The Price Of Gold

01. secrets in dust

i.
OPHELIA ARCHIBALD
17 July, 2:00 a.m.

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The house was still.

The kind of still that made the air feel thick, as if it was holding its breath.

I could hear the hum of the refrigerator in the kitchen and the distant sound of the wind crashing against the trees, but everything else was frozen— silent, except for the creak of the floor beneath my feet inspite the Persian carpet that was spread over it.

The little night light came through the tall windows in sharp, cold slivers, casting an almost blue glow over the room. It was the kind of light that felt like a lie, soft but cruel, just a strange feeling. The room was too big for me, the house was too big for me—always had been.

I didn't want to wake anyone, but I was so hungry as I hadn't eaten dinner on time today. And there was cake in the kitchen that I remembered. The thought of it, soft and sweet, was all I could think of as I pushed the door open and slipped into the hallway. The air was colder here, with dust and the faint scent of wood polish. Everything in this house had a faint layer of overcare, too clean too perfect looking for its own good.

I moved quickly, down the stairs, careful not to let the banister rattle beneath my hand. The kitchen was on the other side of the mansion, past the long corridor that smelled of old leather and lavender, past the drawing room with its faded velvet chairs, past the portraits of people I'd never met.

When I opened the fridge, the light blinking on my face for a moment—just long enough to make me think that something was wrong or maybe again I was overthinking it. But before I knew I went past that, already reaching for the cake. I didn't care about the faint flickering. It would come back on. It always did.

But then, the voices came.

Low, muffled, like whispers carried on the wind, drifting in through the open window by the porch. I froze. The cake was forgotten in my hand, half a bite taken, and I stood there, listening. The voices weren't supposed to be there. Not at this time. I knew the house, every creak of it, every groan. But these voices—they were different.

I crept toward the window, my bare feet dragging against the cold marble. My breath came faster now. I shouldn't have cared, but I did. I didn't move from the window, not for a long time. The voices were too close, too real to ignore.

I should've left. Should've gone back to my room and locked the door.

But I didn't.

I slid behind the heavy velvet curtains, the fabric brushing against my skin like the hands of a ghost. My heart drummed against my ribs as I peeked around, watching, waiting, listening. The porch was just visible from where I hid, the dim outlines of their figures barely discernible in the darkness.

They were saying something—something I wasn't meant to hear.

But I didn't move. Not yet.

One of them shifted, his voice cut through the night, low and smooth, with that unsettling calm I'd known since I was a child.

Grandfather.

I recognized it instantly making me think how had I not recognized it all along. He used the polished tone he used when he wanted to be impressive. Or intimidating. The kind that made people sit up straight and watch their words, carefully. My breath hitched, my heartbeat thudding against my chest as I leaned in closer, pressing myself against the wall. His voice drifted through the air, mingling with the faint scent of his cologne.