A Dance With Death (The Three Bells Trilogy #1)

Chapter One

I long for the days before Death touched us, before he crooked one gnarled finger and dragged the ship to the bottom of the sea—and my sister’s heart right along with it.

With a lump in my throat, I unlock the door to our apothecary shop and enter, twisting back to chance a glance at Aven, but she keeps her eyes downcast as she follows me and our younger sister inside.

I used to believe nothing could break her—not the three of us losing our parents and our home, not being moved from place to place with nowhere to live and no one to love us, none of it—but I was wrong.

Aven is breaking more and more every day, every hour, every minute. And I don’t know how to mend her. I don’t know if she can be mended. She moves woodenly beside me, fully aware of how closely I’m watching her. But we both pretend that I’m not.

I’ve always understood our roles—we’ve played them well: Aven as the beloved and loving eldest, prone to mothering us; me, the rebel with a stubborn streak and smart mouth; Sélie, the darling baby.

Now everything is confused, even these labels we’ve placed on each other and ourselves.

My hands flutter like wounded birds, aiming to stroke down the hair around Aven’s pale forehead, but I drop them, uncertain if I should, if she wants anyone to touch her at all.

Every touch, every look, every encouragement seems to draw more and more grief out of her.

Right now, I think she’d prefer to be invisible, to sink into it and be left alone.

Well, that, I refuse.

Determined to keep myself—and thus her—together, I take a solid step forward, pushing myself into action, into this day.

The plan is simple, centering our energy around the routine of work—the blessed distraction of needing to be practical.

Taking my apron off the hook, I tie it tightly around my waist. Securing my thick, dark waves atop my head, I lock eyes with Sélie, her neat braid hanging in one long length.

At two, it trailed past her shoulders; at twenty, it nearly reaches the hem of her ankle-length skirts.

In unison, we give Aven reassuring smiles—her first day back at the shop since…

everything. She smiles in return, but it’s as if her mouth has forgotten how to work, the expression unnatural.

With a shallow breath, I head behind the long walnut counter.

Reaching into one of the bottom bins, I scoop up a handful of dried lavender buds and set them onto the clean marble countertop, sorting through the fragrant ingredient while Sélie flips the sign, keeping myself busy while I try to decide what to do.

For a few moments, I go hazy, letting the aromatic medley inside the shop guide my intentions: flowers, not just the lavender, but roses and primroses, geraniums, and dozens of other varieties.

Then there is musk, vanilla, raspberry, mint leaves, oat, orange zest, ground coffee.

And strawberries. Their scent haunts the air, impossible to shake—a constant reminder of Darius—his favorite because it was Aven’s.

“What today?” she asks as she joins me behind the counter. Her voice is steady though her sapphire blue eyes still hold that terrible pain. “Sachets? Perfume?” she lists, as if everything is normal. As if Sélie and I can’t tell her heart has been cleaved in two.

I humor her, answering, “Well, we’re running low on rouge.” I count the glinting gold compacts on one wooden display shelf. Three left. “My oils can wait.”

“I can do the rouge, Corliss,” Sélie offers across the white-walled room as she flicks her braid to the side to slip on her apron, tying it deftly around her slim waist. “I know that’s your least favorite.”

“Thank you, my love.” I smile in gratitude, and the two of us converse without words.

What can we give Aven to do? What will lift her spirits the most?

Before I can assign a task, the bell on the door rings and a cloud of lily perfume, mixed by my own hand, enters the shop.

Or rather, the woman behind the cloud does.

Loueva Maelin wears her corset so tight, her cleavage spills violently out the front of her green-striped dress.

She cools herself with an ornate fan trimmed in lace, though it’s more for show than necessity—it’s not hot.

Summer’s been lazy to come to The Pins, drifting in hesitantly, one toe in, one toe out, teasing us all on the daily.

“I need some lip color, dears. In a flash,” she says breathily, then mouths, Milton is waiting, as though there’s someone else in the shop besides us.

As if we’d care that she’s the tailor’s mistress and his puckered-mouth wife sits at home pretending not to notice their dalliance.

No need to whisper here. The Bell sisters know how to be discreet.

Loueva, not so much. She furrows her brow, and a soft, little whimper escapes her as she darts a pitying glance at Aven.

Immediately, I elbow my way around the counter, taking the lead so Aven can stay behind and away from Loueva’s prying.

I lightly tow the woman over to the display, though she knows full well where it is, and say, “There are five shades, or you could wait for something custom? It wouldn’t take long. ”

She swallows and shakes her head, yellow-blonde ringlets bouncing around her silk-clad shoulders. “Oh, no.” Shivering involuntarily, her face flashes with unease. “We have too much to do before our trip, and I want to leave town far before the light fades. Already I’ve wasted half the morning.”

“Something wrong?” I can’t help inquiring.

“I’d simply rather not pass the Colehart place in the dark.”

It takes all of my willpower not to roll my eyes.

Not this again. I don’t believe in any of The Pins nonsense, and nonsense is all that it is.

Things to do with the word magic. And—more recently—whispers about that big old house on the edge of town and the poor, judged person who moved in not long ago.

How my sisters have fallen so easily into the nonsense is beyond me, all their skepticism seeming to have melted away in the years we’ve lived here—though, to be fair, I don’t know if Sélie ever actually had any to begin with. But Aven should know better.

Now both of them hang on Loueva’s every word as she goes on, telling her mostly captive audience, “All I know is I got this feeling when we passed the house last time. It was like a rat was scaling the bones of my spine, like something evil was pressed against me. Rumor has it the Devil himself moved in there.” Her breasts jiggle like unset custard as she shudders again.

Well, that’s a new one. With a half-scoff, half-snicker, I blurt out, “The Devil?”

“Devil, demon, what have you.” Loueva eyes Aven very purposefully, and I silently vow I will slap this woman silly if she so much as mentions Darius.

She goes on, voice low, leaning in, “I hear he’s cold as a snake and richer than God.

I believe he’s dangerous and so should you.

I’d steer clear, ladies.” Snapping her fan shut for dramatic effect, she looks rather pleased to have shaken up two-thirds of us.

My sisters murmur a wary agreement at her warning, but I remain silent.

We always stay close to home, our cottage by the sea, and when we do venture anywhere, it’s merely into the heart of town, following the narrow forest road that can barely call itself a road, winding its way from our cottage.

Only people heading in or out of The Pins on the main road pass by the Colehart Mansion.

I haven’t been that way in ages. Images of a rundown estate creep through my memory—it’s actually just visible from our cottage if you stand at the right viewpoint.

And even if we did ever go near it, what could there possibly be to fear?

I try to place some sort of horned, hellish creature into that visualization, and even my imagination protests.

Mentally, I acknowledge that some very private, possibly eccentric person has moved in, but to these three, a bogeyman has come to The Pins and lies in wait, ready to pounce on anyone who stumbles too near. Now my eyes roll of their own accord.

Turning her attention to the lip stains, Loueva chooses the darkest—a wine-color—and smears it against her thin lips, admiring herself in the hand mirror I procure. “Perfect. You’ll charge it to his account, as per usual?”

“Yes, of course,” Sélie says, then adds, “Shall I wrap it for you?”

“No, no need, thank you. As I said, Milton is waiting.” Loueva tucks the tin into her cleavage and turns to go.

At the door, she pauses, turning slowly to face Aven.

She simpers, “I’m so sorry, dear. For your loss.

” Aven chokes out a nonverbal reply, and Loueva’s eyes widen, and she corrects, “I mean, losses.” Then she sashays out, fine skirts swaying.

It’s only when the door bangs shut that I unfreeze, my fury igniting. I loosen the hands I’ve bunched into my apron and lunge forward, set to go after her and give her a piece of my mind. That nosy, no-good—

A touch on my arm, stopping me, just the faintest brush of fingers against my sleeve.

“Don’t,” a soft pleading, barely audible.

I look up at Aven, swallowing. Calming my temper. A scene will only upset her more. Without pausing to wonder if I should, I ask, “Are you alright?”

Behind the counter, Sélie wrings her hands. She stares over at us, her eyes welling up. Don’t cry, don’t cry, I wordlessly warn her. We have to hold it together, for Aven’s sake.

“Oh, yes. I’m fine,” Aven answers quickly, too quickly.

A lie of course, to placate us, to make us not worry about her—an impossible idea.

She tilts her head down, mouth pinched together, as if to hold in a scream.

Yet, for as much intensity as wants to escape her lips, it’s almost worse catching the lifelessness of her eyes before she turns them away from my view.