Portrait of Desire

Chapter 2

Morning sunlight streamed through the lace curtains of Noah's bedroom, painting delicate patterns across the wooden floor. The chirping of birds and the distant rustle of leaves stirred him from sleep. For a moment, he lay there, cocooned in the warmth of the heavy quilt, trying to recall where he was. Then the events of the previous day flooded back—the long drive, the imposing Victorian house, the mysterious melodies in the night.

Pushing aside the quilt, Noah sat up and stretched, his muscles pleasantly sore from the journey. He glanced around the room, now illuminated by daylight. Intricate molding adorned the ceiling, and faded wallpaper hinted at once-vibrant patterns of vines and flowers. A sense of calm settled over him. The house seemed less eerie in the sun's embrace, more like a sleeping giant waiting to be awakened.

After a quick shower in the clawfoot tub—surprisingly, the plumbing still worked—he dressed in a comfortable sweater and jeans. Determined to start making the place feel like home, he decided to explore the house fully. Armed with a notepad and pen, he planned to catalog rooms, note repairs, and perhaps uncover more about its history.

Descending the grand staircase, Noah paused at the landing where a tall, arched window offered a panoramic view of the front garden. Overgrown rose bushes and tangled ivy competed for space among stone pathways and weathered statues. "A bit of work, but it has potential," he mused.

At the base of the stairs, he turned toward the sitting room he'd only glimpsed the day before. Pushing open the heavy double doors, he entered a space frozen in time. Dust-covered furniture draped in white sheets gave the impression of ghosts at rest. An ornate fireplace dominated one wall, its mantel adorned with candlesticks and a tarnished silver clock that had long since stopped ticking.

Noah pulled back the sheets, one by one, revealing a velvet chaise lounge, a mahogany coffee table, and bookshelves lined with leather-bound volumes. He ran his fingers along the spines, reading the faded titles. Classics, poetry, and art histories—many first editions. His heart quickened at the treasure trove.

He picked up a volume of Keats, its pages yellowed and edges frayed. As he leafed through the poems, a loose piece of paper slipped out and fluttered to the floor. Bending down, he retrieved it—a sketch of a garden, intricately detailed and signed with the initials "H.A."

"Henry Ashcroft," Noah whispered, recalling the name from the diary he'd found. Intrigued, he carefully folded the sketch and tucked it into his notebook. Perhaps there were more of Henry's works hidden throughout the house.

Continuing his exploration, Noah moved to the dining hall. A long table stretched the length of the room, surrounded by high-backed chairs upholstered in rich burgundy fabric. Above, a crystal chandelier hung like a cascade of frozen tears, catching the light that filtered through the stained-glass windows depicting scenes of pastoral beauty.

As he made his way to the kitchen, the floor tiles transitioned from hardwood to cool stone. Copper pots and pans hung from a rack above a large island, and a cast-iron stove hinted at meals cooked long ago. The kitchen, though outdated, felt homey. He could almost hear the echoes of laughter and smell the aromas of bread baking.

Noah jotted down notes about necessary updates and repairs, his list growing longer by the minute. Despite the daunting tasks ahead, excitement bubbled within him. This was a place with soul, a place where he could create and perhaps find inspiration for his own art.

An old servant's staircase led from the kitchen up to the second floor. Curious, Noah decided to take it, the narrow steps creaking underfoot. Halfway up, a small landing held a window overlooking the back gardens. From this vantage point, he could see a greenhouse partially obscured by vines and foliage.