After the silent war at the dinner table, my thoughts spun like a carousel. I sat in the garden, beneath the moonlight, trying to untangle my emotions while nursing a bottle of cranberry juice. Not wine. Not champagne. Just cranberry juice, because anything stronger would be considered rebellion. And rebellion in this house… had consequences.
I tipped the bottle again, letting the tart taste distract me. My fingers were cold around the glass, but my chest was hot with confusion. Aunt Grace's voice kept echoing in my mind: "I never stopped loving him." Her words had landed like thunder across the table. But who was she talking about? Why had it made Mother so uneasy?
Just then, the stone bench dipped beside me.
"What is that?" Grace asked, squinting at the label with a playful frown.
I instinctively turned the bottle away, hiding the label like a teenager caught with contraband. "It's nothing. Just cranberry juice."
She arched a perfectly manicured brow. "So you're out here taking in the moonlight with cranberry juice? That's tragic, darling."
I took another sip, both of us trying not to laugh, until we did. It bubbled out of us like a secret we weren't supposed to share.
"You don't drink, do you?" she asked, smirking.
"I know what you're getting at. But Nanny Chopper said not to. Said it would ruin my skin and make me look dull, and then I wouldn't be 'marketable.'"
"Really?" Grace said, brimming with sarcasm.
"Yes! And if Mother finds out…"
"What?" she teased. "What if she doesn't?"
She stood, stretching her hand out toward me like a gallant knight from a forgotten tale. "Come on, Melody. Join me in this little escapade. Let's make memories."
I looked at her hand. Her eyes sparkled with mischief, and the night suddenly felt alive. I couldn't help it, I took her hand.
"I can't believe I'm doing this," I whispered.
"Let's make memories," she echoed with a grin, and we were off, running like fugitives through the moonlit halls of Maistown Estate. Our footsteps were muffled by thick rugs, our laughter silent and breathless as we dodged corners like spies.
"Where are we going?" I asked, breath catching in my throat.
"To the wine cellar."
"What? Mother doesn't have a wine cellar! I've lived here all my life. I can bet she doesn't."
"Oh, but she does," Grace whispered, eyes scanning the corridor. "It's just hidden. Like everything else in this place."
We turned a corner, and Grace paused by a long corridor lined with oil paintings. She pressed her hand against a section of the wood panel beneath a faded portrait of our great-grandfather. With a small click, the panel swung open.
My jaw dropped.
Behind it was a narrow stone staircase spiraling downward, cold air rushing up from below.
"No way…" I breathed.
Grace winked. "Welcome to the real Maistown."
The cellar was breathtaking in its own haunting way. Dust swirled in the dim candlelight. Stone walls lined with ancient bottles stretched deep into the earth. The scent of oak barrels and old secrets filled the air.
Grace lit a few candles and poured us two glasses of a pale, golden wine from a bottle so old the label had half-cracked away.
We sat on a velvet ottoman covered in a linen sheet, our glasses catching flickers of the flame.
"This," she said, raising her glass, "is what we call stolen freedom."
I clinked mine gently against hers. "To secrets, then."
We sipped in silence for a moment before I found the courage to ask what had been haunting me since dinner.
"Aunt Grace… were you really in love with someone from Maistown?"
She leaned back, eyes gazing at the low ceiling like it held the stars.
"Yes. A long time ago. He was unlike anyone else, sharp, charismatic, dangerous in the way all charming men are. And he saw me. Not just the girl from the estate, not the rebellious sister. Me."
"What happened?" I asked, gently.
She swirled the wine in her glass. "He was taken from me. Not by fate, but by someone close. Someone I trusted."
My mind rushed back to dinner. Mother had interrupted her before the name was mentioned. Could it be…?
"Do I know him?" I asked carefully.
Grace smiled sadly. "No, my dear. He left long before you were old enough to remember. But his presence still lingers in this estate. In the decisions your mother makes. In the things she won't say."
I blinked. "So… you never moved on?"
"That's the funny thing about love, Melody. Sometimes, the absence stays louder than the presence ever did."
We sat for a long moment in silence. The candle between us flickered, casting shadows that seemed to dance with the weight of the past.
"I think I understand," I whispered.
Grace reached over and touched my hand. "I hope you never have to."
We drank slowly, savoring the wine like it was a forgotten piece of ourselves. Eventually, I asked the question I'd been circling around all evening.
"Why did you really come back?"
She looked at me, the candlelight catching something raw in her eyes.
"I'm launching my fashion house next week. My first brand line. I needed a venue. I thought I could find something neutral, something untouched. But everything in Maistown has a memory."
"So… why Dynasty Hall?"
She exhaled, long and quiet. "Because it's the only place where the past still feels beautiful. And because… part of me wants to reclaim something."
I swallowed, unsure of what to say.
"I want you there, Mel," she added. "Not just to write about it. I want your energy. Your honesty. Your presence."
I felt a warmth rise in my chest. "You mean… you want me to help you with the show?"
She nodded. "Of course. Your eulogy at the funeral… it was a masterpiece. I know you think your voice is small, but it's not. Not to me."
A lump rose in my throat. "Mother won't like it."
"She already doesn't," Grace said with a grin. "But I don't need her permission."
I laughed quietly. "You always were the fearless one."
She leaned closer. "Fearless isn't the same as unafraid. I'm terrified, Mel. But some things are worth walking through fire for."
The wine was making me bold. "Like him?"
Grace smiled again, softer this time. "Like you."
By the time we tiptoed back to our rooms, the house had fallen into a velvet hush. I stood by her door, reluctant to leave.
"Thanks for tonight," I said. "For the wine… and the honesty."
She touched my cheek. "Thank you for listening."
I turned to go but paused. "Aunt Grace?"
"Yes, sweetheart?"
"If the show really does happen… and I come… do you think Mother will ever forgive you?"
Her face darkened for a moment, but then she smiled.
"Maybe. Or maybe she'll finally tell the truth."
She slipped into her room, and I returned to mine, heart thudding with questions. The wine was warm in my veins, but the secrets were colder than ever.
Something was unraveling in this house. And I was finally ready to pull at the thread.