Chapter 1: Echoes in the Mansion

I am Charlotte, once the darling of the Whitmore family, now just a companion—some would say a mistress—in the governor’s mansion, a title that sounds grand but feels hollow in the echoing halls of this place.

The memory of my old life is smudged and faded, as if someone took a wet rag to the blackboard of my heart and mind. I used to be the pride of my family—the kind of girl who turned heads at First Baptist on Maple Street every Sunday and charmed every neighbor with a wave and a pie at the summer block party. Now, here I am, just another pretty fixture in the governor’s sprawling old house, not so much fine china as a painting on the wall—nice to look at, but never touched. Sometimes, when the wind rattles the wavy glass panes, I catch a whiff of apple pie cooling on the kitchen counter, or hear my father’s booming call for supper drifting through a sunlit kitchen. The rest, though, is gone—scrubbed away like chalk on a rainy sidewalk.

After a terrible illness, I lost parts of my memory.

The doctors called it a miracle I survived, but sometimes I think a piece of me got left behind in that fever. I can’t recall the faces of my childhood friends, or even the sound of my own mother’s laughter. Sometimes, I find myself fidgeting in the hallway, wringing my hands or sighing, staring at my reflection in the gilded mirror, searching for a flicker of the girl I once was. The staff whispers about me, but never loud enough for me to catch more than a word or two—like I’m haunting my own existence, a faded memory drifting through someone else’s life.

A new attendant appeared at my side—a silent, broken young man named Miles.

He came to me out of nowhere, like a stray dog wandering in from the cold, his presence shifting the air in the hallway and making the space feel taut, uncertain. The first time I saw him, he was standing stiffly by the kitchen, wearing a threadbare gray shirt and faded slacks, his eyes cast down, hands trembling as he fumbled with the silver tray. He never spoke, never even tried to meet my gaze. There was something fragile about him, something that made me uneasy—like a porcelain figurine set too close to the edge of a shelf, ready to fall if you so much as breathe too hard.

Everyone praised the governor and me for our mutual respect and perfect harmony.

At dinner parties, guests would clink their glasses and toast our so-called happiness. The governor would beam, his hand warm on my shoulder, and I’d smile politely, playing the part of the gracious consort. Behind closed doors, the house felt cold as a marble tomb, the laughter forced, the love a brittle thing that could snap at any moment. Sometimes I’d shiver, hugging myself against the chill. Still, we kept up the charade, because that’s what people expected in Maple Heights—where the appearance of happiness was more important than the truth.

But late at night, I always dreamed of a stern, imposing soldier clad in silver dress blues.

In those dreams, the world was awash in moonlight, and the air tasted of gun oil and rain, sharp and metallic. The soldier was tall and proud, his uniform crisp and gleaming, sharp as a blade. He moved with the easy confidence of a man who’d seen battle and survived. Sometimes, I’d catch the scent of leather and aftershave—maybe Old Spice, like my father used to wear—or hear the distant echo of a bugle call. The dreams left me restless, my heart pounding as if I’d run a marathon, my sheets twisted around me.

His face was indistinct, but he would kneel before me, smiling.

I’d reach out, desperate to touch him, but his features would blur and shift, always just out of reach. Still, there was kindness in the curve of his mouth, a gentleness that made my chest ache with longing. He’d kneel on one knee, like a knight pledging fealty, but his eyes held something deeper—pain, longing, devotion that felt as familiar as my own heartbeat.

He pleaded, “Please, show me some mercy.”

His voice was rough, choked with emotion. The words echoed in the empty dream-room, lingering long after I woke. Each time, I’d sit up in bed, clutching my pillow, my hands shaking, the plea ringing in my ears. What mercy could I offer a man I didn’t remember? Why did his pain feel so familiar, so close to my own?

Miles is my attendant.

He is mute, tongueless, and his body is always marked with mysterious bruises.

There’s a quiet suffering in the way Miles moves, a haunted look in his eyes that never quite meets mine. I’ve seen the bruises—yellowing fingerprints around his wrists, angry red welts on his back. Once, I caught a glimpse of his tongue, or what was left of it, and had to turn away before I was sick. He wears long sleeves, even in the sticky southern summer, and limps like a man twice his age. The other staff pretend not to notice, but I see everything.

He can’t carry anything on his shoulder, nor lift much with his hands.

He tries, bless him, but his arms tremble under the weight of a tea tray, and sometimes he drops things. I watch him weave among the governor’s heavy antiques—an oak rolltop desk, a Tiffany lamp, a grand colonial staircase—moving like a shadow, careful not to disturb a single thing. Sometimes I wonder how he ended up here, what he did to deserve this kind of life, and my thoughts twist with a mix of pity and frustration.

I couldn’t understand why the governor insisted he serve me.

It made no sense. There were plenty of strong, capable staff in the mansion—why assign the broken one to me? Harrison always smiled when I asked, brushing off my concerns with a wave of his hand. “He’s loyal,” he’d say, as if that was explanation enough. I’d mutter to myself, bless him, but I couldn’t shake the feeling that something darker was at play. Loyalty doesn’t heal bruises or make a man whole. The silence between us would stretch, and I’d find myself fidgeting, wishing I could ask more.

Until the day Savannah, another consort, pushed me into the river.

Savannah was all sharp edges and cold smiles, the kind of woman who wore her ambition like a mink stole at the county fair. I never trusted her, not even when she offered me sweet tea on the veranda, the ice clinking in the glass. That day, her eyes glittered with something dark as she shoved me toward the water. I remember the shock of cold—a slap that stole my breath—the world spinning, the taste of muddy river water filling my mouth, my lungs burning as laughter and shouts faded above me.

At the brink of death, I saw the face of that silver-uniformed soldier clearly.

The water pressed in on all sides, muffling sound and light, my ears ringing. My vision tunneled, and for a moment, I thought I saw the soldier’s face—clear as day, framed by the glint of his dress blues. He reached for me, his hand warm and strong, the current swirling around us. I tried to call out, but the water dragged at my limbs, stealing my breath. Then, everything went black, the world swallowed whole.

It was Miles.

Not long ago, I woke from a coma caused by a serious injury.

The hospital room was quiet except for the steady beep of the heart monitor. I blinked against the harsh fluorescent lights, my head pounding like I’d been hit by a freight train. I rubbed my temples, squinting at the unfamiliar ceiling. A nurse with kind eyes hovered at my side, murmuring soothing words. The world felt distant, muffled, as if I were wrapped in cotton. My first memory was the taste of ice chips and the scent of antiseptic, the sterile chill of a hospital room. I couldn’t remember how I’d gotten there, or why my chest ached with every breath.

The family doctor said I had lost my memory and forgotten everything from before.

He spoke gently, as if afraid I’d shatter under the weight of the truth. “You’ve had a rough go, Charlotte,” he said, his voice thick with sympathy. “It’ll take time, but you’re safe now.” I nodded, pretending to understand, but inside I was hollow—a puzzle missing half its pieces. The past was a locked room, and I’d lost the key, leaving me blinking back tears I didn’t quite understand.

The Governor of Maple Heights, Harrison Whitmore, told me we had been deeply in love since our youth, the most devoted of all.

He sat by my bedside, his suit jacket perfectly pressed, hair slicked back in that old-fashioned way. He took my hand, his grip firm and confident, and smiled as if we shared a thousand inside jokes. “We grew up together, you and I,” he said, his voice warm as honey. “You’ve always been the light of my life, Charlotte.” He painted pictures of moonlit dances, stolen kisses on the courthouse steps, promises whispered beneath the old oak tree. I wanted to believe him—I needed something to hold onto in the fog, something to keep me afloat.

He did indeed treat me with genuine affection.

He brought me flowers—lilacs and peonies, my supposed favorites, just like the ones my mother grew in our front yard—and sat with me for hours, telling stories about our life together. He’d brush the hair from my forehead, his touch gentle, and promise me the world. The nurses swooned over his devotion, whispering that I was a lucky woman. I let myself believe it, because the alternative was too frightening to face.

So I believed him without hesitation.

I clung to his words like a lifeline, gripping the edge of my bedsheet with white-knuckled desperation, letting him fill the gaps in my memory with his own version of the truth. If he said we were happy, then we must have been. If he said he loved me, I forced myself to love him back. Sometimes, late at night, I’d wonder if I was living someone else’s life—but I’d push the thought away, burying it deep where it couldn’t hurt me.

To care for my daily needs, the household assigned me an attendant.

He arrived one morning, quiet as a shadow. The staff introduced him as my personal attendant, a kind of nursemaid for my convalescence. He wore a crisp uniform, his hair neatly combed, but there was something off about him—an unease in the way he held himself, as if he expected to be struck at any moment. I watched him from the corner of my eye, curious but wary, feeling a strange chill settle in my stomach.

This attendant was quite handsome, but when he first saw me, he struggled violently, full of reluctance.

The first time our eyes met, he flinched as if I’d slapped him. His hands shook so badly he nearly dropped the breakfast tray. When the other staff tried to guide him toward me, he pulled away, his whole body tense with fear. It was as if he’d rather face down a hurricane than spend a minute in my company. The others muttered about his nerves, but I sensed something deeper—an old wound that hadn’t healed, something raw beneath the surface.

Harrison smiled and slapped him, leaving his mouth full of blood.

The sound echoed through the hallway—a sharp, wet crack that made my stomach twist with nausea, a cold sweat breaking out across my skin. Harrison didn’t even break stride, just wiped his hand on his handkerchief and smiled at me as if nothing had happened. Miles staggered, blood dripping from his split lip, but he didn’t make a sound. The staff looked away, pretending not to see. I felt a chill settle over me, colder than any fever, my heart pounding in my ears.

“When you’re told to serve, you serve. Who do you think you are?”

Harrison’s voice was ice, his words slicing through the air. He towered over Miles, his shadow swallowing the smaller man whole. “You’re nothing here, do you understand?” he said, his tone low and dangerous. Miles nodded, eyes fixed on the floor. I watched, frozen, unsure whether to intervene or stay silent, my fingers digging into the bedsheet.

“Do you still think you’re someone special?”

The question hung in the air, heavy with meaning. Miles shook his head, his jaw clenched tight. Harrison smirked, satisfied, and turned to me with a wink. “He’ll learn his place soon enough,” he said, as if it were all a joke. I forced a smile, my heart pounding in my chest, the room suddenly too small.

Harrison told me the young man was named Miles.

He introduced him with a flourish, as if presenting a prize at the county fair—the kind that draws a crowd, the smell of popcorn and distant calliope music lingering in the air. “This is Miles,” he said. “He’s different from the others.” The words sounded like both a compliment and a warning. I studied Miles, searching for the secret hidden in his eyes, but he kept his gaze fixed on the ground.

He was different from the others.

Miles was tall but slender, with an uncommon sun-bronzed complexion—like a farmhand after a long summer in the fields.

He looked like he’d spent his life outdoors, skin tanned by the sun, hair bleached at the tips. There was a wildness to him, a rough edge that set him apart from the polished staff. His hands were calloused, fingers long and nimble, but his posture was all wrong—shoulders hunched, head bowed, as if he expected to be struck at any moment. In another life, he might have been a farm boy or a soldier, someone who worked with his hands.

He was also mute, with a limp and a severed tongue.

The first time I heard him try to speak, it was a strangled sound, more animal than human. I realized then that he couldn’t talk—his tongue had been cut, leaving only a jagged stump. He limped badly, dragging his left leg behind him, and winced whenever he put weight on it. The staff whispered that he’d been in an accident, but no one would say more.

To me, he was completely useless.

I found myself justifying my frustration—how could I rely on someone who couldn’t carry things, who stumbled and dropped trays? A flicker of guilt would rise up, but I’d squash it down, telling myself I needed someone who could actually help. Still, I wondered if I was being too harsh, if maybe I was just lashing out because I was scared and lost.

He couldn’t carry things on his shoulder or in his hands, and sometimes he would limp for days at a time.

I watched him struggle with the simplest tasks—pouring tea, folding laundry, carrying trays from the kitchen. His hands shook, his grip weak, and more than once he dropped a plate or stumbled into a chair. The other staff rolled their eyes, muttering that he was more trouble than he was worth. I felt a flicker of annoyance—why assign me someone so broken?

He was so pitiful that I, his mistress, nearly had to serve him instead.

It became a running joke among the staff—how I, the governor’s companion, ended up looking after my own attendant. Sometimes I’d catch myself helping him up the stairs or handing him a glass of water, and I’d laugh at the absurdity of it all, a hollow sound in the empty hallways. But beneath the humor was a gnawing sense of guilt, a feeling that I was missing something important.

Moreover, his body always bore all sorts of suspicious marks.