Chapter Twenty-Nine
ELODIE
The roar of Declan’s engine echoed long after the red Ferrari vanished down the drive, under the arbour of trees. I stood for a moment beneath the moon-soaked archway of Thornhill, the chill clinging to my skin like a second coat.
Alistair was already waiting with the door open, his face as still as ever. He didn’t say a word as I passed him, but I felt his gaze press lightly against my back, like the brush of cobwebs. Inside, the manor was quiet. Not the comforting hush of rest, but a silence that listened.
I climbed the stairs slowly, each step a dull drumbeat of exhaustion. The weight of the night draped heavy over my shoulders, pressing into the hollow of my chest. Questions swirled like smoke—about Declan, about Varden, about Lilian and my mum, about the boy in the tunnels and the rotting sheep—
I didn’t have the strength to chase them anymore.
All I wanted was the warm solitude of my room. A bath. A blanket. Maybe silence that wasn’t quite so sharp.
But when I opened my bedroom door, Myra sat on the edge of the bed with a book on her lap, her fingers tangling between the pages and her face hidden by a curtain of caramel coloured curls.
The quiet I had longed for vanished. As if sensing my arrival, she looked up at me, blinked once, then closed the book with a soft snap, her eyes wide like a scared fawn’s.
“I thought you’d be back later,” she said, as though it would excuse her presence.
I lingered in the doorway, my hand still on the knob, unsure whether to enter or turn back around.
“I’m sorry,” she added more quietly, standing with the faint flicker of guilt in her eyes.
“I was only curious about the book. I didn’t touch anything else. ”
I stepped into the room but remained silent. It felt wrong, violating, finding her there.
“I only read the tales,” she went on. “The one with the death—it was a bit sharp, wasn’t it? Sudden, I mean.”
I loosened my scarf from around my neck, my fingers stiff as I draped it over the chair at my desk.
I remembered the one she was talking about.
Where the Girl Inked with Magic had taken fate into her own hands and killed the Monster after it had viciously killed the man she loved.
Another tale that reminded me of Agnes’ story in the Tome of Fates.
“I think it was real,” I said at last, my voice thin. “Her revenge felt honest.”
Myra nodded slowly. “And what do you think of the poems?”
My brows knit together. “Poems?”
“There’s a collection of rhymes and poems at the back.”
I’d read the book twice, I would’ve noticed if there were any poems.
Suddenly she began to sing a soft melody, her voice like silk in the wind.
Twelve girls dancing across a hill,
Their hairs like fire as the wind joins.
Twelve girls dancing on top of a hill,
Picking poppies as they sing.
Twelve girls sitting low on the grass,
Their tears are dancing, instead of their legs.
Twelve girls burning high on the stakes,
Their eyes are dancing, across the hill.
The words sent a shiver rippling across my skin. I took the book gently from her grasp, scanning the page she’d been reading. The rhyme was eerily reminiscent of the Tale of the Twelve Women—and the cadence of the song… it was familiar.
My mum used to sing in that same lilting tune. I flipped through the unfamiliar silver-edged pages tucked into the back of the book, until one title caught my eye.
Who on the hill lived behind the thorns,
Hiding, grinding, and never smiling?
The Great Monster, Oh,
Behind rot and moss,
One pair of amber orbs would watch,
Watch, watch, watch.
There was a little girl, living in the vale,
Who would ask, and ask,
“Papa, mama, please, why are we afraid?”
But the answer was always, hush.
Hush, hush, hush,
Be careful little girl,
The Monster’s always up,
Hiding, grinding, and never smiling,
The night is on her way,
Consuming the day,
But the little girl sits still
On the windowsill.
And watch, watch, watch,
On the next morning,
When papa and mama wakes
The little girl is, gone.
Gone, gone, gone,
And when night comes again,
The people in the vale scream,
As two pair of eyes,
From behind rot and moss,
Watch, watch, watch.
A Monster, on the hill,
Lived all alone,
Hiding, grinding, and never smiling,
Until the little girl,
joined it up there, and was,
Gone, gone, gone.
The Tale of The Great Monster and The Girl Inked with Magic. All of them, once stories, now nursery rhymes with a sinister heartbeat.
“Can you sing this one, too?” I asked, handing the book back.
Myra nodded, smiling faintly as she tucked a brown curl behind her ear. “My mum used to sing me rhymes like these all the time.”
She began again, softly, and a strange quiet fell over the room. The melody turned the air heavy. The small hairs on my arms rose. If I closed my eyes, I could see our small flat, my mother moving in the kitchen, her voice curling around the words as I traced the chessboard edged into the table.
“Do you want me to sing another?”
I startled. I was drawn into the memory so intensely I didn’t even hear her finish the song.
“That’s okay,” I murmured, the edges of it still clinging to my voice. “Thank you though.”
She rose, gently setting the book down on the bed. She was nearly at the door when something tugged at me.
“Myra.” Her name left my lips like a question. She turned back, arching a curious brow. I hesitated, then asked, “Have you ever heard the name Varden Aldridge?”
Her head tilted slightly, her brows drawing together in thought. I watched her closely, hope tingling the tip of my fingers.
“I can’t recall,” she said after a pause. “I’m sorry.” Her tone shifted, like she was elsewhere too, caught in a memory like I had been.
I nodded, and she sent me a tired smile.
“Sorry again,” she added, before slipping out the door and closing it behind her.
I peeled off my coat, brushing against the book with its sleeve. The pages flipped, and the poem it opened on its own, freezing me in place.
Four flowers grew beside each other on the Hill of Thorns,
Four flowers, each delicate and true.
Until one of them grew their thorns too long,
And it cut down the flower that was close.
When the flower fell on the frozen ground and broke,
One flower ignored, one laughed, and one thought.
Four flowers. It was foolish to even think about it, yet I couldn’t help but wonder if it was a reference to the Thornburys, the Marzouqs, the Lamonts, and the Aldridges. Four families, all connected. Three alive. One dead. Gooseflesh prickled along my skin.
One flower ignored, one laughed, and one thought.
I thought of the tale Preston and I read a little over a week ago. About the fourth family’s fall.
The wrath of something once divine caused the fall of the fourth family. The Aldridges were burned by their own allies who left nothing but ash in their wake.
So, who really took the life of the Aldridges? The Great Monster… or one of the three families?