Author's Note: It's nearly Halloween which feels like a good time to put the beginning of my little Gothic romance out in the world.

Things to know:

-There will be no imprinting or vamp pregnancies in this story. Not my bag, baby.
-Rest of canon universe lore will apply. I think.
-Character backstories are all adjusted from canon to fit the setting but overall stay close to the original (except my Nessie, who is really more of an OC at this point).
-With those adjustments and the realities of the time, actions/speech patterns/personalities will also naturally shift. I'm trying to stay true to their core selves as portrayed in the books while being realistic about the fact that they're all a bit older and more mature, and have had life experiences that change how they view the world.
-I'm also taking some liberties with historical facts. I'll do my best to be period-accurate but when reality gets in the way of the story, I'm not gonna worry about it. After all, I'm just doing this for fun.

As for the story itself…as indicated in the description, Jane Eyre is indeed the initial inspiration. But this will not be a faithful retelling.

And I think that's all my housekeeping for now! Now let's have some fun...

X-posted to AO3.

February, 1931

The so-called town of Forks, I decided as I stepped down from the motor coach, was a grave misnomer. As far as I could see, there wasn't a single fork in the road to behold, just the brand-new highway with no side streets intersecting—and to call the small cluster of buildings a "town" was either a deliberate exaggeration or a show of optimism that bordered on delusion.

My feet safely on the sidewalk, I set down my battered cardboard suitcase and tugged at my slightly ill-fitting coat in an attempt to straighten it. The five hours on the Greyhound had done my appearance no favors—I hoped my new employer wouldn't judge me for the wrinkles.

The doors creaked shut behind me and the bus rolled away, belching exhaust as it passed.

Wonderful, I thought grumpily, now I smell as bad as I look.

I pulled the directions I'd scribbled down from my pocket, though I'd already memorized all three steps of the vague, minimalist instructions.

10:15 bus to town of Forks
Newton's Market, afternoon delivery route
Culwoode Hall

Worrying my lip, I looked up and down the quiet street for the shop Mrs. Jasper Hale had told me about.

"I'm terribly sorry," she'd said on the telephone after our somewhat strange, surprisingly brief interview, "I would come get you myself but my husband is away with the motorcar. But the Newton boy's delivery route goes just past our place—he should be able to bring you by. "

"You lost?" a friendly voice called from behind me.

Nearly tripping over my forgotten suitcase at my feet, I turned to see a generically pleasant-looking young man in his early 20s sticking his head out of the shopfront door across the road.

"Ah—I'm looking for Newton's Market?" I called back.

He grinned and pointed a finger to the large glass window to his right, where the words I'd just spoken were painted in very large, bright letters.

"Found it," he said teasingly.

Face hot, I shoved the paper back into my pocket and picked up my suitcase to cross the street. The boy, who was cheerfully holding the door open for me, wore a green apron embroidered with Newton's in white.

"Thank you," I said with a sheepish smile as he let the door close behind me. "I—er—I'm wondering if you can help me." He looked eager, blue eyes wide and toothy smile firmly in place. Had Mrs. Hale already asked him to take me to the house? "I've just arrived in Forks for a job—"

"Then you've come to the wrong place."

An older woman at the front counter stepped forward, crossing her sinewy arms over her chest. She was blonde like the young man, though her hair was streaked with grey, and the broad planes of her cheekbones echoed his in an obviously familial way.

The boy winced. "Mother, really—"

"There's no work in town," she said firmly, though without venom. "I'd recommend you turn right back around to wherever you've come from."

I straightened up and forced a smile. "Forgive me, ma'am," I began, "I'm not looking for work—I've already secured a position. My new employer, Mrs. Jasper Hale, said I ought to ask if your delivery boy might be so kind as to drop me at Culwoode Hall when he goes on his afternoon route."

The woman's pale eyebrows rose at this, and she considered me with a new curiosity. "Well now," she said. "That's a different story."

Her eyes flickered up and down, taking in my appearance more fully. I wondered what she saw. My coat, though oft-mended and slightly big, was good-quality wool, and I'd hoarded pennies to buy silk stockings for the occasion. My shoes were unfashionable, surely, but sturdy and freshly shined, and they matched my gloves, which were leather, not cloth. The suitcase was unfortunate but unavoidable—I'd had to take whatever I could find in the college lost-and-found. Still though, on the whole, I thought I cut a respectable figure.

The woman gave a curt nod of approval. "Mike, dear—"

"Of course!" Mike said, grin firmly back in place. "It's just up the Calawah, I drive right past the gate on my way to the logging camp." He held out an eager hand to me. "Mike Newton."

"Bella Swan," I replied, putting my hand reluctantly in his somewhat damp palm.

For one mortifying second, I thought he would lift my hand to kiss it. But he seemed to gather his wits and simply gave it a friendly squeeze.

"Very pleased to meet you," he said, pale blue eyes searching mine with a sense of wonder that made me want to squirm.

Just how far up the river is Culwoode? I suddenly wondered, trying not to wince.

Quite far, as it turned out.

To my immense displeasure, the road was also mostly unpaved, meaning Mike had to drive agonizingly slow.

"Logging road," he shouted apologetically over the engine's whine and squeaking shocks as we bounced from pothole to pothole up the slight incline. "Practically all we got around here, aside from the new highway."

I nodded tersely, pressing my hand harder into the roof to keep myself from bashing my head against it as Mike rolled over yet another divot.

"So where you from?"

I decided to give him just my most recent city, not wanting to invite further questioning; I had to repeat my answer twice before he could hear me.

"Seattle, huh? So this must seem like a real backwater!"

I shrugged.

"Whatcha doing up at Culwoode?"

"Tutoring the little girl," I replied, loud enough this time.

"Oh wow! I didn't know there was a kid," he said. "We never see any of 'em in town. No deliveries either. They just have Angela—Angela Weber, she's the reverend's oldest, I guess they hired her as a maid—anyway, Angela brings the shopping up to the house on Mondays. My friend Ben is the groundskeeper. I asked him about the place after church a few weeks ago; he said it's real swank."

I wished there was something other than the endless forest out the window to distract me as Mike repeated every scrap of rumor he'd ever heard about the inhabitants of Culwoode.

A good hour after we left the market and 30 minutes after Mike ran out of conversation topics to attempt, we rounded a curve and an offshoot of the logging road appeared amongst the ferns. Mike braked somewhat suddenly, making me jerk forward.

"Sorry," he said. "The turnoff really sneaks up on you."

His voice was hushed and a little tight. As I looked up the road, I could see why.

The road—if it could be called that—was little used and overgrown, just parallel tire tracks barely visible amidst the thick moss, vines, and ferns. The shade from the ancient evergreens standing sentinel combined with the gloom of the February late afternoon brought on a false twilight, so the drive seemed to disappear into the dark as it lifted up over the hillside.

Most intimidating, though, was the ornate wrought iron gate imposing across the track some twenty feet up from where we sat, wisps of mist floating around its base.

I could feel the hairs on my arms stand up; the scene was straight out of a gothic horror novel.

"They know you're coming today?" he asked nervously. The gate appeared shut tight, and there was no skirting around it in the van with the thick forest on either side.

"Yes," I said, but suddenly I wasn't so confident. Still, I wasn't interested in risking a late arrival losing me the job—or, frankly, in riding all the way back to town with Mike Newton. "Thank you for the ride. I'll walk the rest of the way." My voice mercifully sounded much more confident than I felt.

"Are you sure? It might be unlocked. I don't mind taking you the rest of the way."

I shook my head, already gathering my coat and bag. "No, I wouldn't want to take up any more of your time," I replied. "Really, I'll be fine."

"All right," he said, still looking unsure. "Well, I'll be back this way in an hour or so. So I can take you back if…"

I scrambled out of the cab before he could finish. "Thank you again," I called over my shoulder as I slammed the door behind me. Mike gave me a half-hearted wave, then put the van back in gear to continue on the logging road.

Alone now, I took a deep breath. The gate blocked only the road; there was no fencing on either side of the tall stone pillars, and the trampled weeds showed me others had walked around the edge. I slipped around the side of the gate and continued up the drive without pausing, lest I lose my nerve.

The hill was steep and I was panting before long, my suitcase handle slipping in my sweating palm. It began to dawn on me that I had no idea how long this driveway might be; who knew how big the estate was?

The incline seemed to be increasing, and then the track curved sharply around the side of the hill. And suddenly, the trees broke and I gasped at the view.

I could see now I was close to the top of a foothill, looking southeast toward the Olympic range. Endless rows of jagged, green-black peaks capped with snow filled the horizon, streaked with silver swirls of cloudstream. Below, I could see the graceful curve of a river—the Calawah, I assumed—tracing its way across the valley floor. And to the right, just down the ridgeline of the hill I stood on, I caught my first sight of what could only be Culwoode Hall.

The name had prepared me for something a bit more refined than the farmhouses and rough cabins that surrounded Forks, but the reality was something else entirely. It looked more like a castle than a house, with its sprawling red brick facade and sharp, steep gables; the only thing missing was a turret. It could have been plucked straight from the English countryside and dropped onto the ridge, though it somehow didn't look entirely out of place among the dense, damp forest and fog-shrouded slopes.

The rough track gave way to more elegant gravel that crunched satisfyingly underfoot as I approached the turnaround in front of the house.

A great, creaking protest groaned from the front doors, making me jump. One swung open, spilling warm, golden light across the drive.

"Miss Swan!" a high, musical voice called from the entrance, where a silhouette split the glow in half. "You've arrived!"

The figure appeared in the gray pre-dusk as my greeter stepped out onto the drive and flitted towards me. I lengthened my strides to meet her, wishing I'd had a moment to fix myself up first.

The woman was deceptively quick, closing twice as much of the distance as I managed. Her dark hair was fashionably bobbed and her simple but expensive-looking dress of blue-grey silk rippled around her like water, draping prettily over her fine, pale skin.

"I'm so terribly sorry," she said, raising a delicate hand to touch her brow in embarrassment. "I didn't even think about the gate—and now you've had to walk from the road…" She shook her head. "You must think me awfully rude."

My lips curved up in an involuntary smile as I placed the voice—so this was Mrs. Jasper Hale. She was younger than I'd imagined, a year or two older at most than my 20 years. The birdlike energy of her movements matched the melodic pitch of her clear voice perfectly, and she had an aura of mischief and enthusiasm that instantly drew me in.

"Not at all," I said. "It was nice to stretch my legs after the journey."

"I'm so glad to meet you at last." She reached out to give my arm a friendly squeeze through the thick sleeve. I realized then that she was bare-armed in the chill; the damp air cut right through my wool coat, but she showed no signs of discomfort.

"It's lovely to meet you as well, Mrs. Hale."

"Please, call me Alice! I simply can't abide formality from my friends." Her eyes—an unusually bright shade of hazel that bordered on gold—sparkled with good humor and there was a conviction in her voice that allowed for no argument.

"Alice, then," I amended with a smile. "And you can call me Bella."

She nodded with finality and twined her arm in mine to lead me to the house.

"I really am so thrilled to have you at Culwoode," she said. The top of her head was barely level with my chin but her quick, light steps kept pace with my longer legs easily. "Before you, I was absolutely despairing at finding the right tutor for dear Nessie—she's a lovely child, very agreeable, but you can't imagine the sorts of inquiries we received…"

As Alice recounted the worst of the applications, I drank in the grandeur of the house. Up close, I could better make out the fine details: the leadwork of the windows, the toothlike crenellations of the roofline, the carvings in the stone accents above the entrance porch archway—it was a marvel.

I gasped at the oak doors themselves, massive and arched to create an elegant point where they met. Alice looked at me askance and, seeing my wide eyes, scrunched her nose playfully.

"Oh yes, the doors are quite something," she said wryly. "Fifteenth century. A bit of an extravagance."

I was opening my mouth to question her further but I was entirely sidetracked by the interior of the entry hall. My jaw hung slack, and Alice gave me an amused look.

"I suppose I undersold it a bit when we spoke."

Everything was paneled in rich, dark wood that glowed from the surplus of cozy lamps and sconces placed artfully around the hall. A staircase in matching oak decorated with gothic arches and fleurs-de-lis commanded the wall directly opposite the doors. High, arched windows dotted with stained glass punctuated the first landing, flanked by oil paintings in gilded frames. On one side of the hall, a fire crackled merrily in a massive stone hearth flanked by antique seating.

"Good Lord," I murmured.

"Yes, it's all a bit over the top." Though her words were somewhat dismissive, she couldn't quite hide the fondness in her voice. "Why don't you leave your suitcase here and I can take you to meet Nessie? She's in the kitchen helping Miss Weber prepare dinner."

I did my best to hide my shabby suitcase behind a lacquered Chinese cabinet and hung my coat on the hall tree, shoving my gloves in one pocket. Alice waved me over to the French doors at the back corner of the hall and we crossed through a sumptuous red dining room into a long butler's pantry.

As we passed the rows of glass-front cabinets filled with fine china, I could hear the high-pitched chatter of an excited young girl through the door at the end of the hall. My heartbeat stuttered—if my charge didn't like me, would Alice send me back to Seattle?

Before I could let the panic sink in, Alice pushed the swinging door open and I got my first look at the girl. She sat at a long, worn work table in the center of the room, back to me, head bent studiously over some culinary task.

"Nessie dear," Alice sang gently, "someone is here to meet you!"

The girl twisted excitedly at the sound of Alice's voice. "Miss Swan?" she cried, scrambling out of the chair. She flung herself to Alice's side, then seemed to suddenly remember her manners and blushed, straightening herself and clasping her hands primly in front of her skirt. She smiled up at me, and I returned the gesture.

"Miss Isabella Swan," Alice began with some ceremony, "may I present my niece, Miss Agnes Renee Fisher?"

I raised an eyebrow at niece —I had assumed Nessie was Alice's daughter based on our conversation the week before. Though now that I saw them both together, it was clear Alice was too young to be her mother.

"How do you do, Miss Swan," the girl said shyly, dipping her head.

"Very pleased to meet you, Agnes," I replied, trying to imbue some warmth in my voice.

"You can call me Nessie, if you like. Everyone does."

She was a charming thing; a bit small for her age, with wide, mossy-green eyes and shoulder-length curls that shifted between copper and burnished gold in the light. She was missing a front tooth on the bottom row, and the double S of her nickname whistled a bit.

"And this is Angela Weber," Alice continued, motioning toward a very tall young woman with honey-brown hair and kind eyes standing over the massive stove. "She'll be your right-hand woman—she's been helping us with housekeeping and a bit of cooking here and there."

Angela waved, her other hand busily stirring a pot. "Forgive me, the onions will burn if I don't keep them moving!"

"We're making French onion soup," Nessie said proudly. "Miss Angela asked me to grate the cheese."

I looked at the mess on the prep table and bit back a grin. I could see Angela shaking her head ruefully out of the corner of my eye.

"It must be very useful for her to have a reliable assistant," I said. "Shall I help as well?"

Nessie eyed me for a moment. "Do you know how?" she asked.

"Why don't you show me?"

"All right!" Nessie pulled me to the table and entered into a long-winded explanation of proper box grater technique. As she instructed me on how to avoid finger injury, I met Alice's gaze and we grinned at one another.

"I'll take your suitcase up to your room," she said over Nessie's head. "We can have the grand tour after you're done here."

Alice was back by the time Nessie and I had finished. Angela, slowly pouring broth into the pot, dextrously stretched out a foot to hook it around a chair and drag it over to the stove for Nessie to stand on.

"There's really nothing to do but stir for a while," she told me, brushing off my offer to help. "Nessie and I can handle it."

Reassured I wasn't shirking my duty already, I allowed Alice to show me the rest of the servants' wing, including the laundry, servants' dining hall, and various storage rooms. She pointed out the servants' stairs as well, but we didn't go up. Instead, she led me back through the pantry and dining room to the entry hall.

"The other side is the drawing room," she said, pointing to the doors that flanked either side of the fireplace. "We don't use it much with so few of us in the house. But there's an open loggia off the back that's quite lovely in the summer."

I thought we would go up the main stairs then, but she waved me toward the front doors instead. "The library is through here," she said, pointing to the solid wood paneling on the wall.

I had just opened my mouth to ask what she meant when she pushed on the wall and it moved. My eyes widened.

"It's a bit titchy sometimes—you just press on the panel there and it pops out so you can get your fingers in the gap."

She pulled the door open and I peeked my head in. It was fully dark outside now, so despite the tall windows overlooking the driveway, I couldn't make out many details inside the room. But I could see the shadow of a desk and some overstuffed chairs.

"Here," Alice said, brushing past me, "let me get a light."

She flicked on a lamp and I had to bite my lip to stop from whimpering in excitement at the sight. Floor-to-ceiling books on two full walls with a charming ladder to reach the top, plus another fireplace opposite the most beautiful stained glass windows I could imagine.

"I take it you're a big reader?" Alice asked as I rushed forward to browse the titles.

"Oh, yes," I murmured.

"You'll get along well with the master of the house, then."

"They're your husband's?" I had to rip my gaze away from the spines to look back at her.

"Oh, no!" she laughed. "Jasper and I don't live here—I'm just helping my brother get things settled. Most of these books are his."

I frowned, trepidation seeping in. The details of this situation were turning out to be quite different from what I'd imagined, and I was now realizing how few questions I'd asked before accepting the position.

Alice cocked her head to the side. "Did I not mention that?"

I shook my head—we'd talked about my qualifications, the expectations for Nessie's education, and of course about the girl herself. But I'd just assumed Alice would be my main employer; after all, she was the one who'd placed the advertisement and interviewed me.

Alice sighed and pinched the bridge of her nose. "Oh dear," she muttered. "Forgive me, I spoke with so many people in such a short span of time, I must have forgotten who I told what!"

She sunk into one of the overstuffed roll-arm chairs and motioned for me to take the other.

"My brother Edward is taking Nessie on as his ward," she began. "He's her…" She looked up, as though searching for a word in the back of her mind. "Well, I'm not really sure what the proper term is for it, actually," she said finally, "but we've just been saying uncle to keep it simple."

"Doesn't that make her your niece as well?"

"Not by blood," Alice explained. "Edward, our brother Emmett, and I were all adopted by Carlisle Cullen and his wife, Esme—none of us are from the same family, originally. But Nessie is related to Edward's birth family in some convoluted way. I think his grandfather and her grandmother were half-siblings or something along those lines. So a second cousin thrice removed? Or is that a third cousin…"

She tapped her lip with a thoughtful finger, trying to grasp the half-remembered details, then waved her hand as though brushing away the issue. "Regardless," she continued, "poor Nessie was recently orphaned. Her mother died when she was born, and she lost her father quite suddenly just before Christmas. Edward was the closest relative that could be found."

My heart clenched and my throat tightened as I thought of my own father. "How terrible," I murmured.

"Yes, it truly is," Alice said sadly. "When his lawyer got hold of him, Edward didn't hesitate, of course. He went straight to Pennsylvania to sort it all out. He stayed there for a month to deal with all the legal details and get to know her so the transition might be easier. My husband and I came here to set up the house before they arrived, and I've stayed on to make sure she's settled."

I felt myself worrying my lip again and forced myself to stop. "How long has she been here?"

"Not quite three weeks," Alice replied. "She's done quite well with all the upheaval, really." She lowered her voice, despite the three very thick walls separating us from the girl in question. "I don't mean to speak ill of the dead, but I get the impression her father was not a particularly…steady presence in her life." She sent me a sad smile. "She was quite close to her nanny there. Edward did try to entice her, but the woman is recently engaged and her fiancé couldn't make the move."

"Poor girl," I breathed. To be taken so far from everything you knew…

"Still," Alice continued, "my brother is quite determined to give her a good life. He knows what it's like to lose your family."

"We have that in common."

I'd spoken without thinking and I stiffened as the words left my mouth, but the instant understanding in Alice's warm eyes soothed me. Of course, I realized—she'd said she and her two brothers had all been adopted. She, too, had lost her parents once.

I cleared my throat. "Well, I'm glad she's here with you all," I said. "She seems like a lovely girl."

Alice's face brightened. "Oh, Bella, she really is," she assured me. "You're going to love her."

The surety in her voice felt like a prophecy being spoken into existence. I was beginning to believe this position might actually work out, as I'd been so desperately hoping it would. But there was still one niggling anxiety that I couldn't quite ignore…

"And…my employer?" I asked. "Your brother. What's he like?"

For an instant, something flashed in Alice's eyes, but I couldn't be sure it wasn't the lamp flickering.

"Oh, Edward's a dear," she said, expression already back to normal. "A fair bit quieter than me, but then again, most people are!" She winked at me with a laugh.

"He is often gone for business though—as he is now—so you'll spend more of your time with Nessie and Angela," Alice continued. "And young Ben, maybe. He's in charge of the grounds, so not as much in the house, but Nessie's taken a shine to him, and he to her."

Without warning, she slapped her hands lightly down on her silk-clad knees, effectively ending the conversation. "Come on, let me show you upstairs."

Alice stood up from the armchair and turned on her heel without waiting to see if I'd follow. I scrambled after her, still picturing the look in her eye when I'd asked about her brother.

The second-floor tour was brief. Alice took me up the front stairs, which deposited us in a gracious landing with a hall at either side of the far end.

"All the bedrooms in this hall have their own bath," she began. "This is the Blue Room, where Carlisle and Esme like to stay, the Little Room, and Edward's room to the left." She pointed down the corridor to each in turn. "Green Room straight ahead—that's my favorite."

She took me down the right hall, pointing at doors as we passed. "Stairs to the third floor are behind that door—the nursery, sewing room, Edward's study, and two more guest rooms are up there. That door is a closet and next to it, the Red Room. Then Nessie's here, in the Willow Room."

Alice nudged the door to Nessie's room open to allow me a peek. The room was clearly named for the large mural of a weeping willow over a stream in soft greys, greens, and blues on the wall by the canopy bed. Two large windows with cushioned bench seats overlooked the lawn behind the house.

"She's expected to make her bed every morning and keep it tidy herself, but Angela does clean once a week," Alice said as she swung the door closed again to continue down the hall to the servants' wing.

Separated from the rest of the second floor by a sharp turn and a step down, the servants' corridor lacked the rich paneling and decorative accents of the main hall. "There's four rooms down here, plus the bath and the linen closet," Alice explained. "I put your things in the biggest room here—it's closest to the bathroom too. But they're all free so you're welcome to swap if you like."

The door of the room she indicated was ajar, the lights on, and I peered inside. It was slightly spartan, especially compared to Nessie's, but comfortable. The wide-plank pine floors were topped with a knotted rug. A small closet and airing cupboard flanked the door, with a single bed and dresser against the adjacent wall. Opposite the bed was a dressing table equipped with a mirror and a chipped wash basin. My suitcase rested against the wall beneath a leaded glass window that overlooked the front drive, dressed with lace curtains.

"This is perfect," I said, meaning it. This would be the first time since my father died that I would have a room all to myself.

Alice beamed. "Wonderful. Did you arrange for a courier to bring your trunk with the rest of your things or is it coming by train? I can arrange for someone to fetch it—"

Seeing my flush, Alice paused, searching my face.

"No, that won't be necessary," I mumbled. I had no trunk; all my worldly possessions fit in the beat-up cardboard suitcase.

"Of course," she said, graciously skimming over my shame. "Now, as I said, we're not a very formal household—" she grinned conspiratorially "—so we don't do uniforms for the staff here. However, there are some aprons and coats and cold-weather things in the hall closet that you're welcome to use. And the sewing room upstairs has whatever you might need for mending and alterations."

Alice hesitated for a moment, head cocked slightly to the side as she considered me. "And Bella…do let me know if there's anything you need—anything at all." She gave me a serious look. "I meant what I said when we met in the drive. I'd like to be a friend to you."

Despite my embarrassment, I found myself smiling. "Thank you, Alice," I murmured. "I will."

"Good." She nodded her pretty head decisively, as though there were no doubt in her mind that I would do as she said. "Oh drat," she said, suddenly looking out the window, "that's Ben getting ready to take Angela home." I glanced out—an old Model T sat in the service drive along the sunken kitchen yard, headlights cutting through the dark. "Excuse me, I have to catch them before they go—Edward left me their pay."

And then Alice was gone, and I was alone with my thoughts for the first time since I arrived.

Her casual mention of her brother brought me back to our conversation in the library. She'd given me just the barest glimpses of Nessie's guardian, my employer. A quiet man, and one who'd known loss. A lover of books. Compassionate, with an obvious sense of duty—after all, he'd taken in an unknown young girl without a second thought, solely because she needed him. All good signs, I thought.

But then there was that strange moment, the look I was sure had passed over Alice's doll-like face when I asked what he was like.

Edward Cullen, I repeated silently, turning the name over in my mind like a stone to examine every edge. Was there something Alice had left unsaid? Or was the moment I thought I'd seen was just a product of my anxiety?

Either way, I was sure to find out soon enough.

Author's Note: I'm basing Culwoode Hall off of Thornewood Castle in Tacoma, WA, which was built in the early 1900s using parts of the interior of an English manor house and the exterior of a Welsh castle, dismantled and shipped to Washington piece by piece.

I've obviously moved the house to the Forks area and I'll be tweaking the history, layout, interior, and grounds slightly, but overall, you can look up Thornewood to get a solid feel for the setting of this story.

I'm using the original floor plan as my baseline for the first and second floors (available on Google Images if you search "Thornewood Castle floor plan," it's the one attributed to "Cutter and Malmgren, Arch'ts" in the top right), and have invented the third floor wholesale since that's not included in the architectural sketch.