Becoming Northwood, Vol. I

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From the Desk of Lord Northwood

June 6th, Some friendships blur muse and mirror; some loves arrive with tea, not roses or thorns.

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Prologue: On the Matter of Voice

As I’ve alluded to in previous entries, the purpose of Notes from Northwood was never simply to gossip or reminisce, though I’ve never shied from either pastime. It was, in its earliest conception, a mirror held to myself—a way to trace the evolution (or perhaps erosion) of my own voice. For a time, I feared I had misplaced it entirely. To find it again, I must begin where I first learned to use it: in conversation, in contradiction, and, most fatally, in companionship.

This is a tale of old companions, of sleepless nights, of borrowed brilliance, and near ruin. These names may seem unfamiliar at first: the Greenvale twins, the ever-charming Jack, and the tireless Lady Addison Cross. But I assure you—they are closer to you than you might think. They’ve lingered in many lives, often unnoticed, sometimes adored, occasionally abhorred. This is how they lived in my world—how they danced through the halls of my memory and left their perfumes and bruises behind.

Each one entered my life differently, yet all took up residence within me. And for a time, I was never alone. Not truly. Not even in silence.

These are the affairs that shaped me—or very nearly unmade me. Perhaps, in writing about them, I’ll remember who I was before they arrived.

Act I: The Greenvales of Ashbourne

There are certain families around whom the entire countryside seems to turn—whether by myth, merit, or sheer magnetic force. The Greenvales were such a clan.

Lady Jane Greenvale (née Maryweather) had long been whispered about over tea and tonics. An herbalist by practice, a mystic by instinct, and a hostess with more tinctures than tantrums. She spoke in half-truths and riddles, often seen gathering roots at dusk or scribbling dreams into weathered journals. Her husband, Lord Caleb Greenvale, was her opposite: silent as stone and thrice as rooted. He spent his days in the fields, sleeves rolled, brow damp, forever experimenting with herbs that might soothe the soul or silence it altogether.

But it was the twins—Silas and Ivy—who stole the breath from every ballroom and the quiet from every countryside.

Silas was my first great love, whether he knew it or not. I met him on a winter’s day, standing with Edward O’Callan in a graveyard, then wandering across a frozen lake beneath the cage of an uprooted tree. It was mythic from the start. He was wonder in human form—artistic, intelligent, otherworldly. He believed the sky was the work of a painter forever chasing perfection, setting each failed attempt aflame. That was sunset. That was sunrise. That was him.

Silas was electric—dazzling and exhausting in equal measure. One couldn’t speak to him without being swept into a conversation about poetry, painting, or whatever invisible concert had most recently captured his ear. He flitted from one fascination to the next with the intensity of a wildfire and the attention span of a butterfly. But gods, was he alive. He made me feel more alive, too. He made me write. He overstimulated me, yes, but I adored the chaos of him. Silas sparked a restless fire inside me, igniting ideas I didn’t know I held and letting me ramble across subjects without shame. 

It began not with a kiss, but with a vow forged in silence.

He reached for my wrist as one might cradle a relic unearthed from a forgotten chapel—delicate, trembling with reverence, and yet charged with the promise of ruin. The firelight spilled like molten gold behind him, tracing the sharp planes of his face and casting shadows that seemed to speak of saints and sinners alike. In that moment, he was less a man and more a cathedral fallen to dust—still magnificent in its decay, a ghost of grandeur haunted by quiet despair.

He made no haste. Instead, he unraveled me slowly, as one might decipher an ancient manuscript. I could feel his breath—a weighted prayer—stilling the very air between us, as if time itself dared not interrupt. When he finally descended upon me, it was not with the hunger of flesh, but with the solemnity of a penitent seeking absolution. Our union was sacrament, a sacred suffering pressed into flesh and bone. It was as though Heaven had fashioned me for no purpose other than to cradle his pain.

Afterwards, his forehead found mine, cool and trembling, and he whispered—voice raw—“There is no redemption here—but still, I choose you.”

Yet over time, I wondered how much of my voice had become tangled with his: were my thoughts truly mine, or merely echoes of his monologues and metaphors? I never felt more myself, and yet I lost track of where I ended and he began.

Ivy was quite the opposite of Silas. Where he spun like a top, she swayed like a reed in a breeze—quiet, steady, and effortlessly calm. She moved in softly, always drifting alongside Silas at gatherings, never demanding attention but waiting patiently until you tired of everyone else. Thin and sleepy-eyed, she was always nibbling—her appetite delicate, as if she looked like she’d never eaten a thing. Her presence was a quiet warmth that made the world feel a little softer, like the hush of snow or a heavy velvet curtain drawn mid-conversation. With Ivy, my anxiety slipped off like a coat. She knew exactly what to say—soft-spoken but never insipid.

Her idea of a perfect evening was reclining beneath the oak trees of her family estate, listening to the wind with her head resting gently on your shoulder. Ivy was comfort incarnate—she slowed my breathing, soothed my thoughts, and brought a softness that felt like home. But she was content with very little. Her ambition stretched no further than her next nap, her next garden walk, or her next cup of warm tea.

It happened beneath the hanging wisteria, in the greenhouse where the air was thick with the scent of crushed thyme and whispered secrets.

She did not ask for permission. She merely looked, and the hem of her silk gown brushed my ankle like a dare. Ivy never moved like a mortal—she drifted, slithered, and wove herself through the fragile bones of my will.

When her mouth met mine, it was neither gentle nor kind. It was honey and thorns, sweet with menace. Her laughter was a dark melody along my collarbone as she unraveled me like a feast—hungry, impatient, inevitable. She pinned me beneath her, not with force, but with a quiet dominion that left no room for resistance.

“I am not in love,” she whispered, her fingers tracing delicate scratches along my skin. “I am in possession.”

Later, I did not sleep. I wilted.

 I’ve always been a napper, but Ivy perfected the art. I started sleeping at odd hours, drifting in and out of afternoons. She made stillness seductive. I didn’t notice how much of myself was being folded away. I wasn’t miserable—in fact, I was blissful—but I stopped moving. I stopped reaching. The hunger I once had dulled into a sort of smiling daze.

Silas set my edges aglow, lighting parts of myself I hadn’t dared to face—wild and restless—while Ivy softened those edges, wrapping me in a quiet warmth that both soothed and slowed me, blurring the line between comfort and complacency. Together, they balanced me in a way that felt both grounding and disorienting—like finding home in a shifting fog.

There was a time I saw the Greenvale twins nearly every day. Morning walks with Ivy—late-night salons with Silas. I couldn’t recall the last day I hadn’t sought one of them. They each brought me something vital—stimulation and sedation in a precarious balance. Yet neither was sustainable. Silas burned me out. Ivy dulled my edges. And I had no edges to spare.

Lady Jane once confided to me her concern that Silas would never settle, and that Ivy would settle far too easily. She was right on both counts. Their father, Lord Caleb, offered no interruption. His presence was always passive, though not unkind—a gentle hum in the background. In hindsight, I wonder if he represented something else altogether: a longing for peace that only ever hovered just out of reach.

Eventually, Silas didn’t so much leave as fade. My world shifted—rooms where he didn’t belong: conservative spaces, structured days, new ambitions. He thrived only in twilight and tangents, in dreams and unrestrained flights. For a while, I wondered who I’d be without him. But honestly, I don’t want to know that version of myself. Still, he’s the one I call when words won’t come, my favorite co-conspirator in creation. When he returns, the colors rush back, and the sky burns like it used to.

Ivy never yelled, never betrayed me. She simply did not want the same things I did. And love—gentle, quiet love—becomes a tether when you’re trying to fly. I could’ve done more. I should’ve done more. But I was curled next to her in quiet repose, letting hours drift away like steam from a teacup. Now, she visits on sleepless nights or when the world presses too hard—a balm, not a cure; a safehouse, never home. She helped me survive when I might’ve burned out completely, and for that, she’ll always have a place, just never the whole bed. (To be continued...)