Chapter Four #2
Taking a step back in surprise, fury follows.
I let out a huff, turn, and make my way down the steps, then to the dark, loamy woods skirting the mansion.
Back against a tree, I wait for several long minutes, watching the quiet house through a web of leaves.
It feels like forever. My skin buzzes with impatience.
Whatever is inside might very well be dangerous, but I no longer care.
Maybe it’s magic, maybe it’s something worse.
I feel it and the desperate raging inside me.
I want to get into that house. I want it badly, Marieta’s premonition resounding through me. Aven’s worth the risk.
Leave and don’t come back? I don’t think so.
Standing in the shadows of the Colehart property, I study the house from a new angle. There’s a row of windows, all closed. I pick one at random.
Biting my lip, I pause. As rash as my decisions have sometimes been, I’ve never broken into private property.
Especially not a place rumored to belong to a demon, or someone, as his own butler put it, “in the business of taking lives.” But Aven’s face comes to my mind, her blue eyes pleading.
Even if the odds are slim, I have to try.
If it means bringing her back to life, how could I not try to find this demon, beg him to help, barter anything within my means?
What would I give up, to bring her back?
I don’t have much money, but I’d hand it all over.
The shop—Sélie would understand, she’d agree.
Some jewelry. My body. The problem is I don’t know enough about what he’d want to trade me—if he’d consider a barter at all.
A demon wouldn’t do something out of the goodness of his heart—he wouldn’t have one.
I take a breath and race across the land, praying nobody is looking out the windows on the side.
Once pressed up against the house, I wait to be caught.
When nobody comes, I exhale. With a resolute sigh, I haul a broken pot with a bedraggled clump of roots falling out of it over beneath a window, careful not to make any noise and to stay ducked low.
I push the window open with a good amount of effort, the aged wooden frame sticking.
Then I heave myself up, lifting my knee until I catch the splintered ledge, tearing my pink dress in the process.
I shove the window up even higher, thankful it doesn’t squeak.
I climb through, parting the musty, damp curtains—cobalt blue velvet, embroidered with tiny flowers and golden cherubs.
Humph. I eye it wryly. Cherubs?
I’ve entered into a study. In one corner, a forgotten desk, spread with papers and a fine layer of dust. I cross the tasseled rug and peek out the door, holding my breath.
There’s no sign of the owner of the house—demon or otherwise—or even any servants.
Slowly, I leave the room, my entire body on high alert, listening and watching, memorizing the way I came in so I can sneak out safely.
If I’m caught by the butler, I’ll surely get tossed out by force.
And that’s the best-case scenario. But what is the worst?
Worst-case—the man really is a demon, and he’ll obliterate me before I even get a chance to beg for his help with Aven.
Is it any better to think he could just be a really immoral human who murders people for a living and will kill me for trespassing?
None of that sounds like an ideal outcome. I’m no use to Aven if I end up dead too. And whatever would Sélie do? My nerves grow by the second. I listen harder.
Like the landscape outside, the house is eerily silent.
No clanking of silverware being polished, no drawers rattling, no talking, no footsteps, no doors opening or shutting.
Nothing. An estate this size should be bustling with servants, with noise, with life, but everything is just a bit unusual, broken, tattered, faded.
Yet I can tell it was stunning once. The furniture is heavy, gilded, the paintings and tapestries abundant, the air of expense everywhere.
Old money. Very old money. Our whole cottage could fit in just the foyer.
When I reach the grand staircase, with its ornately carved spindles, I raise my brows at it, a little impressed in spite of myself.
I’ve never been in a house as fine as this.
I tiptoe up the steps, running my fingers along the thick, curving wooden banister.
Unlike everything else so far, it’s surprisingly not dusty.
At the top of the stairs, I find the first door to my right open and glance inside.
A bedroom, dark and empty, furniture covered with thick white sheets, curtains drawn closed.
I leave the room and return to the hall.
The second door on my right is cracked. I push it open, steeling myself to be caught.
What if I were to find the demon staring at me from the other side?
Would he blast me right here? But it is empty of people—or beings—though the furniture is uncovered halfway, as if someone were in the midst of airing it out.
I duck out quickly and continue down the hallway.
Goosebumps dot my arms as I come to the third door, which is shut tight.
I pause for bravery—or merely in dread—then open it to find an enormous bedroom.
Sighing in relief at its emptiness, I step inside.
I’m not sure what I expected to find, but this isn’t it.
It’s the cleanest room I’ve seen so far, not a speck of dust, not one hint of cobweb.
Faded deep-blue brocade papers the walls, and the floor is a shining, worn wood with an intricately patterned rug laid down upon it.
There’s a massive bed, giant desk, and a cushy-looking chair in navy fabric.
A wardrobe stands directly to my right, but it’s the windows I’m drawn to.
Thick, gold velvet curtains flung open, glass as well, offering a perfect far-off view of the sea.
The sight of the dark waves is, even from here, soothing.
The sick feeling in my gut returns, though, when I spy our cottage way off in the distance, a humble speck.
Just as I can see his home, so he can see ours.
If this is his room, that is. I cast my eyes around, uncertainly.
Would a demon sleep on a bed? Do they even sleep?
If they exist at all, that is. Marieta was so convinced—Loueva too. Being here—it’s unsettling. But is anything supernatural afoot?
A frown tugs at my lips as I look around again.
It’s so normal. The bed a rumpled mass of covers yet to be made, and a stack of books teetering on the side table, next to a cup.
I peer over the rim, wondering if I’ll find flecks of blood inside, however only the ghost of coffee scent greets me when I inhale.
I turn, ready to move to the next room, when voices float in from the hallway.
Quick as a flash, I dart inside the wardrobe, closing the door most of the way, just as two maids enter the room.
I hold my breath until I worry I’ll pass out.
Slowly, I exhale, praying they won’t hear the rapid beating of my heart, that they won’t open the wardrobe to put clothes away.
I don’t want anyone to catch me until I come face to face with who I came to see.
I don’t need any interference here. I watch the women through the sliver of space between the doors.
In sharp contrast to the rest of the house, they are clean and neat, wearing starched snow-white aprons and pressed dresses.
Where the butler looked out of place and ill-fitting in his position, these two appear comfortable and capable as they change the bedsheets and dust the surfaces, even though the furniture in this room already gleams.
“…been in a mood lately,” the younger, skinny one mutters, more a girl than a woman, her hair the orange of carrots.
The one with graying hair, and a thick, pink neck, shrugs back. “I suppose you’d be as well if you thought you were retiring, and it turns out you weren’t.”
The first maid stops dusting. She leans against a bedpost and wraps her hands around it. “Well, even if he’s not, our orders are the same, no? We’re to have the house set within the month, as if we can do it all that fast! It took a fortnight alone to do what we done so far!”
The older woman rolls her broad shoulders back. “We need only worry about our own work, Jinny,” she says, wearily, as if it’s not the first time. “We’re making progress, and if he wanted more maids you know very well he could afford to hire them.”
“Yes, I know.” The red-haired girl sighs. “I’m just tired. He wants his home perfect, I’m thinking. Especially after that speech he gave this morning.”
“Perfect. Not a spot anywhere, and especially not in his own chamber. So, let’s get to it then, eh?
I’ve got a million things to do before he gets back.
Being the housekeeper can be exhausting at times, just between the two of us.
Not that I’d say a word against him, dear.
After a decade in his employment, I’ve grown rather fond of him, myself. ”
“Of course, Mrs. Minthy, he’s a fine man, to be sure.”
I wait in the hot wardrobe, miserably, while they finish their business, my desperate hope fading as the realization sinks in.
There is no way he’s a demon. If he were, they would be afraid.
In fact, I can’t think of how an evil being such as that would ever employ any normal person—they’d run screaming at the very sight of him, I expect.
And if he were a killer, like the butler had implied, I think the maids’ reaction would be quite different as well.
Embarrassment itches at me. What is wrong with me—how could I have let myself get to this point? Whatever happened to my common sense?
Despite what the butler indicated, it’s likely he was in jest—or trying to inhibit me from wanting to see the reclusive man of the house.
In the business of taking lives? I could almost laugh out loud now if tears weren’t threatening to fall.
I sought out a myth to bring my sister back—but there’s no demon, no danger here.
And no hope either. Just a man who likes books and coffee and a clean home. Just a man.
The maids’ voices carry as they leave the room and go down the stairs.
I was foolish to let myself believe Marieta and everything else pointing me here, to get swept up in fantasy.
Aven is gone, and I must accept that. I step out of the stuffy wardrobe, closing it quietly behind me.
I walk toward the door—furtively—but the tiny clang of something makes me stop.
Looking down at my hand, I gasp at the realization that the too-large ring from Aven has slipped off my finger and rolled somewhere.
“Damnation,” I mutter, scanning the room. I could no sooner leave behind the ring than one of my limbs.
I crouch down, looking in every nook and cranny, hairline dampening with sweat as each minute ticks by without finding it.
I get on my hands and knees to search under the bed.
The pearl glints in the shadows, and I let out a thankful sigh.
I grab for it, and my fingers brush against something just beyond, something hard.
I slip the ring on and pause. Logic tells me I should get up and get out before I’m caught trespassing.
Yet something pulls at me from under the bed—what was that I just touched?
Curiosity beats logic, and I reach back under and draw it out—a wooden box.
Kneeling on the floor, heart thumping, I open it to find a pair of shoes inside. No, not shoes. Ballet slippers.
I gaze down in awe at the satin slippers, luminous, the deep red of blood.
They look wounded. Lonely. Like they’re waiting for me to pick them up. I contemplate for long minutes at how strange they are, just inches from my fingers. They almost feel…alive.
I must put the box away, quickly, and precisely as I found it.
Otherwise, the maids—or whomever stays in this room—might guess someone was in here snooping around.
Not that I really care now. I don’t much fear that a mortal will track me down for intruding, if I’m as cautious leaving as I was coming in.
The demon doesn’t exist. Yet these shoes do, these beautiful, beautiful shoes…
Leave, I tell myself. I didn’t get what I came for.
There’s no point staying one second longer, risking being found in some rich stranger’s home.
The last thing I need is to have more rumors about me.
Sélie would be mortified if I got caught, and I can hardly guess at the gossip that would follow me for the rest of my life if I were. The Pins doesn’t forget things.
Nevertheless, lust floods through me. It won’t hurt just to hold them.
I graze my fingers against the satin and pull the slippers out.
They’re splendid, pristine ribbons, toes not even marred; they’ve never been danced in.
They’re the finest ballet shoes I’ve ever seen, much prettier than my worn out, ill-fitting pink ones, which I’d scrounged up secondhand, and which now lie rotting in the woods wherever I last threw them.
I don’t know how I do, but I already know these will fit me perfectly.
An image of myself dancing in them flashes through my mind. So what if it’s nothing more than a selfish indulgence, a little something for myself after so much agony. A trinket to appease my wounds. I want them. I want them more than I’ve wanted any item in my life.
And if breaking into this mansion to speak to a nonexistent demon was the most outrageous thing I’ve ever done, I now do the second.
I steal the shoes.