The first night I stayed in Asterlyne Manor by myself was March 4th, 1927. The silence on the estate was unnerving, but welcome. When father was alive, the grounds were always crawling with landscapers, gardeners, and handymen, and the inside of the mansion bustled with a ghostly staff so old and gray that one would think they had already crawled into their graves and set about to the business of haunting. Father’s blood was barely cold when I signed papers sacking every one of them.

This morning, the governess Mrs. Downs summoned a carriage for herself. She warned me of litigation for unlawful termination and then faded away like a fog, the stench of betrayal trailing in her wake. She was the last of them. I smiled as the carriage clopped down the lane toward the highway, content at last to have swept away the old guard of Asterlyne.

I had just come from father’s funeral—an event I had been looking forward to for a long time. I was the sole heiress to my family’s land and fortune, and at twenty-four, I was more than ready to assume the title of Lady Asterlyne and invite my suitors in for a proper choosing.

I had just changed out of my black dress when the doorbell chimed.

“Ms. Asterlyne, good evening,” a man said when I opened the door. I saw a motor car parked slantwise near the bed of violet amaranths that fringed the driveway’s edging stones.

“Lady Asterlyne, if you please.”

“Yes, of course. My name is Cyrus Jordan. I have a delivery for you from Mr. Lawson. A probate matter.” In his hand was a sealed brown envelope.

He seemed to be around my age, maybe a little older, attractive in a working-class sort of way. “Please, come in. Would you like tea? I have no staff as yet, but I can make us some if you wish.”

“No, my lady, thank you.” He handed me the envelope.

“Should I open it now?” I asked.

“I’m told that Mr. Lawson would like an answer. I’m to wait for it, if that’s acceptable.”

“Of course,” I said, opening the envelope. Inside was a key. “What is this for? Do you know?”

“I do not, Lady Asterlyne. Is there nothing more in the envelope?”

I looked and saw a small slip of paper. “Oh yes, here we go.” I opened the folded slip:

BEHIND THE WINE RACK IN THE CELLAR IS A DOOR. USE THE KEY.

Curious, I lit a three-arm candelabra and descended the stairs to the cellar. The air smelled of old neglect.

I found the wine rack in the farthest chamber and looked within some of the ports that were empty. Holding the candelabra up high, I finally saw the door behind the rack, a rectangular outline nearly hidden in the paint.

I heard Cyrus Jordan approach behind me.

“Help me move this rack, would you?” I asked. When he didn’t answer, I turned around.

“The rack swings open,” he said. “There. Use the lever.”

I saw the lever he meant and set the candelabra down on a wine cask. I swung the rack open. I fit the key in the lock and turned it, my hand trembling. Grabbing the candelabra again, I opened the door.

I was greeted by oppressive darkness that attacked the candlelight as if it were fighting for its right to exist. I stepped over the threshold, illuminating the small space.

Leaning within a back corner in a sitting position was a skeleton. I could hear dripping water.

I turned around. When I saw the gun Cyrus Jordan had pointed at me, I took a step back.

“That is your mother, Lady Asterlyne,” he said. “She was a Manhattan whore your father summoned to the country to produce an heir for him.”

“My mother, Lady Asterlyne, died when I was twelve.”

“You father’s wife was not your mother. She couldn't have children, although she tried. Your father decided to produce his heir another way. He had his wife fake pregnancy with pillowed dresses. When you were born, you were taken from your real mother and presented as Lady Asterlyne’s own flesh and blood. They then locked your mother in this room. She must have starved, you see. There was plenty of water for her. Hear the leaky pipe? Still leaking after all these years. It would have kept her alive for days—weeks, even. Until she succumbed to death by hunger.”

“How did you know about all this?” I asked.

“Your father must have felt guilty on his deathbed. He sent me a letter explaining it all.”

“And why would he do that? Who are you?”

“I am your older brother, Lady Asterlyne. The skeleton behind you is also my mother. And you are an abomination. I will have my vengeance on your father through you.”

When the gunshot rang out, it startled me. I thought for a moment that Cyrus Jordan had shot me. But no, my lover Christopher got him first. As planned.

He stepped out of the shadows, smiling. “It worked, love,” he said. “Your plan worked.”

I knew it would. I had only one doubt: that my father would have told Cyrus Jordan in his letter that he had sent me one as well. Obviously, he had no idea that I also had a key and knowledge of the cell.

“Help me drag him into the cell, love,” Christopher said. He holstered his gun and took Cyrus by the feet, dragging him into the cell.

When he had the body fully inside, I shut the cell door and locked it. I then swung the wine rack back into place. No witnesses.

Christopher began pounding on the door. His pleas for release were faint. No one would hear them. Just as no one had heard my mother while she died slowly of starvation in the cell behind the wine rack.