Ashdown Island

Prologue

Victoria Ashdown peered through her bedroom window. Pushing aside the rich red velvet curtains ever so slightly, she could see the dock at the edge of the island, the water blue and clear with the last sparkles of the sunset dancing off of it. There was a small ship was just leaving, having left a pair of passengers from the mainland on her island.

These, she knew all too well, were important passengers.

She stepped away from the window in the manor, looking instead to her writing desk, given to her by her father before his passing. It was delicately carved with a beautiful apple tree, the branches creating the feet and the edges of the desk made to look like leaves. Victoria ran a hand over the ancient desk, far older than most of her possessions in this house. Indeed, possibly older than the house itself.

The little desk had a special drawer in front. It was made to look like a basket of apples, and a brass key was set snugly in the keyhole.

Victoria had never dared to open the drawer. Almost afraid of what she'd find. She instead opted to use a small woven basket next to the desk to keep her writing supplies in.

There was a pile of letters stacked neatly on the desk. All signed. All sealed. Never sent.

She pulled herself away from looking at the desk. It was almost dusk. The visitors would be here soon. She must be ready for them.

Silently, she sat at her vanity and stared at herself. Picking up her hairbrush, she hummed a song that had no real origins. Everyone on then island knew it. But no one truly knew how they had learned it.

The shadows have eyes.
The dark can hear.
The whispering is coming near.
The window tint.
The metal bent.
Footprints where the children run.

Victoria studied at herself in the mirror and took in every aspect of how she looked. The black gown that reached her feet. The brown coat that came to her waist, a high collar around her throat, pinned shut with a brooch. Her dark hair, pulled into an updo. She was pale, slender, and silent. Her dark lashes and pink lips standing out on her skin, a lovely contrast to her rosy cheeks and shaking hands.

"My little ghost", her father had called her. He was not terribly incorrect. Victoria felt more and more like a spirit every day, a lonely specter haunting a long forgotten home with long forgotten memories and rooms.

Of course, this was very untrue. Especially as of late.

Victoria checked herself once more in the mirror, before walking out of the room.

She had guests to meet.