The Shadow in the Dark (Part Sixteen)

There was no mistaking the look of surprise on the woman’s face. For a moment she looked confused as her eyes confirmed I was wearing a white silk ribbon in my hair, and then those same eyes glanced down at my brief kilt skirt and white socks.

 

“I don’t understand,” she said. “You wear a white ribbon.”

 

“Uh, yes, but…” I hesitated. What was I going to say, that I hadn’t actually dressed myself this morning? That would sound crazy. “I’m Ashlee Ellis,” I said again. “I can’t believe those men aren’t helping you with your cases.”

 

“I know. It’s a deplorable state of affairs. They know who I am.”

 

I nodded. I didn’t know who she was, of course. I smiled, expecting an introduction of some sort. 

 

“Oh, yes,” she said, “of course. We haven’t been introduced. Cecily Jacqueline Ashton Croft. Of the Croft family.”

 

“Let me guess, you’re related to Lara?” I smiled at my own joke. She probably heard that all the time. 

 

“I beg your pardon?”

 

“Uh, Lara Croft?” There was no recognition on her face. None whatsoever. 

 

“I really don’t know who she is. She must be a different branch of the family.”

 

Okay. Obviously, she didn’t hear that all the time. I tried to suppress a follow up smile that might come across as laughing at her. “So, you know Elijah?”

 

“Who?” Again she looked puzzled.

 

“Elijah Bannon. This is his house?”

 

“I have never heard of the man. I am here to meet Conchis.”

 

Conchis. My mind flashed back several years to Mount Holyoke College. Those late evenings as we sat together in the bohemian loft space shared by Michael and Elijah, drinking red wine from mis-matched glasses, while some old album by the Velvet Underground played on Elijah’s vintage stack hi-fi, and they would inevitably take THAT book down from their bookshelf and read from it as if it was a religious text. 

 

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“The whole of life is a game…”

 

“The greatest illusion is that of freedom.”

 

“We invent ourselves through our choices.”

 

“The purpose of myth is not to explain, but to awaken.”

 

“Pain is a form of truth.”

 

“Reality is what we persuade ourselves is real.”

 

I still remembered much of the ideology they gleaned from THAT book. They would read from it by candlelight with reverence, smoking pot occasionally, and passing the joint around as Elijah would lecture us on the meaning behind those words.

 

“Illusion is not merely deception; it is a necessary force that provokes growth and self-knowledge, Ashlee. In saying what he does, Conchis implies that perception, not fact, governs human experience. In essence illusion shapes identity.”

 

“That’s all well and good,” said Michael Emery, “but he is also implying that passivity, self-deception, and emotional detachment are framed as moral failures. Even victims of manipulation remain morally accountable for their actions. Moral growth requires suffering. Any avoidance of pain leads to emotional and ethical immaturity. It’s the coward’s way out. In time when we build the God Game…” 

 

“I bought a new dress today,” said Bryony Addison as she clearly failed to understand anything the ‘boys’ were talking about. “It’s designer.”

 

I noticed how the two young men glanced at each other with knowing smiles. Elijah shook his head, a mirthful expression, before he looked up at Bryony and said, “modest, I hope?”

 

“But of course,” squealed Bryony Addison, making a play of seeming to squirm.

 

“But not too modest, I hope,” Elijah added with a wink. 

 

“Elijah! Don’t be naughty!” She pretended to squirm again and reached for her glass of red wine, but was keenly happy with his response. 

 

When I spoke, it was with a forthright declaration that surprised the ‘boys’. “Conchis is not to be admired, Michael. He claims immunity from moral accountability, frames cruelty as some form of necessity, reinterprets harm as instruction, and positions himself outside of ordinary moral rules. He ultimately offers no vindication, and Nicholas is left alone to come to terms with his own choices. This is nothing more than non-consensual manipulation, Michael.”

 

Neither of the young men said anything for a moment or two. They were plainly surprised that a woman might say anything more profound than “I’ve bought a new dress” in response to their pretentious eulogising of a tatty paperback book with passages underlined in thick red pen. 

 

“Well, Ashlee, you’re quite the surprise tonight.” Michael leaned forward and passed me his joint. “Quite the dark horse. Where did you get all that from?”

 

“I’m not stupid, Michael.”

 

“You think you understand Conchis?” said Elijah. He seemed annoyed by my presumption. “You understand the God Game?”

 

“No, but sometimes I get a bit sick and tired of your sanctimonious ritual of pulling THAT book down from your shelf and acting as if it’s the fucking Sermon on the Mount.” I took a drag on the joint and felt my head grow lighter. I sighed and lay back in the deep pile of cushions on the floor of their attic apartment. “How about I start quoting profound statements from Confessions of a Shopaholic? How would you like that?”

 

Michael offered me a patronising smile as he, too, leaned back against a stack of cushions. “Life should be framed like a work of art, Ashlee. Suffering is not evil but formative. Conchis designs his own ethical framework, justified by ‘awakening’ others, and that is its own justification. You need to view illusion as a creative force, and…”

 

“Hey boys, do you mind if we change the music?” asked Bryony as she lifted herself up from the attic floor with something of a wobble. “I mean the Velvet Overground is really fun – of course it is - but can I put on some Kylie? Please?” She did a little sexy wiggle as she stood there, partially stoned. “Puh-lease, Elijah. Pretty please?”

 

Again the ‘boys’ looked at each other and burst out laughing. 

 

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“Conchis?” I said.

 

“Yes, Conchis. I’ve driven from Boston. He’s expecting me.”

 

I gazed at the great doors to the house that were flanked either side by a man wearing a navy coloured coat. Now they were both watching me. 

 

“He calls himself Conchis?” I asked, by way of confirmation.

 

“Yes. That is what I said.” Miss Cecily Jacqueline Ashton Croft seemed irritated by my insistence. She glanced again at the white ribbon in my hair as she touched the silk of her own red ribbon. “Your skirt is very daring,” she said.

 

I blushed and tugged down at the silly kilt skirt. “It wasn’t my first choice.”

 

“And yet you are white silk?”

 

I wasn’t stupid. I knew perfectly well the context of white silk in terms of this conversation. White silk was worn in Mount Holyoke College to signify purity. In which case, did red silk mean… 

 

“You’re not a virgin,” I said. And now it was Cecily Jacqueline Ashton Croft’s turn to blush.

 

“I was young and naive,” she said, turning her gaze away from me. “A moment of weakness, nothing more. I had drunk some wine. I regret the moment, of course.”

 

I nodded. “I have also drunk wine,” I said, “but I remain white silk.”

 

The statement seemed to hit home with Cecily. “I don’t judge you,” I said, touching her arm with my open hand. “We all have moments of weakness.” Sheriff Root had mentioned that all the women who came to this house wore ribbons. Could it be that the ribbons they wore represented their purity or lack of it? That seemed to be the obvious conclusion here. But if so, was it simply a coincidence that I had been given a white ribbon this morning? No one but I knew that I remained unspoilt. How could anyone else know without examining me? “Why are you here, Cecily?”

 

“For the same reason as you,” she replied. “To understand what it is to be a woman. A true woman. To be taught to embrace and celebrate my femininity in a world that seems to strip such meaningful things away from women. I do not want to simply be a ‘person’. There must be more to life than that.”

 

She thought I had come here to attend some sort of seminar? To perhaps indulge myself in a weekend retreat? 

 

“Do you know what that involves?” I asked.

 

“Not exactly, no. Obviously, Conchis teaches us that men and women are different, which goes against the established thinking of earlier decades. Conchis has expectations of women, expectations that were not always fashionable before New Feminism. I’ve come here to learn who, or what I am. I am confident that Conchis will awaken my true self.”

 

Something occurred to me. “This probably sounds like a strange question, but can you tell me what the date is today?”

 

“The fifth of October,” said Cecily.

 

A chill ran down my spine. “No, you mean the seventh? The seventh of October? Today is the seventh of October?”

 

“Today is the fifth of October,” she confirmed again. 

 

I glanced again at the two men who stood beside the double doors of the house. They were still watching me. A gust of wind made the ribbon tails in my hair flutter. My ribbon was white, of course. For some reason I felt that was important. “Here, let me take one of the cases,” I said,  and then a strange thing happened. No sooner had my hand touched the handle of one of Cecily’s cases, then both men sprang into motion, moving gracefully down the flight of stone steps to assist me.

 

“Ma’am,” said one of the uniformed men. He was tall, with broad shoulders and a powerful build. “May I?” He took the first case from my hand while his partner then took the second. But it was only when I had touched the cases that they had ventured to help. Cecily has noticed this, too.

 

“You took your time,” she said to the men. “I am not accustomed to waiting.” One of them glanced at the red ribbon in her hair.

 

“Follow us,” said the second man. 

 

The hallway swallowed sound the moment we stepped inside. My flat Mary Jane shoes, so confident on the gravel outside, struck the floor here with a small, betraying click that seemed to echo upward into the shadows of the ceiling. The place smelled faintly of polish and age - waxed wood, old stone, something floral that had long since seeped into the walls. I felt as though I had entered a cathedral disguised as a house, built less for living than for being looked up to.

 

The floor beneath us was a wide stretch of marble, veined and glossy, interrupted only by a carpet runner so thick it looked ceremonial. Dark wood panelling climbed the walls, carved with leaves and scrollwork that felt excessive, almost watchful. Portraits lined the space at measured intervals: men with severe eyes and women weighed down by jewels, all of them staring past me as if I were a temporary inconvenience. Somewhere above, a chandelier hung like a frozen constellation, its light warm but unforgiving, revealing every speck of dust and every tremor in my hands.

 

I became acutely aware of myself then - of how small I felt, how thin my confidence was beneath the ridiculous garments I wore. The thought crept in, sharp and unwelcome, that I did not belong here at all. That whatever decision had brought me across that threshold might already be a mistake I would regret too late.

 

Beside me, Cecily moved with a quiet assurance that I lacked. Her clothes were modest compared to mine: a simple tailored skirt, falling to just below her knees, a trim jacket, sensible shoes, gloves folded neatly in her hand, a prim hat on her head. She didn’t rush, didn’t hesitate. Her calm made the space seem less hostile, as if it responded to her presence with a grudging respect. I found myself watching her more than the room, measuring my breathing against her steady pace.

 

We had barely gone a few steps when another figure emerged from a side doorway so silently I nearly startled. She was dressed in a crisp and formal black-and-white maid’s uniform, every line precise, every fold exact. The starched apron was blinding against the dark hall, and her cap sat perfectly atop her hair, not a strand out of place. She looked at us with professional composure, eyes sharp but unreadable, hands folded as if this moment had been anticipated all along.

 

Her presence made everything feel suddenly very real. This wasn’t just a grand building frozen in time; it was a place that functioned, that had rules and expectations and people who belonged to it. As she greeted us, her voice soft and practiced, I felt my stomach tighten. 

 

“Welcome to Phraxos, ladies,” said the maid. “Where all things are possible. We have been expecting you both.”

 

The men walked past us with the cases, heading somewhere specific towards the back of the house, but when Cecily made to follow them, the maid interjected. “No,” she said, her eyes seeming to judge Cecily in some way. “One moment, please.”

 

“Where are they taking my cases?” asked Cecily.

 

“You are red silk,” she observed. “You will be given accommodation in the basement.”

 

“The basement?” Cecily seemed surprised by this.

 

“Excuse me,” I said, interrupting the conversation. “My name is Ashlee Ellis. I knew Elijah Bannon a few years ago when…”

 

“Master Conchis has been expecting you, ma’am,” said the maid, simply, as she smiled at me, smiled at the sight of my fluttering white ribbon. Here in this house it seemed to be important. “If you will follow me?”

 

“Conchis. That’s Elijah, yes? Just for clarification? It’s Elijah?”

 

“If you will follow me, ma’am,” said the maid again, clearly not answering my question. I glanced at Cecily who seemed less than happy by all of this. Her luggage – both cases – had disappeared into the sprawling network of arterial corridors that made up the heart of this building. I saw a second maid emerge from the side room and approach her, presumably to show her where she would be staying tonight.

 

“You will follow me, girl,” said the maid. Her voice seemed much les deferential than the first maid was being with me.

 

“There are things in my cases that I will need,” said Cecily. I will wish to freshen up after the long drive.” There was the hint of. suppressed smile on the curl of the second maid’s lips as he regarded Cecily. 

 

“You will follow me, girl,” she said again, this time clicking her fingers in a rather commanding manner.

 

I lost sight of Cecily as I followed the first maid down a series of corridors and into the deeper recesses of the house.

 

The study felt darker than the hallway, as though the house were deliberately closing its eyes around us. The maid opened the heavy door without a word and stood aside, her starched uniform whispering faintly as she moved. I noticed the immaculate white of her apron against the gloom, how untouched it looked by the dust and age that clung to everything else. It struck me, absurdly, that she belonged here far more than I did.

 

The room itself was vast, its walls swallowed by bookshelves that rose from floor to ceiling, packed tight with old volumes whose spines were cracked, faded, and written in languages I could not place at a glance. The smell was overwhelming - old paper, leather, oil paint, and something dry and medicinal beneath it all. A pair of tall windows admitted a filtered, amber light through heavy curtains, illuminating drifting dust motes like slow-falling ash.

 

Oil paintings covered the remaining wall space: severe ancestors in dark coats, women posed stiffly beside columns or drapery, their eyes following me no matter where I stood. Their frames were heavy, gilded, and darkened with age, and I had the unsettling impression that they were less decoration than witnesses. A large desk sat unused near the centre of the room, its surface polished to a dull sheen, papers arranged with deliberate neatness, as though someone wanted it to look untouched rather than truly idle.

 

Then I saw him.

 

It was Elijah. Seemingly no older than the last day I had set eyes on him at Mount Holyoke College. I recalled that last momentous day when we all graduated, and my final words to Elijah, late that night. I shook my head. All that was in the past. 

 

He sat in an antique leather armchair angled slightly toward the door, the leather worn soft and glossy by decades of use. He rose as we entered, smiling warmly, the kind of smile meant to reassure. His suit was impeccable - tailored, conservative, expensive without being showy - and he carried himself with the easy confidence of a man accustomed to being obeyed without asking. He looked exactly like someone who belonged among these books and portraits, as though the room had been arranged around him rather than the other way around.

 

Yet my unease deepened rather than eased.

 

His eyes lingered on me just a moment too long, not appraising exactly, but expectant, as if he were pleased to see a story unfolding as predicted. I felt suddenly transparent, as though he could see past my blouse, my silly kilt skirt, my posture, my practiced politeness, straight to the uncertainty underneath. When he spoke - kindly, smoothly - it felt less like a greeting and more like confirmation that I had arrived where I was meant to be.

 

I thought of a spider sitting patiently in the centre of a web. 

 

The serving girl withdrew soundlessly, and closed the door behind her with a soft, decisive click. The sound seemed final. I stood there, surrounded by centuries of knowledge and judgment, aware of how small I was, how little I understood anything that had been happening to me. Elijah’s smile never faltered, but something about it made my stomach tighten, and as he gestured for me to sit, I couldn’t shake the feeling that the room itself was watching to see whether I would comply.

 

“Miss Ashlee Ellis. What a lovely surprise.”