Chapter Twenty-Five
ELODIE
Ilay on the hard mattress, staring up at the bed curtains above my head.
The delicate fabric swayed faintly in the cold breeze that slipped through the open window, but my skin burned as if fevered.
I rolled onto my stomach, dragging the still slightly dirty book closer on the crisp bedsheet.
My fingers traced the embossed title, though my thoughts were far away, spiralling through the unwelcome prospect of tomorrow night.
Declan Marzouq.
I was being forced to endure an evening with him—a stranger, no less. The idea of being confined to a car with him, relying on his good graces to drive me to god-knows-where, left me sickened. Trust him? I’d rather eat glass than trust a man.
I grimaced at the thought, chewing over ways to wriggle out of the situation. The idea of finding the chauffeur boy and demanding the car keys briefly crossed my mind, but the inheritance loomed too large a threat. Anything brash or defiant could cost me the future I longed for.
I moved to shut the window. The darkness from the other side of the frame seemed endless, the stars pale in the sky. I exhaled sharply, letting the storm of my thoughts settle as I sank back into the mattress. My fingers pressed into the cover of the book.
“I found it,” I whispered, looking around the room. The ornate wardrobe, the elegant swans, and small moths carved deep into the fireplace… The room stayed perfectly still. “Mum?”
Nothing. Disappointment numbed my limbs. Carefully, I opened it, the cover crackling beneath my fingers, brittle with age.
May 2, 1665.
Agnes arrived.
The handwriting was slanted, elegant, inked in a style I hadn’t seen in any other book.
The girl is small. Nine, she says. Quiet. She touches the walls when no one is looking, like she’s listening for something beneath the stone. She’s clever like that.
Her name is Agnes, and she has magic in her fingers.
I turned the page.
May 16, 1665.
Agnes’s second week.
She doesn’t cry. Not once. But she watches the sky too long for a child. I caught her today, fingers pressed to the windowpane. She said the stars hum at night.
She weaves fate in her sleep, I’m certain of it.
I leaned back against the headboard and slowly flipped through the book.
May 2, 1668.
Agnes’s third year.
Twelve now. The manor bends around her like a knee to a queen. Her magic is not only learned, it’s instinct. I watched her change a man’s thread without meeting him. He lives on, never knowing that death was waiting in his pocket for him.
April 15, 1673.
Agnes’s first love.
She’s seventeen now, and says she’s in love. It’s a foolish thing, tender, bright, doomed. She wants to leave. See the world with this man she barely knows… I warned her, in my way, but she doesn’t listen. I can see her fate flicker. I don’t like it.
I took a sip of the wild berry tea on my nightstand, the sweetness coating my throat.
May 17, 1673.
The boy had died. It was a necessity that needed to be done. Her hands are empty now, but her mind can focus again on what’s important. And love, it will find its way again when the time is right.
Today, she spared a woman’s death with a whisper. Rewrote the thread, gently, like combing snarls from hair. She didn’t smile once, but she had done it. She’s smart like that.
I turned the page, but found nothing besides emptiness.
My fingers lingered at the edge of the last sheet, as though something might still bleed through the parchment if I waited long enough.
But it didn’t. The quiet in the room settled like dust on old lace.
The candle’s flame painted the walls in trembling gold.
The rest of the book was hollow, like a story abandoned mid-breath.
I pulled the Tales of Thornhill into my lap and leafed through it, searching for a story that rang familiar. When I found it, my fingers stilled. The Tale of The Great Monster and The Girl Inked with Magic. I laid both books side by side on the mattress.
Could Agnes have been that little girl?
She weaves fate in her sleep.
My thumb traced a faint wrinkle in the Tome of Fates’ page.
Who had written this? The Great Monster, the books had said. But there was no real name, no signature, no explanation. Only that voice, measured and strange, like a god watching from behind glass.
And Agnes.
I couldn’t tell if I admired her or pitied her.
She was powerful. And power was dangerous. Especially for girls like us.
I closed the books, pressing the covers flat with my palms. The air felt thicker now, like the walls had narrowed, listening closely. My eyes drifted shut for a moment, and I stretched my neck, my muscles easing. I consumed the rest of the brew when I heard a loud thump.
I looked around, my chest heaving. Was I being paranoid again? This was an old house, and old houses had noises. Yet my hand slid under the pillow where my penknife rested. It was only the pipes, or the twins playing around, I told myself to calm my nerves.
But then it echoed again, a sound that wasn’t conjured by my taunting imaginations, as I tiredly drifted between sleep and waking.
Screeching, like claws sliding over the wall of the room next to mine.
I slid into my slippers and took hold of my knife, creeping closer to the bedroom wall in the dangling candlelight.
I moved past a painting of a black swan covered with moths, when something thumped next to my head.
I froze, before turning slowly to face the painting. The swan stared down at me with its small piercing eyes, and the hairs stood on the back of my neck. I skimmed over the ornate frame. Could this painting be one of the secret doors into the servant corridors?
I leaned closer, pressing my ear against the obsidian-coloured feathers. A low screeching sound came from the other side of the canvas and I drew back, my stomach twisting, adrenaline surging through my veins. But the pull of curiosity proved stronger than the fear clawing at my chest.
I remembered how Declan opened the painting when he showed me the secret corridor, and I decided it was best if I tried the same.
If someone was lurking on the other side of my wall, I wanted to know.
Lightly pushing the frame towards the wall, I held my breath and waited for the clicking sound of release. Except, it never came.
I took a step back, studying the frame. What was different? I moved along the wall, my eyes skimming every edge, floor to ceiling. If it wasn’t the painting then—
I stumbled over the clawed foot of the fireplace, landing on the rug.
I blew out a long breath, and pushed myself up, catching a glimpse of silver in the very back of the ornate hearth.
A small panel was set into the wall. I crawled in, sweeping the wood ash out of the way with my hands, then pressed it lightly.
It gave way with a soft click, falling back to reveal a black-mouthed hole.
I slowly rose and crossed the room, lifting the candle from the nightstand. Its flame wavered as I dropped to my knees and held it into the opening. The passage swallowed the light. I paused, listening.
A soft rustle stirred behind me, and I straightened, twisting around. The window had blown open, the curtains dancing like ghosts on strings.
But that wasn’t what made me freeze. It was the woman watching me. She stood beside the open window, her hair moving in the breeze, though her body stayed eerily still. Her eyes were locked on mine. Wide. Urgent. She didn’t speak, she just kept shaking her head.
My brows knit. “What?” I whispered, but she didn’t react.
Like she couldn’t hear me either.
I sighed and turned back to the fireplace. The ghost appeared out of thin air, her face so close to mine it was like her dread was being sewn into my skin. I stumbled back, my heart jumping into my throat. Her presence gloomed over the room, her head still shaking.
“I don’t know what you want,” I said in frustration.
Suddenly she froze and turned her head toward the fireplace. Then she looked back at me, her eyes wide. I swallowed.
“You don’t want me to go into the passages?” I asked, and she nodded, tiredly. I bit down onto my bottom lip, staring through her into the hole. “Why?” I asked, careful to keep my distance. I didn’t want to feel her bone aching cold on my skin.
She didn’t answer. Couldn’t, or wouldn’t.
I didn’t know. I slid past her, holding the candle into the void, before poking my head inside.
There was no one on the other side. I listened to my anxiety-crept heartbeat, the rational part of my mind screaming at me to go back to bed, pleading that I should let it be.
That I should listen to the ghost and block the hole with my dresser.
But my curiosity, relentless and insatiable, overpowered my reasoning.
I climbed inside, and when I glanced back, the ghost was already gone.
Alright, I turned back around, sizing the passageway. It looked the same as it did weeks ago, except for the dank stairwell that led deeper into the pitch-black.
Without further hesitation, I crept down the damp steps, watching the shadows dance over the stone walls surrounding me.
My breathing was sharp and shallow, misting in the frigid air as I walked further into the dark.
The stairs led me to an intersection. I raised the candle higher above my head to have a better look at the three tunnels and the wooden doors carved into the stone walls.
Oaks. According to my mum’s book, oak barks could be used to heal wounds and such, but these doors seemed anything but nurturing.
I shifted closer to one of them and twisted the forged doorknob, but it refused to budge.