Chapter Twenty-Six
Outside of the mansion, Alora hurried to keep up with the swift pace of Opulence’s head of management. Some distance ahead of them, William was being carried by several painted employees clad in crimson and gold. No black cloaks were to be found.
“He attempted an attack then,” Alora continued, holding out her reddened wrist that was sure to bruise.
“I honestly thought he might kill me. And all the while he kept accusing me of cavorting with Urchins, though I know nothing of them and never wish to. What should I do, Madam Feebledire? Should I relay all this to Master Merridon?”
At the mention of Merridon’s name, Madam Feebledire seemed to come to herself.
She stopped at the back of Opulence in a sudden motion, as if only now realizing how far they’d come—and who she’d come with.
“No. You were right to come to me. I will bring all of this before Master and allow him to decide how best to proceed. We don’t often have trouble like this, but we do have it.
” She tracked the distancing outline of William for a moment.
“You shouldn’t be back here. I don’t know why I allowed it from the start.
Go. Now, Miss Pennigrim. Finish your work if you must before you depart. ”
But Alora heard nothing of what she said as her attention had become transfixed on a cart being pulled through.
It came from one of the larger buildings at the back.
Maybe an infirmary. Or perhaps a home with multiple rooms; a home large enough to represent an Urchin captain.
A black horse pulled it, though she couldn’t tell at this distance if it was the one called Necros, and inside was the distinct outline of a body draped with a white sheet.
Who is that? Alora wanted to say but couldn’t.
What she did manage was: “Is that the fallen guard?”
“No,” said Madam Feebledire, and pursed her lips. “No, it’s not.”
A roaring filled Alora’s ears, her eyes straining to see.
She both wanted and didn’t want it confirmed.
She didn’t know what would be better. Then she decided neither would be, that nothing could make this better.
When a swath of black fabric fell from the edge, it took all her strength to remain standing.
She couldn’t fall to pieces. Not in front of Madam Feebledire.
Still, her next breath was loud and ragged. Enough that the older woman turned upon her with fierce eyes. “Go.”
Alora did. Ran, in fact. By the time she reached the stairs, she was sobbing like her heart had shattered, her hand reaching out to steady herself on anything and finding the textured stone of a specter wolf.
She recoiled with a choked cry, stumbling and nearly falling away from it. But it was the shock she needed.
Her sobs quieted behind clenched teeth, the sun drying tears against her cheeks, only to be replaced by new ones.
Opulence Mansion, this place, advertised itself as a creation of wonder and dreams. Alora could see its truth behind the facade now.
Its wonder was an illusion, hiding a toxic tincture that would keep you coming back, day after day, year after year.
And its dreams were only prettily disguised nightmares, ones that would leap and devour you the moment you didn’t look at them directly.
There was no escape from Opulence, not once you’d had a taste.
Poor Lennox, drowning herself every evening in a happy memory because she didn’t see a hope of making more.
The poor Urchin captain, dying in a fight forced upon him by a father who’d never cared for him.
Even William, as diabolical as his choices were now, was forged by the hand of Opulence and its creator.
Lonely Reginald. Sad Mr. Macaw.
The halls didn’t echo in Opulence, and the wind never ruffled the hedges.
She’d once thought of the mansion as something that defied natural existence—and it was.
Marshall Merridon had created something unnatural.
But unlike her rabbit, he’d done it purposefully, and he’d done it for all the wrong reasons.
She retrieved the rug from the abandoned wagon, her grip fierce and unyielding. Then she brought the wind.
***
It was an oddly satisfying accomplishment, watching the hundreds of candles snuff out.
Gaudy chandelier by gaudy chandelier, Alora allowed the wind to whistle and howl in her wake, until Opulence Mansion, likely for the first time in its existence, was cast into shadow.
She could hear doors being opened, investigating footsteps and confused voices, but she didn’t pause in her steps.
She continued on through the dark hall, oblivious to the burning in her arms and the ache in her heart.
She’d finish this blasted room if it killed her.
Door Twenty-five’s lamp burst to light upon her entrance.
She took in the scattered trim, the extra piece she’d conjured, and the blood on the floor.
She thought she might crack her teeth, her jaw clenched so hard.
She’d brought nails to attach the trim and glue for the rug; she didn’t use them now. Instead, she spun in a slow circle.
She inhaled deep, shaking out her hands all the while. Her head rolled, stretching her neck. “Don’t lose focus now. You can’t afford it.”
Merridon expects it.
She cleaned the floor. She pounded the trim. She smoothed the rug. And all the while, she wondered what Opulence would look like reduced to a pile of rubble.
Several hours later, Alora emerged from the Room of Desire, but she did so invisible.
She’d forgotten her original creation, so she fashioned herself a new one, though she spent more time on this garment than she had the one before.
The cuffs were silken, the trimmings the same, so that they brushed gently against her skin and didn’t itch.
The only downfall was she didn’t have Lennox here to tell her if its enchantment worked; she’d have to step out and hope for the best.
The hall had become overrun. Ladders extended impossibly high, from the floor to each chandelier, and atop each was perched a crimson-clad employee of Opulence with an overlarge matchstick. One by one, the candles were relit.
Alora listened for the wind, watched for its flicker in the flames, but it was gone, shut out by the front doors latched tight against it.
If she were in higher spirits, she might have smirked over what she’d done, but as it was, her heart felt so sick and her insides so filled with fury, that she couldn’t manage anything other than breathing.
She stepped out into the light.
Nobody glanced her way. Either she was deemed inconsequential, or she was truly invisible. She hoped desperately for the second. If she weren’t and did happen to run into another soul wishing to speak with her, she thought her own would wither and die. It barely hung on even now.
She weaved among the ladders, noting their rungs were coated in gold and they’d only two feet on the floor. How they remained upright without any support was a mysterious enchantment in itself; they weren’t supported by anything at the top.
She had two days left. Two days in which to gather everything she needed to furnish the room and complete her contract.
She knew she could do it. Really, though, she had no other choice.
She needed to supply Merridon with her receipts for reimbursement, and she couldn’t very well do that if she imagined them all into existence.
It would be a very long night, and a very long day tomorrow. So much would need transported—oh.
“Damn it all.” Alora, realizing her mistake, slapped her palm against her mouth.
She’d not meant to speak aloud. She glanced around, but everyone was too high and too concentrated to pay her unattached voice any mind.
For the first time, she was thankful for the strange corridor and its inability to echo.
She would need the irritable horses and the blasted, stupid wagon, and a driver for it all. Damn Merridon and his cumbersome rules! Now she must search out the crotchety Madam Feebledire again and have yet another joyous interaction where she’d be made to feel like an insect being swatted.
Alora headed toward the nearest door hidden beneath stairs, Door Three, to remove her coat, when she saw the subject of her chagrin step from the shadow.
Madam Feebledire appeared more resigned than usual, her fierce countenance replaced with something more akin to weariness.
She moved toward the mansion’s entrance, where Alora thought she would leave.
However, the head of management paused there, and with a deep sigh, pivoted to her right.
Madam Feebledire knocked three times upon Door Zero.
The door swung in, and Alora heard, “Marshall. I think we need to speak of your son.”