Burnt Sheets, Lingering Shadows

The quiet was broken by footsteps in the main hall, and then Victor Langley appeared with a group of young estate staff, their voices echoing down the corridor.

The echo of boots on hardwood snapped her out of her thoughts. She caught a glimpse of Victor’s tall frame, his voice low and commanding as he led the group. The staff trailed behind, arms full of linens and cleaning supplies, the air buzzing with the sharp scent of bleach and something else—change was coming.

She stood quietly in the corner. Victor didn’t notice her at first. He pointed at the bed, barking to Charles, “Burn all these comforters, then light the sage and fumigate the whole room.”

Victor’s tone was brisk, businesslike—the kind of voice that meant business. Charles, ever the loyal right-hand man, nodded and got to work, his movements sharp and practiced. The other staff exchanged glances, already pulling sheets from the bed and cracking windows to let the smoke out. Lillian watched, feeling oddly invisible.

Charles nodded, immediately set up several large metal bins, and quickly began stripping the bedding, telling the other staff, “Start burning sage in every corner.”

The bins clanged. The acrid scent of sage mixed with the musty bedding, curling into every corner. Lillian wrinkled her nose. The smell was thick—cleansing, maybe, but it stung her eyes and made her cough. It was a reminder of rituals that felt half sacred, half ridiculous in the modern age.

Victor was choked by the smoke. He covered his nose, turned, and then—there was Lillian.

He squinted through the haze, eyes watering, and did a double take. For a moment, something like relief flickered across his face, then he slipped right back into his usual mask of mild annoyance.

He frowned. “Where’d you pop up from?”

His voice was gruff, but there was a teasing edge to it. He dropped his hand from his nose, trying to look stern but couldn’t quite hide a smile.

Lillian pinched her nose, speaking in a muffled, sarcastic tone. “I popped out of a coffin.”

She rolled her eyes, her sarcasm as dry as a Texas summer. The smoke made her voice sound even more dramatic, and she added a shiver for effect, as if she really had just crawled out from six feet under.

She made a face. “Seeing how eager you are to burn all these sheets for me to use underground, I’m alive with rage!”

She threw her hands up, grinning despite herself. Her words tumbled out in a half-laugh, half-groan—the kind of joke you make when you haven’t slept in days. Her eyes sparkled, even as she scratched at her rash.

Victor coughed dryly. “Who said I was sending them down with you?”

He shot her a look, trying to sound offended, but the corners of his mouth twitched. The staff snickered behind their hands, and the tension in the room eased a bit.

His eyes fell on the rash on her arm, and he teased, “Look at you, not showering for so long, you’re starting to stink. I could smell you from the other room.”

He wrinkled his nose in exaggerated disgust, waving his hand in front of his face. The teasing was gentle, the kind of ribbing you only give someone you know by heart. Lillian stuck her tongue out at him, but a reluctant smile tugged at her lips.

Since returning to the estate, Victor hadn’t stayed in any other rooms of the west wing, always sleeping in the guest room. This morning at breakfast, he’d noticed the rash on her arm, and just after meeting with the family lawyer, he’d asked the doctor. The doctor said it was because she hadn’t bathed in too long, and if her foot wasn’t fully healed, she could fumigate the room with sage and change all the bedding and clothes to fresh ones. Victor had gone out of his way to ask about her, though he’d never admit it. Lillian remembered the way he’d eyed her bandaged foot at breakfast, concern hidden behind his gruffness. It was so like him to pretend he didn’t care, even as he orchestrated a full-scale decontamination of her room. Typical.

Lillian scratched her arm and grumbled, “You think I don’t want to shower?”

She glared at him, but the corner of her mouth twitched. She missed the feeling of hot water, of being clean, but she wasn’t about to give him the satisfaction of admitting it.

Just then, Charles came over, holding a battered copy of ‘The Good Wife’s Guide’ and presented it to Victor. “Mr. Langley, should we burn this too?”

Charles held the book like it might bite him, the faded cover a relic from another era. His eyebrows were raised, bemused, and he kept shooting Lillian nervous looks, like he expected her to snatch it back at any second.

Victor looked at the book with a half-smile. “Where’d you find this?”

He arched an eyebrow, his tone both curious and faintly amused. He took the book from Charles, flipping it over in his hands, as if weighing the absurdity of the thing.

Charles ducked his head. “Just now, under Miss Hayes’s pillow.”

He shuffled his feet, cheeks pink, clearly embarrassed to have discovered her secret stash. Lillian crossed her arms, bracing herself for Victor’s inevitable teasing.

Victor snorted, running his thumb over the yellowed pages. “Why are you reading these dusty old things written by people stuck in the 1950s…”

He flipped through the book, shooting Lillian a look. The staff exchanged grins. Lillian’s cheeks burned—she wished she could melt into the floor.

Before he finished, his voice cut off. Inside the book, someone had scrawled in big letters—

“Obey your wife’s orders, follow your wife’s lead, do what your wife says.”

Victor’s eyebrows shot up, and a slow grin spread across his face. The handwriting was unmistakably Lillian’s—big, looping, and proud. He glanced at her, eyes sparkling with mischief.

He kept flipping, reading out the next page in a chilly voice, “Spend all your money on your wife, take her scolding, understand her feelings, listen to her advice.”

He read the words with exaggerated seriousness, dragging out each phrase like a judge handing down a sentence. The staff snickered, and Lillian’s face went from pink to crimson.

He closed the book and handed it to Charles. “Burn it. Burn every page.”

His tone was final, but you could hear the laughter in his voice. Charles, eager to be rid of the awkwardness, hurried to comply.