CLARA
Downstairs again, I manage to open some shutters. The moonlight looks gorgeous spilling through the stained glass. If I weren’t so uncomfortable in my wet boots, I’d be looking forward to seeing the effect sunrise has.
I make my way to the kitchen, marveling at the size of it.
It feels like my entire apartment could fit in here.
The hearth is enormous too—easily large enough to roast a wild boar, or whatever it was medieval kitchens roasted.
It looks like it was designed for a staff big enough to rival Downton Abbey, if Downton Abbey took decorating advice from Black Plague Weekly.
Copper pots hang from overhead hooks, but the preparation counters are coated in a very thin layer of dust. It doesn’t look like anyone’s cooked here for a while. I guess it would have been too much to ask to find a feast. It’s a good thing I’m not hungry yet.
The next room is a great hall straight out of Game of Thrones, with a long table surrounded by heavy carved chairs.
Like the kitchen counters, the table has a thin layer of dust. I drag my finger over it, then pause when I get to the head of the table.
Frowning, I examine my fingers. No dust here. How odd.
Massive tapestries decorate the walls. I let my flashlight illuminate them one after another.
They’re all bloody battles depicting men in barbaric armor.
Then there’s a massive banner, threadbare and faded, with a crowned wolf in the center.
The animal’s eyes are an unnerving blue so bright that even time hadn’t managed to dull them.
I feel like the wolf’s gaze is following me. I take a step to the left. Then to the right.
“Creepy,” I mutter, tearing my eyes away from the predator on the banner.
The other wall showcases an assortment of massive weapons. I played enough MMORPGs to recognize a great sword, a polearm, a tower shield, and a war hammer.
I whistle, stepping closer. “These must be worth a fortune!”
Something crashes in the distance, and I yelp, my hand going to my chest. Did they find me? But no, they went the other way.
“Hello?” I call out tentatively.
There’s no reply, just silence. Maybe it was a weasel or something? Has to be it.
Swallowing hard and trying to get my heart back under control, I continue exploring the hall. A great hearth dominates one side of it, and it’s big enough to stand in. Not that I’d want to do that—the gargoyles decorating it freak me out too much.
Shuddering, I move on.
Behind the great hall are servant quarters—I can tell by the old iron buckets and mops, linen closets, and tiny rooms. There’s more dust here, even some cobwebs. Whoever’s been here last clearly hasn’t bothered to take care of this area.
I bet the largest of these rooms belonged to the head servant. There’s a ledger on the bed, and my fingers itch to open it. It could give me some clues.
“Please don’t fall apart,” I mumble, pulling it closer.
Dust swirls when I open it, but the pages are surprisingly well-preserved.
I can’t read the first pages; the ink has faded, and besides, it looks like it’s written in Latin.
The next pages seem to be inventories. Livestock.
Grain stores. Wine. A ridiculous number of chickens.
I flip ahead until a section catches my attention.
Lord Aldric of Blackthorn Keep.
Born 1298. Cursed 1329.
I blink. “Well, if that isn’t ominous.”
The hair at the back of my neck stands up, and I glance behind me. No one’s there. Of course there isn’t.
Moving on from the cursed Lord Aldric of Blackthorn Keep—and I suppose I have a name for this castle now—I find more people. This time it’s servants.
Hans, steward. Gertrud, cook. Johann, stablemaster. Elsa, laundress. Friedrich, groundskeeper. Dozens more follow. Every few pages, another generation appears, children replacing parents, new names taking old positions.
Over the centuries, the handwriting changes, but the servant records continue. The household gradually shrinks, the pages becoming less crowded. Fewer names, fewer positions. First, there’s no more armorer. Then falconer. Then stablemaster. It’s like the castle didn’t need them anymore.
By the nineteenth century, there are only a handful of entries on each page. Then just Greta Bauer, housekeeper, and Konrad Bauer, groundskeeper. The list ends there.
“So the castle had staff until recently,” I murmur to myself. “But who did they serve?”
I keep turning the pages, wondering if I missed something. Nope. I don’t see any noble lineage to explain the need for a staff.
“Curiouser and curiouser.”
Leaving the ledger behind, I peek into the other rooms. They’re all in worse shape, clearly having gone unoccupied for decades. There are no tapestries in this hallway, no noble family’s banners or portraits. There’s nothing else to pique my interest, so I move on.
I’m going to have to find some blankets that aren’t musty and moth-eaten, and my best chance is the master bedroom. If anyone’s still coming to this castle—and the lack of dust and cobwebs suggests they are—then that’s where they’d stay.
Determined, I head back to the great hall in search of stairs. As I round the corner, the beam of my flashlight catches on something blue. I do a double take, my heart in my throat.
“Hi?” I whisper shakily. “Is someone here?”
Nothing. Maybe it was a trick of the moonlight through stained glass windows? It has to be that. Far more likely than the wolf with blue eyes coming to life to haunt me.
I retrace my steps back to the entrance, but this time, instead of turning right, I walk straight.
And there, behind a towering archway: a grand staircase leading to the upper floors.
I flash my light at the huge frames hanging on the walls above the stairs.
A lot of the paintings faded with age and deteriorated, but they seem to depict more bloody battles or nobles sitting around enormous tables.
I pause under the tallest frame. It’s a portrait of a man painted from behind and a bit to the side.
He’s wearing a dark old-fashioned suit and tall boots, his raven-wing black hair is combed back and gleaming blue, and he seems to be glowering at something out of view.
But there’s no denying the handsome lines of his profile, the strong brow, the razor-sharp jawline.
I whistle softly, wishing I could make the painted man turn. I’m dying to know the color of his eyes under that furrowed brow.
The more I look at the painting, though, the less some details make sense. Is his ear mutilated? And who poses for a portrait with their back turned to the artist?
I glance at the tiny brass plaque. Lord Aldric Blackthorn, 1817.
Is Aldric a family name, then? Passed down through generations?
So many questions and no one around to give me the answers. Then again, if someone were around, they’d probably kick me out. Probably best I live in ignorance.
The air changes once I reach the landing of the upper floor. It smells more alive, like it’s moving through the rooms. And there’s a scent… something woodsy. Maybe there’s a draft somewhere?
I peek into rooms as I walk down the hallway.
There’s a sitting room I’d love to explore when my socks aren’t wet, a small library that probably has the most interesting books, and what seems to be a lord’s dressing room.
And maybe someone is turning this castle into a museum or something, because the clothes in here are remarkably well preserved.
There are more tailored suits like the one the man—Lord Aldric—wore in his portrait. Coats, waistcoats, cravats, gloves. Shirts with high collars and tall riding boots. It’s like walking into the past with each armoire. Tunics, leather pants, and even armor kept clean and shiny.
I caress the fabric of a white, long-sleeved shirt. It’s more pleasant than I expected and… that woodsy smell. It’s coming from the clothes, not a breeze from the outside. Could it be fabric softener? I need the name of it, that’s for sure.
I step out of the dressing room and resume my search for a master bedroom. The next few doors are closed and locked, but I’m not so curious that I’d resort to vandalism just yet.
Finally, I reach an unlocked bedroom. The first thing I notice is the enormous bed. Weren’t medieval beds supposed to be small? I’ve been in enough restored castles to know this is an anomaly. There’s room there for three people and a medium-sized horse.
My eyes travel the length of the carved bedposts up and up. The ceiling is tall, vaulted like a Gothic church. The walls are bare, no frames, no mirror.
It’s like whoever sleeps here isn’t the same person as the one who decorated the rest of the house.
But there is a giant fireplace—and it has firewood.
“That’s a win,” I say to myself as I scurry over. There’s a chair by the hearth, the leather worn smooth, and a table beside it with a stack of books. Classics.
Since the fire is conveniently already stacked with kindling underneath, I just need to find something to light it with. Hopefully I’m not about to have a crash course in lighting a fire with flint, though. Ah, there—matches.
What are the chances I find a steaming bubble bath too? Probably slim to none; this place doesn’t look like it’s seen electricity outside of a thunderstorm.
I light the fire easily, then immediately have an alarming thought—I pray the chimney’s clear and I’m not going to either burn this ancient castle to the ground or give myself carbon monoxide poisoning.
I stare at the flames for a couple of minutes, hardly daring to breathe.
When nothing scary happens, I sit back on the carpet and start taking my waterlogged boots off.
They hit the ground one by one, and I unlace them so the dry, warm air can get to the soles.
Then I peel off my socks and wring them before placing them near the fire.
Finally, I lean back on my hands and wiggle my toes in front of the fireplace.
“That’s what I’m talking about.”
The fire’s too cozy, and I’m yawning in no time.
Not wanting to fall asleep so soon in case Marco and his men find me, I look around for a distraction.
Since the room is so bare, my only option is the small stack of classics on the small table by the fireplace.
I pick up War and Peace, noting the ribbon marking the spot where the reader left off.
I’m sure they won’t mind.