stone.
“You want me?” she called. Her voice carried over the courtyard like a bell. “Come and get me.”
Another petal fell from the rose far below.
The night wind tangled her hair, the torches below painting her in gold and shadow. For a moment, the world was nothing but flame and sky and the sound of her own heartbeat.
Then came the crack of a pistol.
The sound tore through the air — sharp, final.
Mary staggered.
For a second, she didn’t understand what had happened. The world tilted; the light of the torches seemed to flare too bright. Then the pain hit — searing, deep — blooming just beneath her shoulder blade.
Her hand flew to her back. It came away red.
From the tower window across the gap, Mabel stood framed in firelight, smoke curling from the barrel of her gun. Her face was unreadable — part fury, part triumph, part disbelief at her own aim.
Mary swayed, her boots slipping against the wet tiles. The roar of the mob below rose again, half-cheer, half-shock.
But she kept moving.
The wound burned with every step, yet she pushed herself higher, climbing along the narrow roofline. Smoke coiled around her, the heat from below curling against her face.
The roar of the mob faded beneath the sound of her own heartbeat. Somewhere above the chaos, another voice rose — closer, urgent.
“Mary!”
Her head lifted.
She turned toward the voice and saw him — not below this time, but level with her, standing at the edge of the opposite tower. The torchlight caught in his hair, his face streaked with ash and rain.
Matthew.
For a heartbeat she couldn’t breathe.
He was here — in the castle, not in the forest, not lost to her after all.
Something inside her fractured and steadied all at once.
She moved along the ridge, every step agony, until she was only a few yards from the gap between them — a gulf of air and smoke.
“You came back.”
Her voice was thin, shaking, but she was smiling.
Matthew reached a hand toward her, his own eyes wide. “Of course I did.”
The wind whipped between them, scattering ash, carrying the faint echo of laughter — her laughter, weak but real.
And then the second shot rang out.
Mary stumbled, her knees giving way. For a heartbeat she teetered on the edge of the roofline, the gap yawning between her and Matthew’s tower.
“Mary!”
Matthew didn’t think — he just moved. He swung himself onto the ledge of his own tower, boots slipping on wet stone, and reached across the gap.
She reached back, trembling, eyes wide and glassy. Their hands met, slick with blood and rain.
“I’ve got you,” he said, his voice breaking. “Hold on!”
He braced his weight against the ledge and hauled her toward him. The space between them vanished; her body hit his chest with a thud as he caught her around the waist and pulled her into his tower.
But before he could breathe — before he could even whisper her name — the air split with a third gunshot.
Mary jerked violently in his arms, the sound tearing through the narrow space.
Matthew’s cry was ragged. “No!”
Across the gap, Mabel stood on the crumbling roof, rain and firelight glinting off her eyes. Smoke curled from the pistol in her hand, her expression wild — triumph and horror tangled together.
“You—” Matthew started, but the words died in his throat.
The stone beneath Mabel’s feet cracked with a low, splintering sound. For a heartbeat she looked down, disbelief flashing across her face.
The tile gave way.
She gasped — one sharp, shocked breath — and then the roof collapsed beneath her.
Her scream echoed through the storm as she plunged into the firelit courtyard below.
The sound was swallowed by the wind.
Matthew didn’t look down. He gathered Mary against him, pressing his hand to the wound, trying to stop the bleeding.
Her eyes fluttered open, unfocused, her breath catching. “You came back,” she whispered again, faint as a sigh.
“I told you,” he said, his voice breaking. “I’ll never leave you.”
The night around them went quiet. The mob’s shouts faded, the torches dimmed beneath the rising rain.
And in the tower, under the dying light, he held her close — the castle itself seeming to hold its breath.
Notes:
one last chapter after this :(
Chapter 11
Notes:
ok i lied...this isn't the last chapter i wrote an epilogue too hehe
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
The rain fell harder, blurring the world beyond the tower window.
Matthew sank to his knees, pulling Mary closer. Her head rested against his shoulder, her breath ragged, her skin frighteningly cool. The yellow of her gown was streaked with red.
“No, no, no,” he whispered, pressing his hand to the wound. “You’re going to be fine. Do you hear me? You’ll be fine.”
Her eyes fluttered — barely — and found his face, unfocused but steady.
“Matthew,” she breathed. “Please… don’t.”
He shook his head fiercely. “Don’t what? Don’t save you? I can’t—” His voice splintered. “You have to hold on.”
A ghost of a smile tugged at her lips. “You’re so stubborn.”
He let out a broken laugh, holding her tighter. “Then stay. Argue with me.”
But her smile faded. Her gaze slipped past him, distant now, fixed on the rain streaking through the open window.
“I never thought…” she murmured. “That anyone would come back.”
“I did,” he said.
Her fingers twitched against his, cold now, small. “You’re not afraid of me anymore.”
“Never was,” he whispered. “Not really.”
Something flickered in her eyes then, a soft light — the last trace of sunset before it vanishes.
“I’m sorry,” she said, the words trembling out of her. “For all of it. For you. For them.”
He shook his head. “You’ve nothing to be sorry for.”
“I can feel it,” she whispered. “The last petal… it’s falling.”
He frowned through the tears. “What are you talking about?”
She only looked at him, glassy-eyed but gentle. “You were the reason it lasted this long.”
“Mary—”
“Don’t be afraid,” she murmured. “It doesn’t hurt anymore.”
His grip tightened as if he could anchor her here. “Don’t you dare leave me.”
Her breath hitched once. Her lashes fell.
“Mary.” His voice was a whisper, then a plea. “Mary, look at me. Please.”
No answer.
He stared for a heartbeat, disbelieving, then let out a sound that cracked the air — not a word, not a sob, but something raw and breaking.
He bowed over her, clutching her close. “Please,” he whispered, voice shaking. “Please, I love you. I love you, do you hear me? You can’t— you can’t go.”
For a moment, nothing.
Only the rain.
Then, beneath his hands, a pulse of warmth.
He stilled. Faint gold gathered under his fingers and spilled across the floor; the air itself seemed to hold its breath. The glow deepened, curling around her body — soft, slow, radiant. Wind pressed through the tower, scattering the rain into silver mist.
“Darling?” he whispered.
Her hair lifted in the light; the torn silk of her gown caught it like sun through glass.
From deep within the castle, a clock began to chime.
Matthew’s breath caught. The harshness the curse had carved into her features — the wild edge in her eyes, the tension at her mouth — melted away. She was still Mary, unmistakably Mary, but revealed as he had always seen her: fierce, human, breathtaking.
The glow pulsed once more, then sank into her skin.
Silence.
A breath.
Her chest rose — faint, but real. Her eyelashes fluttered, and she looked up at him.
Her eyes — once silvered and strange — were dark brown now, familiar and impossibly kind.
“Matthew?” she whispered.
He laughed, helpless and ragged, brushing his thumb along her cheek. “You’re here.”
Her hand lifted, trembling but sure, finding his face. “What—did you think I’d make it that easy to get rid of me?”
He didn’t let her finish. A small, helpless laugh escaped him as he leaned in, closing the distance. His hand slid to the back of her neck, fingers sinking gently into her hair, and then his lips met hers.
It wasn’t careful — it was unsteady, breathless, like something that had been waiting just beneath the surface since the moment they met. She sighed against him, her hand curling into his coat as if to keep him there, and for a heartbeat the whole world fell away. No castle, no curse, no fire. Just her. Just him. Just warmth. The kiss deepened for a moment — tender, reverent — before he drew back, breath catching. Their foreheads rested together, eyes still closed.
No castle. No curse. No fire.
Only them. Only warmth.
The kiss softened. Their foreheads rested together, eyes closed, breaths mingling.
Mary let out a shaky laugh, the corners of her mouth lifting. “Well,” she whispered, hoarse but light, “I suppose that answers that.”
He smiled, thumb tracing the line of her jaw. “I think so.”
“You’re crying,” she murmured, soft color rising in her cheeks.
“I don’t care,” he said. “You’re here.”
Her palm stayed on his cheek, steady now. “Then that’s all that matters.”
The courtyard was unrecognizable.
Where smoke and ruin had been only hours before, sunlight now spilled over the stones, catching on the fountain and the ivy-draped walls. The air felt new. Alive.
Matthew paused on the threshold, Mary’s hand clasped in his. For a long moment, neither spoke.
People filled the courtyard — human once more, faces bright with astonishment and joy. And beyond them, at the gates, villagers clustered together, torches long extinguished, confusion softening into wonder.
“I remember them,” someone breathed.
“The Granthams.”
“They were our neighbors.”
“Our friends.”
A woman covered her mouth with her hands. “How could we ever have forgotten?”
Matthew’s chest ached at the sound — memory returning like light after a storm.
Sybil and Edith saw Mary first. Their cries split the hush as they ran, skirts flying. Mary barely had time to brace before her sisters crashed into her, laughter tangled with tears.
“Mary!” Sybil sobbed, clinging tight.
“You’re alive,” Edith managed, half-laughing, half-crying.
Cora reached them next. She cupped her daughter’s face, voice shaking. “My darling girl.”
“Mama,” Mary whispered, and the word trembled into a smile.
Robert’s arm swept around them all, solid and sure, his jaw tight and his eyes bright.
Violet stood a pace back — cane forgotten, gaze steady and proud. “Well,” she said at last, very softly, “I suppose this means breakfast is back to normal.”
Fragile laughter rippled through the courtyard and held.
Matthew lingered a little apart, taking it in. To his left, Carson and Mrs. Hughes stood arm in arm, smiling like two people who had spent lifetimes keeping the world from falling apart and were finally allowed to rest. Mrs. Patmore wept into her apron with such gusto that Daisy could only giggle as she patted her shoulder.
“Mrs. Patmore, you’ll start me off again!” Daisy squeaked, eyes shining.
A few steps away, Anna and Bates held each other in a quiet embrace, laughter muffled between kisses. Molesley tried — valiantly and in vain — to herd everyone into a proper line. “If we could just— oh, never mind,” he said at last, laughing at himself.
Tom Branson stood beside him, eyes wet as he looked up at the castle. “Feels strange, doesn’t it?”
“Like waking from a dream,” Molesley said.
Matthew glanced over and smiled. “A good one, I hope.”
Tom clapped his shoulder. “One we’ll remember this time.”
Matthew turned back to Mary.
She was at the center of it all — her sisters, her parents, her grandmother — yet somehow apart, like the heart that had begun to beat again. Morning light touched her hair and turned it to gold.
She looked at him.
Their eyes met across the courtyard, and everything else blurred.
She mouthed a single word: home.
The noise dimmed — the laughter, the footfalls, even the fountain — until there was only her and the light.
Matthew’s throat tightened. He smiled, the kind of smile that felt like breathing for the first time.
“Yes,” he whispered. “Home.”
Notes:
stay tuned for the epilogue coming tomorrow!!
Chapter 12: Epilogue
Chapter Text
The ballroom glowed like something out of a dream.
Candlelight skimmed the mirrored walls, catching on the gold of the chandeliers. Music — soft, lilting, newly alive — wound through the room like sunlight breaking after a storm.
Matthew lingered at the edge of the floor, just watching.
Robert and Cora moved together, his hand steady at her back, her smile unguarded. Edith and Sybil twirled side by side, laughing until Tom caught Sybil’s hand and spun her into his arms. Near the windows, Anna and Bates swayed slowly, her head tucked beneath his chin. Carson and Mrs. Hughes turned with quiet grace, her laughter soft against his shoulder.
Even Isobel — radiant in silver — was on the floor, her hand in Clarkson’s, laughing as he led her through a simple waltz.
The sight made Matthew’s chest tighten in the best way. He hadn’t realized how much he’d wanted this — not the castle restored, not even the broken curse — but the simple miracle of everyone he loved being happy.
Mary’s hand slipped into his.
“You’re not going to stand there all night, are you?” she teased, eyes glinting beneath the chandelier light.
He shook his head, smiling. “I was admiring the view.”
“Was it worth it?”
He glanced around — the music, the laughter, the light — and back to her. “Every second.”
She smiled. “Then dance with me, Mr. Crawley.”
He bowed, mock-formal. “As you wish, Lady Mary.”
They moved together easily, as if they’d been waiting for this song all along. Her hand rested lightly on his shoulder; his arm curved at her waist; the rest of the world blurred to gold and motion.
Mary laughed — bright, unrestrained. Matthew felt it against his chest, where his heart had been aching only days ago. Now it felt full.
Around them, the room shimmered with life: Daisy pulling Mrs. Patmore into a dizzy little spin, Molesley dancing with wild abandon, Carson twirling Mrs. Hughes with surprising elegance, Robert and Cora smiling as if they’d fallen in love all over again.
And through it all Matthew thought: This is what it was for.
He looked down at Mary, her gaze steady on his.
“What are you thinking?” she asked, a little breathless.
“That I can’t imagine ever being anywhere else.”
Her fingers tightened around his. “Then don’t.”
He laughed softly, leaning until his lips brushed her ear. “I love you, Mary.”
She drew back just enough to meet his eyes. The warmth there was quiet, certain. “And I love you,” she whispered.
He smiled, his thumb tracing her jaw. “Good. Then that’s settled.”
The music slowed, fading into a final, tender note. The chandeliers glowed like stars; the air was thick with light and laughter.
Across the room, his mother laughed again — really laughed — and when she looked toward her son, they shared the kind of smile that said: it’s all right now.
For the first time, Matthew believed it.
He turned back to Mary, her hand resting over his heart as they swayed beneath the golden light. The world outside might change — seasons, stories, years — but this moment felt endless.
For the first time in his life, Matthew Crawley was completely, perfectly happy.
The End
Notes:
thank you for coming along on this journey with me. i appreciate your constant support for my writing! i’m not sure when my next downton fic will be since my hyperfixation has kinda faded, and my next one might even be from a totally different fandom — but i hope you’ll stick around for whenever inspiration strikes again. love you all so much, thank you again!! take care of yourselves xx
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