Blackthorn Manor

Part 3

The morning passes by quickly, holed up in your room. There are several infuriating phone calls to make – each one of which lasts longer than the previous. Twining the corded phone around your fingers, you pace back and forth on the carpet. You cannot go far, since the phone is the only option in the house to speak to the outside – mobile service does not reach so far as the manse. By the end of your discussions, you rub your head with both hands. All in a row, you speak to: Yoongi's editor, publicist and scheduler. The one thing that is clear by the end is that Min Yoongi is behind schedule. He needs to finish his most recent edits by tomorrow, or the entire tour is in jeopardy.

It is your unspoken preference to avoid Yoongi's study. The few times you have gone, you have been snapped at to leave so fast, you barely heard the answers he gave you. Yoongi declared you a disruption to his work environment, muttering something under his breath about your energy clashing with his. This is why you stand here now, gathering strength to go in. The entire hallway is silent, save for the sleeting sound of rain at the windows.

Just do it, you reason – and yet, here you stand, staring hard at his door. It is colder now than this morning, the temperature having dropped with the storm. The chill is enough that you shiver, reaching out for the handle – only to jump in alarm when a crash rings through the house.

A shriek escapes your lips, tripping when you move forward – your shoulder smacks into the frame, hands not fast enough to catch your body in time. Head ringing, your stomach churns as you tremble, inhaling – shrieking again, when the door swings abruptly inward.

"Ah!" you yelp, limbs tangling with someone else's.

"Oof!" Yoongi moves fast enough to keep both of you from falling.

He freezes with one hand under your armpit, the other wrapped awkwardly around the small of your waist. You stay there for a moment, heart hammering until you come to your senses and shove him quickly away.

"I, uh – sorry," you say, looking up. The door down the hall is ajar, but through it is – nothing. There is nothing, nothing to explain the loud crash and you frown. "There was a noise," you say weakly. "A shutter, maybe? Something which banged against the side of the house?"

Yoongi follows your gaze down the hall. "Interesting," he says, remote. "A window, you say?"

"Yes," you say, though you frown. Yoongi was the one who explained the storm to you this morning – one might think he had closed all the windows. Perhaps he missed one, in his haste to prepare. "What else could it have been?"

You do not expect an answer, but Yoongi considers your question. "What else, indeed," he murmurs, almost to himself. After a long moment, he forces a smile onto his face. The effect is wholly unnerving. "Come in, Y/N," he says, stepping through his door.

As he walks away from the hall, your gaze follows. You remain unmoved on his threshold, head throbbing from the burgeoning bruise. "I have work to do," you say, not wanting to follow inside.

Chuckling under his breath, Yoongi comes to a stop behind his desk. "I'm your employer, Y/N. Humor me, for a bit."

Sinking into his chair, he looks at you over his glasses.

Taking a small step forward, you realize this is the first time you have been let into his study. At least, it is your first time entering without being immediately thrown out. As you think this, you allow your gaze to wander his walls. It would appear Yoongi's study is actually several rooms, each one laid out next to the other. Every wall, each available surface is covered in books. The books are many; ones you have never heard of, nor read based on the titles.

Creatures Moste Unholy. Magick Unbound. Summoning Evile. Darkness Unfurled.

Yoongi clears his throat. "A thesis," he says, arching a brow. "When I was a professor, I wrote a thesis detailing the effects of religious mythology upon society."

"Ah," you say, tearing your gaze from the stacks. "I see."

It might be your imagination, but the corners of Yoongi's mouth seem to curve when you speak – if not a smile, at least something familiar. "You said the window banged closed?" Yoongi asks, pouring himself a cup of tea.

You blink, not having seen the pot when you entered. "I suppose," you say, sinking into a chair. The fabric is worn, the leather surprisingly comfortable. "Like I said, I didn't actually see anything."

"Hm." Yoongi frowns and sets down his tea. "But before," he prods, fingers sliding around his mug. "Did you see anything... I don't know – odd?"

"Like what?" You frown. "What would I have seen?"

Yoongi does not answer, merely arches a brow. "I'm sure I couldn't begin to guess," he says. Beneath all his docility lurks interest. You can see it in the way his fingers tighten on the edge of his cup. "People see all sorts of things in homes like this one. A house has a history, just like anything else. I am always interested in what people see in mine."

Swallowing hard, you try not to break his gaze. Over Yoongi's shoulder, the rain continues. It streaks down the windows in a steady blur, shuttering the world and making anything seem possible – both the good and the bad. Gripping the sides of your chair, you lift your chin.

"I saw nothing," you say. It sounds as though you are trying to convince yourself as much as him. "Just the shutter, banging against the side of the house."

"Ah." Yoongi settles back in his seat, oddly satisfied by your answer. "Now you saw the window shut, did you?"

Caught in a lie, your mouth slowly shuts. "But what else could it have been?" you counter, interested in his answer.

Min Yoongi shrugs, losing interest. "I suppose you're right," he says mildly. He seems almost disappointed; although in what or in whom, you have not the faintest idea. "Anyways. I trust you did not come here simply to fall against my door?"

Remembering the original reason you sought Yoongi out, you sit up. "Your edits," you say, standing up from his chair. "They're needed by the end of day tomorrow, or the entire tour is in jeopardy of being cancelled."

Yoongi sighs, twining both hands around the mug. His lips are pursed, returned to the petulant writer.

"As though such brilliance is under my command. Very well," he says, twisting a wrist in mid-air. "You'll have your edits by then. Now leave," he declares. "Your energy clashes horribly with the décor."

Feeling the weight of his dismissal, you roll your eyes and take your leave. Once in the hall, you struggle to push his door shut. In the end, you do not so much shut it, as lean heavily with all your weight until it finally scrapes into place. Once done, you stand there panting, out of breath from the work. It is only after you walk away that this strikes you as odd. Earlier, you fell into Yoongi's study because the door opened so suddenly.

Yoongi was the one who opened it then, though – which should not have been possible, given the weight of the door.

Turning, you stare warily at the frame. It must stick on one side, you reason, resuming your retreat. As you continue down the hall, up the stairs, the thought continues to bother in the back of your mind. Or maybe it is a draft, making the warped wood easier to open on one side than the other. Either of these are perfectly logical explanations; and yet, your feet move faster than normal climbing the stairs.

That still seems somehow too easy. It is a hard feeling to shake, once it occurs to you. What if, all logical explanations fail – and all you are left with is the illogical?