Chapter Text
Wayne Manor stands alone, grey and foreboding, rising above the early morning fog.
Most of the windows are dark and shuttered, and for a terrible moment Stephanie thinks that the driver has left her standing alone before the wrong house. But there are elaborate iron Ws decorating the gate, and the size of the place alone tells her it could be no place other than her destination.
She approaches the gates cautiously, hoping to find them unlocked. The letter had indicated she should arrive early this morning, October the first. She has scarcely put a hand on the gate when it swings silently inward. From the general ambiance she would have expected a creaking sound. She takes a deep breath, then lifts her hood over her hair and picks up her bags.
The drive is long; she regrets allowing the driver to leave her at the gate. She should have insisted he bring her to the manor itself, but what’s done is done. She grips her bags tight and strides up the walk, trying to take in as many details as possible about the place that was going to be her residence for the foreseeable future.
The manor itself is huge, hulking and grey, though not as unkempt as she would have assumed from its isolation. They’re only a few miles from Gotham, but somehow, it feels worlds away.
She takes a deep breath before lifting the knocker on the door (ornate; grasped in the mouth of an iron gargoyle’s face) and letting it fall. The resulting sound almost makes her flinch. In the early hours, it echoes sharp as a gunshot.
Stephanie steps back and waits, wondering if she should knock again. The house is immense, and in all likelihood her knock wasn’t heard. She’s just stepped forward, ready to lift the heavy knocker again when the door swings open. Like the gate, it’s utterly silent, and a man stands on the other side, face in shadows.
“Miss Brown, I presume.” His accent is crisply British, his posture impeccable. Stephanie squares her shoulders and nods. “Alfred Pennyworth. We’ve been expecting you.”
From his tone, Stephanie feels obscurely like she’d somehow arrived late, even though she knows for a fact that she hasn’t. She’d reread the letter a dozen times on the carriage ride alone. She leaves her bags just inside the door at Mr. Pennyworth’s direction and follows him through the foyer.
Stephanie would like to stop and marvel at the house— its size alone is enough to overwhelm, to the point that the beauty of the architecture almost seems an afterthought — but Mr. Pennyworth doesn’t pause. Down a hall, through a doorway, and down another hall, and they reach their destination.
It’s a solar. The morning light shines softly through the numerous windows, and a gentleman is seated at a writing table, the light hitting against his hair like a halo.
“Master Bruce,” Mr. Pennyworth says, drawing the man’s attention. “The governess has arrived.”
“The— oh, yes,” Mr. Wayne says. He stands and crosses the room to look Stephanie over. He’s a very large man, and his presence seems to fill the room. Stephanie raises her chin and meets his eye.
“Mr. Wayne,” she says, voice louder than she intended. Nerves. “I’m thankful for this opportunity-“
“The agency says your credentials are impeccable,” Mr. Wayne interrupts. “You’re younger than I would have suspected from their letter.”
“Yes; but I have plenty of experience—“
And again, Mr Wayne speaks over her, as though he’s already decided how the conversation shall go and her input is unnecessary.
“I expect you to act with decorum at all times. My son is an extraordinary young man, and he needs a firm hand. Do you feel up to that task?”
It isn’t as though Stephanie has any choice at this point. “Of course. I look forward to meeting your son and shall do my best with his education.”
Mr. Wayne makes a noncommittal sound. Then he says the most curious thing yet. “You understand that there are to be no visitors?”
Stephanie nods; it had worried her, when the agency had made her aware of the request, but was also convenient.
“Furthermore, once you retire for the evening, there will be no exploring of the halls. I expect you to stay in your rooms until morning.”
Stephanie blinks, but nods again. “Of course, Mr. Wayne. I shall do my best to be an useful member of the household.”
Mr. Wayne returns to the table and the half-written letter she can see there, summarily dismissing her without a word. Mr. Pennyworth leads Stephanie out of the room, through a kitchen and up a small flight of stairs. Down another corridor, and Stephanie found herself obscurely grateful that Mr. Wayne had forbidden nighttime wanderings, because she was sure to get hopelessly lost in the daylight. She didn’t dare imagine what these halls would look like in the dark.
“Your room,” Mr. Pennyworth says, and pushes open a heavy oak door, identical to all the others. Inside is a large room, dominated by a heavy poster bed, but lightened by the pale yellow wallpaper. Her bags are sitting near the door, and Stephanie finds that she has an entire suite to herself.
It’s spacious, far more than she had imagined when she’d read the listing for the job and had taken the leap of faith to apply. She’d hoped for a decent sized bed, but had figured on a cot in a small room. This is more space than she’s ever had to call her own.
Staying in at night would hardly be a difficult task when she had a place like this.
She freshens up, splashes water on her face and smooths her hair. She checks her reflection in the mirror -- she appears to be a demure young lady, determined and prepared. Good.
Mr. Pennyworth returns to show her to the classroom. “Master Damian has asked to give you the tour of the grounds personally,” he explains as they take an entirely different path from her room, this time winding down the main staircase into the foyer before moving down a hall on the opposite side of the house than the one that had lead to Mr. Wayne’s solar. “By dinnertime, you’ll be well acquainted with the house.”
“Good,” Stephanie says. “It’s such a large place, I do fear getting lost.”
Mr. Pennyworth offers only the barest hint of a smile before leading her into the classroom.
Several large tables dominate the space, and along the walls are shelves and cabinets housing various curiosities. In the corner is a skeleton; Stephanie can only hope that it’s a replica, but the teeth have irregularities to them which indicate it had once been a person. She tries not to look at it directly.
There is a boy standing behind one of the tables, dressed primly in an approximation of a schoolboy’s uniform, hands clasped behind his back. His hair is parted neatly, his face scrubbed, and he looks at her as though she were something unpleasant that he’d found stuck to the bottom of his shoe.
“Pennyworth, surely this isn’t the governess,” he says, disappointment writ on him as clear as day. “She’s barely older than I am.”
“I assure you that this is the venerable Miss Brown,” Mr. Pennyworth said. He gestured grandly towards her, the first frivolous movement she’s seen him make. It makes him look younger, more spirited, like the actors in a play she’d once seen. “Treat her as you would any lady deserving of your respect.”
“We’ll see about that,” sniffs young Damian Wayne.
Stephanie mentally tells herself that this is an opportunity that she’s grateful for and smiles at the boy.
She doesn’t expect to do much teaching the first day, but she asks Damian to show her what his previous governess had taught him.
“I had tutors that my mother provided,” he says, nose in the air. “The best in the world.” The far better than you was unspoken but clear.
Stephanie has not heard a thing about a Mrs.Wayne. She opens her mouth to inquire after his mother, when Damian continues. “I could hardly expect an education like that here.”
Stephanie takes his affected accent and the way he referred to his mother as pieces of a puzzle, making a picture of a mother that was absent and distant-- whether geographically or emotionally, she couldn’t begin to presume. She’s not heard of any scandal involving Mr. Wayne, but she hardly was in the same social circle.
She chooses discretion and doesn’t ask, tempted though she is. Mr. Wayne hadn’t included inquiries about the family dynamic in the list of forbidden topics, but Stephanie knew that was likely unspoken.
A quick tour of the classroom -- Damian seems especially fond of the scientific texts and other empirical studies, and Stephanie thinks that he might benefit from lessons in the humanities, and decides to plan their days accordingly -- and then Damian offers to show her the grounds. He goes as far as to offer an arm when going up the staircase, clearly taking his role as tour guide seriously.
Stephanie accepts, feeling more like a debutante at a ball than a governess instructing her charge, and wonders if Damian’s affected attitude is a permanent fixture, or if he’ll become accustomed to her and treat her more familiarly. She has a hard time imagining it.
Damian takes her on the promised tour of the manor. His descriptions are imaginative on the parts of which ancestor built which wing, and light on details such as how many people currently live in the estate. He simply gestures down a hallway and says, “This is the family wing. You aren’t welcome there.”
It was a long stretch of hallway, deep red carpet and gold sconces. Heavy mahogany doors were at even intervals, and Stephanie wonders how many were occupied.
She’d done her best to find out about the Waynes before embarking upon this career. Bruce Wayne was infamous, of course -- from being publicly orphaned at such a tender age, then famously disappearing for a while, to the point that the estate had begun proceedings as if he had met his demise, only for him to reappear in spectacular fashion, becoming a regular figure in the public eye as if he’d never disappeared? Curious.
She’d found reference to a boy fostered at the Manor, and of an adopted son who met an early fate in some foreign war. She’d found nothing about young Damian barring the job inquiry that had led her here.
The rest of the tour was a whirlwind. The Manor was built in a curious manner, with the halls and wings arranged in a way that made Stephanie slightly dizzy to try to build a mental map of. It was a far cry from the no-nonsense layout of her previous accommodations.
The grounds are beautiful, and Damian takes extra time to take her to the stables and introduce her to the animals there.
By noon, Stephanie is exhausted but cautiously hopeful about her stay at Wayne Manor.
*
Stephanie carefully arranges her hair and changes her dress for dinner, but when she arrives, she finds only Damian.
“The others tend to eat in their quarters or on their own schedule,” Mr. Pennyworth explains as he serves them both. “Master Damian here, however, is your charge and shall dine with you.”
“Wonderful,” Stephanie says, and finds that she means it. Despite his prickly attitude, Damian is already a familiar figure, and she has no desire to eat alone. She’s had more than her share of solitary meals already, and fills this one with bright words-- observations about the Manor, questions about Damian’s likes and dislikes, talk of the weather.
Anything to avoid silence, and the thoughts that come with it.
*
She writes to her mother, to let her know she’s arrived safely. That she’s safe.
She hates to, but she adds a post script: Despite everything, I am well. I ask that you hold your responses for me, since for obvious reasons, I cannot receive post from you.
She lifts her pen, then sets it down again, leaving a blot of ink on the paper. She stares at it, and her terse words, then adds one final thing. I do love you.
She meets the postman at the gates herself, trusts the letter to his hands directly. The address feels as though it’s emblazoned on the envelope in blood, and his eyes skip over it with only the slightest of pause.
She smiles. “Charity work is a passion of mine.”
The postman says nothing.
*
Stephanie rounds a corner, lost in thought, and nearly runs directly into someone. “Oh!”
It’s a young woman. Stephanie had been unaware that any other women were present in the Manor. She has dark hair, loose and wild around her face, and kind eyes that make Stephanie feel uncharitable for noticing her hair’s disarray.
“Good morning,” Stephanie says. “I’m the governess--”
The woman nods once, sharply. Stephanie leaves her introduction dangling. They stare at each other in silence for what feels like an eternity but is probably only a few seconds. Then the woman smiles, turns on her heel, and moves back down the corridor.
Stephanie wonders if she should follow. It’s the direction she was heading, anyway, so she does.
From this vantage point, she realizes that what she took as a plain, ill-fitting dress is actually a pair of loose black trousers with a black shirt loose over it. Stephanie marvels at that; it looks as though the woman can move easily and quickly, without any clothing that hinders her. She moves gracefully, too-- far moreso than Stephanie, even though she considers herself to be a more than passable dancer. She’s never thought about translating that type of movement to simply walking.
“What’s your name?” she calls as she hurries to catch up with the woman. “I’ve tried to get Damian to tell me about everyone who lives here, but…” she trails off, uncertain about how to describe Damian’s particular personality quibbles.
The woman -- girl, perhaps, now that Stephanie is closer, they appear to be of similar age-- looks at her, shakes her head again, and points over Stepanie’s shoulder. Stephanie glances back, and upon seeing nothing, turns to question the woman again, but she’s gone.
Stephanie even goes as far as to open the nearest doors, glancing inside but seeing no signs of life.
Curious.
*
“I saw a young woman,” she says at dinner, glancing between Mr. Pennyworth and Damian, hoping for a reaction. “Earlier, in the eastern corridor.”
They look at each other, then back at their plates.
“Does she live here?” Stephanie asks.
“She does,” Mr. Pennyworth says after a long moment. Stephanie wonders if she's imagining how reluctant he sounds to speak. “Miss Cassandra is very solitary. I wouldn’t expect to see much of her.”
Miss Cassandra. Stephanie noted how he spoke of her in the familial way; Stephanie herself was referred to as simply Miss Brown. She was deeply curious -- wanted to ask Damian if she was his sister, even, despite the lack of physical similarities beyond the dark hair they shared, but she’d learned that questions about the family and their relationship to each other were typically met with stony silence.
Damian in particular was touchy about any reference to or question about his absent mother. Stephanie still had no idea who she was.
“I see,” Stephanie says, even though she doesn’t.
*
It’s surprisingly simple to settle into a routine at Wayne Manor.
The repetition of the school day helps. Stephanie is relieved to find that Damian is a good student, despite her worries about his attitude superseding his desire to learn. He’s likely more educated than she is, but Stephanie is adaptable and quick to pick up things, and often finds herself learning alongside Damian as much as she’s teaching him. She suspects he knows, but enjoys the process enough that Mr. Wayne hasn’t been made aware.
The days are pleasant and repetitive.
The nights…
The nights are something else entirely.
The first night was unremarkable. Stephanie luxuriated in how soft the bed was, in the feel of the soft clean bedding, in the quiet that enveloped the room. There were no city noises here, simply silence. The house was well constructed; she couldn’t hear so much as a footstep in the hall outside her room, much less any of the other inhabitants.
She fell asleep almost instantly, thanks to the exhaustion from the travel, the deluge of new situations, from the sheer amount of energy it had taken to step into a new role.
The second night is wildly different. Stephanie finds herself in her room soon after dusk, almost immediately after dinner.
She straightened the room, unpacking the rest of her clothing and putting her few personal items on the vanity. She felt restless, energy thrumming under her skin, after a day far more leisurely than she was accustomed.
The room that had felt so spacious the night before now feels like a prison cell, the four walls confining her and leaving her with the desire to do anything but stay within them.
Mr Wayne’s warning echoes through her mind, and she stares at her door, wondering what could be so secretive. Stephanie was not a timid girl, nor was she known for following all the rules, but Mr. Wayne had sounded so dire when he’d warned her against leaving her room after dark.
She creeps over to the door, puts an ear to it. No sound makes it through. The wood was thick and would muffle all but the loudest of noises. She puts her hand on the doorknob, and simply rests it there, considering her options. Stay in her room. Perhaps read, perhaps work on a lesson for Damian in the morning.
Or she could throw all her new employer’s goodwill out the window and wander outside, trying to find out why she’d been confined in the first place.
There was a clear path she should take, a simple, easy path that would only prove beneficiary for her tomorrow.
Stephanie tightens her hand on the doorknob. Just a peek wouldn’t cause any trouble. With the size of the house, the odds of anyone even noticing her door open for just a moment were infinitesimal.
She turns the doorknob and pulls.
Nothing.
She stares at the doorknob. There was no locking mechanism on the interior, simply a keyhole. There was no reason why the door shouldn’t open; she would have heard if someone had locked it, and furthermore, the door had opened with ease every other time she’d used it. It wasn’t simply jammed.
She tries again, harder, then turns the knob every way she can manage while tugging with all her weight. The door remains stubbornly closed.
Stephanie stares at it, aware of how fast her breath was coming. What had felt simply like confinement only moments before now feels more akin to a gaol. She’s trapped, and she’d had no clue. If she had simply picked up a book or a pen, she might never have realized. She remembers that morning, when Mr. Pennyworth had rapped on her door signalling it was time for breakfast, and wonders if he’d unlocked it beforehand.
Agreeing to stay in her room at night was one thing. Being locked inside? It makes her chest feel tight, like she can’’t take in a deep enough breath. She tugs on the door and then, frustrated, pushes at it, wondering if she’d somehow forgotten how the door opened. The door refuses to budge.
Hot tears prick her eyes, and she goes as far as to pound on the door with her fists a few desperate, futile times.
It isn’t going to open. She’s trapped.
She feels helpless in a way she hasn’t since she was a child, and hot fury wells up within her. She had left that behind, had abandoned everything that would remind her of those dark days, and she will not let something as simple as a locked door take her back to that place.
She kicks the door once soundly with the sole of her foot, but all that accomplishes is a dull ache in her foot. She looks around the room, desperate, wondering if there is something she could use to jimmy the lock, when she realizes there is a more practical escape plan available.
The windows.
She hurries over to the nearest one. She hasn’t opened it yet, but the lock is on the sash, and therefore completely under her control. She pushes aside the drapes and fumbles at the lock, grateful as it comes loose and she slides the window open.
Cool night air hits her face, and with it, relief.
She leaves the window open all night, even as she shivers under her blankets.
*
She sleeps, eventually, and when she wakes, she races to the door. The doorknob turns easily, and the door swings open without hesitation.
She steps into the hall, not even bothering with a dressing gown, and looks around. No one in sight. That’s typical; her rooms, while spacious and grand, are down a corridor filled with empty rooms. Sheets covering furniture in long-unused sitting rooms; bedrooms similar to hers but with stripped beds. She wonders sometimes why she’s been put in this faraway hall; even a room near Alfred’s in the servant’s quarters would have been preferable, no matter how cold he was towards her.
She turns her attention to the door itself. The knob is as ornate and beautiful as on the inside, and at first glance Stephanie is confused, because there is no keyhole in sight.
There has to be a locking mechanism -- her terror the night before feels muted in the daylight, but she has no doubt that it happened. She crouches down, inspecting the door closely. Presses on all the ornate swirls and designs, until her finger catches on a part that resembles a leaf that depresses as she pushes against it.
A faint clicking sound, one she doubts she could have heard through the door, and a tiny panel slides away to reveal the keyhole.
Stephanie leans back on her heels, and wonders what to do. If she asks about it, then the whole household will know she tried to break the solitary rule presented to her. But if she doesn’t…
Stephanie can’t imagine having a restful night’s sleep again.
She presses the leaf again, and watches the keyhole disappear.
*
Mr. Pennyworth greets her as usual as she sits down for breakfast.
Stephanie murmurs a reply, then focuses on her food while she tries to decide how to approach the topic of her locked door.
Mr. Pennyworth is the same as always. If he was the one who locked her door, either he’s remorseless or it’s such a commonplace event that it doesn’t occur to him that she might have discovered it.
It’s an uncomfortable thought.
She’s saved from having to decide what to do by Damian’s arrival. He’s in a grump, slouching in his chair and kicking his feet petulantly as he glares at his plate.
“Someone woke up on the wrong side of the bed this morning,” Stephanie said, smiling as gently as she could to show that she was teasing. She’s had enough misunderstandings already with Damian.
Damian ignores her entirely. “Alfred, I’m not doing lessons today.”
“Yes, you are,” Stephanie says firmly before Mr. Pennyworth has a chance to reply.
“No, I am not,’ Damian says, narrowing his eyes.
“Why?” Stephanie asks, because Damian sounds even more determined than before.
“I have better things to do with my time,” he says. His nose is practically vertical, it’s stuck so high in the air. Stephanie supposes it’s lucky they’re indoors. It was raining steadily outside; were Damian out there he might drown.
“Like what?” Two could play at that game, after all.
Damian’s chin was set; she could read the stubbornness in the set of his shoulders. “I don’t have to answer to you.”
Stephanie opens her mouth, ready to shoot off with a reply that might get her in hot water, when Mr. Pennyworth comes to her rescue. “Young sir, this behavior is unbecoming. Just because you’re displeased with the return of—“ Mr. Pennyworth cut the sentence off abruptly. He isn’t as obvious as to look at her, but it’s clear that she is the reason he didn’t continue.
How many secrets were there in this house?
“Is there a visitor?” Stephanie asks, hoping she sounds innocently intrigued, rather than desperately curious.
Mr. Pennyworth stills. “There are often visitors at Wayne Manor, Miss, that would rather not associate with anyone outside family. No offense is intended, of course, but some have experienced things that have left them in a rather fragile state.”
“I see,” Stephanie says, though she most definitely does not. “I will do my best to avoid awkward confrontations, then.”
“That would be greatly appreciated,” Mr. Pennyworth says, relief evident in his tone. “Now, finish up breakfast so you can get to your lessons.”
Stephanie isn’t entirely sure who the statement is directed towards, but she and Damian both eat more industriously.
*
It isn’t until halfway through a lesson on geography that Stephanie realizes that she had completely neglected to find out about the locked door.
In the evening, she retires to her room at her customary time. Light still filters through the window, drapes still open from the night before, though the sky is overcast and rapidly dimming. The rain had stopped earlier, but the clouds had lingered, leaving Wayne Manor feeling gloomy.
Instead of moving around her room, straightening her belongings, doing the tasks that she’d put off during the day, and sorting through the lessons she wanted to teach Damian the next day, Stephanie sat on the floor, leaning against the door. The lock was near her ear; she should know the second it was engaged, and she could… pound on the door, yell out, something. She couldn't bear the thought of another sleepless night.
After nearly an hour of simply sitting on the floor, listening intently, Stephanie reaches up and grasps the door handle. Turns it, only to find that the door will not budge.
She pales.
Stands and turns the handle again, gripping it tight enough that her knuckles go white. The same result. Despite her listening intently, she’d somehow missed the lock turning. Had somehow missed someone standing on the other side of the door, mere inches away.
Hads become imprisoned yet again.
Stephanie takes a deep breath. Opens the window, letting the damp air fill the room. It’s likely to give her a cough, but she’d welcome an illness if it meant she could still taste freedom in the air.
Then she goes to the wardrobe. In the bottom of her bag she’s stored there is a small sewing kit, and concealed within that is a tool that a lady of means should neither possess nor know the function of.
A lockpick.
She kneels in front of her door, and carefully inserts the lockpick into the keyhole. It takes several tries to get it to catch; the lock isn’t set up like she would assume from inspecting the door as she’d left the room this morning. Each time the lockpick slips uselessly over the mechanism, it feels like her heart is in her throat, beating madly.
She swallows hard, and continues her task. It takes embarrassingly long, but finally, finally, she feels the catch of the lock giving way, and quickly turns the handle, swings the door open before it has an opportunity to somehow lock itself again.
Stephanie quickly secrets the lockpick away in her pocket, quietly deciding to keep it on her person while she’s living in Wayne Manor, and pulls the door open fully.
The hallway is empty. Not even the slightest hint of movement to be seen.
Stephanie takes one tentative step out, looks around. Everything is quiet and still; the sky is mostly dark, now, and the hall dim. She takes in a deep breath, and returns to her room. Pushes the door shut, and gives the knob another try. Still unlocked.
She climbs into bed and falls asleep with one hand wrapped around the lockpick like it’s a lifeline.
*
It becomes a ritual: every night she waits an hour, then tests the door. Every night, the door is locked.
And every night, she picks the lock, takes a solitary step into the hall, and returns to bed, secure in the knowledge that she is not trapped.