Chapter 4 #2
I stand there for a long moment, shivering even after the cold drains from the room.
When my legs finally stop trembling, I wander toward the bed where the emerald-colored winter clothes have been laid out.
The garments are nothing like the rough wool and patched coats from home.
These are beautifully made. Thick, soft fabrics stitched with golden thread.
Even the gloves are trimmed with tiny beads that catch the firelight.
They are worth more than our entire farm.More than everything my father and I ever owned.
My jaw tightens as outrage rises in my chest. Luceran threatens my father, threatens to let him starve or freeze if I displease him, yet he has clothes like this hidden in a wardrobe he does not even use. Clothes so fine they could feed a village for a year.
He could have spared my father. Given us more time, even forgiven our debt. He could have helped without asking for my life in return.
Then I remember. He is Fae. Fae cannot be trusted. Fae are wicked.
My hands shake as I pull on the dress, then the coat, then the gloves. I braid my red hair over one shoulder. When everything is finally in place, I take a steadying breath.
I will survive this. I have no choice but to survive this. I step into the corridor.
The Fae female is waiting for me, hands clasped behind her back as her eyes sweep over my new clothes.
She inclines her head.
“Come,” she says. “I will show you the castle.”
We move quickly through the corridor, her steps light and swift while I nearly jog to keep up. Once again, I notice the empty spaces on the walls, faint rectangular shadows where portraits once hung.
“Where are the paintings that were here?” I ask, breath short as I hurry after her.
She does not slow. She does not look at me. Her voice floats back over her shoulder.
“Lord Frostwyn ordered their removal.” A clipped exhale escapes her. “All portraits of Lady Frostwyn were taken away.”
I swallow hard. That makes sense. Why keep reminders of a wife you murdered? A flash of my dream sparks behind my eyes, of ice cracking, of sinking, of Luceran watching.
“I know what you are thinking,” the female says sharply as she turns a corner.
I rush to follow, but when I step around the corner she is already there, standing perfectly still. I skid to a halt before crashing into her. We stand inches apart, her bright blue eyes boring through me.
“You are one of those humans who believes Lord Luceran murdered her, are you not? His staff too?” She tips her head toward the nearest window, toward the frozen lake stretching out in the distance. “Out there.”
A lump like a rock lodges in my throat. I shake my head too quickly. “No. Of course not.”
Her smirk is small and cutting, a gesture that feels uncomfortably familiar. “Does he frighten you, child?”
I force my spine straight, lifting my chin higher than I feel. “Nothing frightens me.”
She laughs softly at that, a sound warm in tone but cold in meaning.
“Maybe you should be frightened. Maybe you should believe the things you hear.” She leans close, her breath brushing my cheek.
“This place will be the end of you, just as it was the end of her.” Her gaze sharpens. “They should never have dug so deep.”
The cold in the corridor is not what makes me shiver. Her heavy stare holds me in place, each word sinking into my skin like fangs. I cannot look away. I cannot move. I feel like glass about to crack.
Then she steps back, her expression shifting into an unsettling smile, as if the moment before never happened.
“What was I saying?” She taps her chin lightly. “Right. I will show you where you may go, and what you must never approach.” She glances toward the tall windows, toward the pale sky beyond. “It is nearly afternoon. I must leave before dusk if I hope to make it home before the cold worsens.”
The tour is relentless. She moves as though she has walked these halls her entire life, and perhaps she has. I cling to every direction, every warning, every sharp turn.
We pass under a low archway into a narrow stone corridor that opens into a long galley. Counters carved from dark granite line the walls, and iron pots hang unmoving in the cold air. She gestures without stopping.
“The galley. This is where all meals are prepared.”
Next she leads me into a cavernous dining hall. A long, narrow table stands at its center, the wood gleaming beneath the thin shafts of light slipping through frost-clouded windows. Only one chair sits at the head.
“This is where Lord Frostwyn dines,” she says. Her tone is matter-of-fact, but she does not step inside. She simply points, then continues down a smaller hallway. She stops beside a modest door and taps it with two fingers.
“And this is where you will eat. Alone.”
The room inside is little more than a stool and a tiny table pushed against the wall. No windows. No fire. Just a space for someone who is meant to be unseen.
My stomach twists, but she is already moving.
“The kitchen is staffed only part of the week,” she continues. “The rest of the time, you will prepare and serve his meals yourself. Ensure they are warm when he demands them. He may revel in the cold, but he does not tolerate cold food.”
Of course he doesn’t.
We move on, deeper into the castle. She pushes open a pair of tall, dust-filmed doors, revealing what once must have been a grand ballroom.
Now it is silent and vast, light filtering through cracked stained glass, the colors warped.
The floor is scuffed where dancers must have spun long ago, and frost has crept up the columns like blooming vines.
“It was beautiful once,” she murmurs, almost to herself. “Filled with music and warmth and celebration. But those days are gone.” She turns away.
When we walk next to a tall line of windows, she gestures casually at the expanse beyond.
“The rose garden.”
I suck in a breath. I remember it from last night. Luceran standing barefoot among the roses, snow curling around his ankles, frost clinging to the thorned vines as though they drank the cold.
We continue past the glass, and just beyond the garden we reach a large, ominous door. Something about it makes the fine hairs along my neck rise. I pause, drawn toward it, and reach for the handle.
“What is that?” I ask.
Before my fingers can touch the metal, the Fae female snatches my wrist with stunning speed. Her grip is iron. Her eyes sharpen to points.
“Who do you think you are, girl? Opening doors in the home of a Fae lord?” Her voice drops into something low and dangerous. “That place is not for you. Do not dare venture inside.”
She releases me with a flick, as if I burn her.
“Lord Luceran will be furious and wrathful if you do.”
My pulse thrums in my throat. I nod quickly and step back from the door.
She turns without another word and climbs a dark spiral staircase. The steps creak beneath us, and the air grows colder the higher we go. At the top she opens a smaller door and ushers me inside.
The room beyond is cramped and lit by a single, narrow window. A desk sits in the center, littered with papers, scrolls, and bits of charcoal. Shelves line the walls, stacked high with files and ledgers, none of them labeled in any way I understand.
“This,” she says, gesturing to the cramped space, “is your workroom. You will organize his records, manage the household accounts, as well as document tax payments, and file every document he leaves for you. Miss nothing. Lose nothing. Lord Frostwyn will not tolerate incompetence.”
I look at the sea of papers, the dust, the sheer chaos. But it is paradise compared to where I thought I would be going.
“I am not working in the mines?” I ask.
She narrows her eyes. “Yes, I was surprised too. But Lord Luceran has decided you are better used here, for now.”
The Fae female gives me one last assessing look.
“If you have any questions, I have no time for the answers,” she says. “You will have to figure it out yourself. I will prepare Lord Luceran's supper, but you will serve him tonight. Understand?”
I nod, still trying to comprehend the mountain of disordered papers in front of me.
She moves past me with little regard, her shoulder striking mine as though I am nothing but a draft in her way.
“Wait,” I call before she can shut the door.
“I said, no questions,” she groans.
“Your name,” I say quickly. “Surely you can tell me that.”
She exhales, shoulders dipping with something like reluctance. “I suppose. My name is Atilia.”
She starts to step out, fingers tightening around the door handle.
“Atilia,” I say again, and she groans louder this time.
“What now?”
“Is the cold truly the only reason everyone abandoned him?”
Her expression shifts. All the sharpness melts, leaving something tired and strangely vulnerable. It is as though no one has ever asked her this, but she has carried the answer for years.
“No, girl,” she says softly. “It was Lord Luceran who abandoned us.”
She turns and closes the door. The click is final.
Silence swells around me. I cross the cramped room, stepping over boxes and stray papers that litter the floor.
When I reach the narrow window, I press my hands to the cold stone and look out.
Snow falls in a thick white veil, obscuring most of the view, but in the distance I can still see the faint glow of lanterns near the mines.
I did not realize the mines were so close to the lake.
A stray gust pushes snow through the window frame, dusting my nose. I huff, then step back and collapse into the chair, taking in the room.
Whether Lord Luceran is a murderer or not cannot matter now.
What matters is making a dent in this mountain of work before dinner is served.