Chapter Four
Four
Ijolt upright, clutching the covers to me as though they are armor. The scream stops as quickly as it started and echoes only in my ears. My heart races; my breathing is short and fast. I look to the door, wondering if some bandit or worse is about to break it down and murder me in my bed.
But nothing happens. The air is still and quiet once more. There’s not even a breeze rustling through the trees of the woods outside. I do not hear the songs of nighttime bugs or the soft creaks of an old house.
I don’t know how long I sit like that, but it’s long enough that the muscles of my back begin to spasm from holding me so straight and rigid.
I exhale and try to release some of the tension as I slip out from under the covers.
I throw a shawl around my shoulders and lean against the door to my room, listening. I still hear nothing.
Knowing I must certainly be mad to venture forth, I crack open the door. Gray moonlight, little better to see by than a single candle, streams in through the windows. I look around and see no one.
I dash across the hall and lean against the wall by one of the windows that face the drive. I peek outside. The gravel is empty and smooth, as though Oren just raked it. I keep moving forward, feeling that lingering in the moonlight will make me a target on this brisk and eerie night.
When I’m finally at the door at the end of the hall, I press my ear against the wood.
There’s no talking, no movement, and no screams. My hand falls upon the handle, trembling.
I was given four very clear rules. But that was before I heard screaming.
What if there’s an attack? What if we’re in trouble?
I push down on the handle. It doesn’t budge. I’m locked in.
My heart is in my throat as I back away from the door.
I shake my head, silently pleading with no one.
In my mind, I’m no longer in the hall of Lord Fenwood’s castle.
I’m in the long closet underneath the stairs of my family’s manor.
The door is locked. Helen tells me that Joyce has thrown away the key and that I will never see sunlight again.
Now I rush back to my room and curl up in bed, drawing my knees to my chest. All night, I stare at the windows that overlook the dark woods and remind myself that if I need to escape—truly need to—I can shatter them. I have a way out.
Even if that way out leads me to the woods I have sworn never to venture into.
When morning finally comes, I breathe easier. There were no more sounds. No other strange things happened in the night.
I venture to the bathroom. I inspected it only briefly the night before.
It’s the third door in the hall, situated between the study and my bedroom.
It’s a strange room, with water that flows hot and cold from the tap by a magic I don’t understand.
I test this phenomenon twice during my morning ablutions.
Both times, the water steams if it runs long enough.
This is a strange place indeed.
Dressed and ready for the day, I stride down the hall to the door of my wing.
I’m far more confident in the sunlight than I was last night.
The door handle turns effortlessly, granting me access to the rest of the manor.
I step out and am drawn to the dining room by the aroma of freshly baked bread.
A plate has been set out for me. It holds two fried eggs laid over cooling slabs of toast, and half a sausage is nestled beside them. It’s a breakfast fit for a queen and I make quick work of it.
There’s no sign of Oren or Lord Fenwood, however, and I was desperately hoping to catch one of them. I wonder if there was an accident last night that prompted them to leave early in the morning and take the carriage to town.
The scream still resonates in my ears.
When I’m finished eating, I collect my dishes and head to the side door I saw Oren step through last night.
Sure enough, it leads to a well-stocked kitchen.
I can’t fight my instincts, and I look through the pantry at the dry and jarred goods.
It’s enough to feed ten people for two winters, easily.
There’s another door that leads down to the basement, which I presume is cold storage.
I’m not brave enough to venture into the dark after last night.
I walk along a preparation table to the back of the room, where there is a large basin sink set into the countertop, and clean my dishes.
The open shelves along the wall opposite the hearth allow me to return them to their proper place with ease.
I return to the dining room, half expecting Oren to be there, ready to scold me for daring to lift a finger.
But there’s still no one.
The silence is unbearable, especially since the last sound I heard in this manor was that scream. I head back to my room with renewed purpose. I can’t stay in this building a second longer. I can’t live with the memory of that noise as my only company.
I change into a simpler dress, one that goes down only to my knees, so it won’t get caught in brambles, and with slits high on the sides to give me mobility. Underneath, I wear a sturdy pair of leggings. I pick up my lute, sling it over my shoulder, and venture back out to the main hall.
I come to a stop before the front door and repeat to myself the rules Oren gave me.
I am allowed to leave the house right now, as it’s daytime, and I am venturing out only to the front of the manor, not behind.
It’s within their parameters; I’ll be safe.
I slowly glance over my shoulder. I might even be safer than I am in here.
The morning is crisp and refreshing. The air, even at the foot of the mountains, feels thinner and lighter. I can smell the dense pine of the forest behind me. The small saplings that make up the woods before me pale in comparison to their ancestors.
Out of curiosity, I follow an offshoot of the drive around the side of the building. It ends at a carriage house and stables. The horses are in their stalls. Carriage parked. So it appears no one headed out.
I almost go over to the horses but think better of it.
They’ll remind me too much of Misty and that wound is still too fresh.
So instead, I turn on my heel and walk along the drive all the way out to the main gate.
It’s closed, and the gravel here shows no sign of a carriage being driven out this morning.
Then again, I’m no real tracker—if I were, my family might have eaten better—so I can’t be sure.
Feeling braver, I walk along the wall among the brush and bramble.
My sturdy work boots give me sure footing.
Somewhere between the wall, the manor, and the drive, I come to a glade.
Arrows of sunlight strike the ground in beams that pierce the thinning canopy above.
The coming winter is making these trees shed and they’ve bled on the ground in shades of orange and red.
At the center of the glade is a massive stump.
It must have been one of the old trees, felled long ago to stop it from encroaching too far into usable land.
I sit and brace one ankle on the opposite knee, lute in my lap. Holding the neck with one hand, I lightly strum with the other. It’s out of tune. Of course it is; it’s been weeks since I last played. I make adjustments and strum again, repeating it until I’m pleased.
I press down with my fingertips, pluck a single note, and let it reverberate in the air. I hum, adjusting the pitch of my voice until it matches the resonant sound in the body of the lute. I allow the harmony to fade and take a breath, and my fingers begin to dance atop the strings.
Pluck, pluck, pluck, strum. The introduction rises to a swell and stops in a sudden silence. Then, the first note. I sing with the second.
I knew you,
When the trees
Were on fire.
I saw you,
When you were
Not a liar.
A brief interlude. I rock with the music. Swaying with the trees and breezes that round out my merry troupe. I strum as we reach the chorus.
Our song rode on the mists of mountains high.
I close my eyes, feeling the music within me as much as around me. The forest has fallen to a hush, as if it is listening to me play. It’s been ages since I had a space to play and sing.
Our song lurked in crypts of kings gone by.
I shift my fingers on the neck and transition back to the verse, now playing each note in harmony as I find the melody once more.
I saw you,
When the—
“Well, aren’t you a surprise?”
I’ve heard his voice only once before, and yet I would know it anywhere. That resonance is deeper than a bass string. Richer than dark chocolate. I jerk, startled, and glance over my shoulder on instinct.
“Don’t look,” he reminds me.
I quickly look forward. “I didn’t see anything. Well, just your shoulder again.” He’s hiding behind a tree.
“You’re going to make me think you have some kind of obsession with my shoulders.”
I let out a soft snort of laughter. “Well, as far as I can tell, they are quite nice shoulders.”
It’s his turn to laugh. The sound is as bright as sunlight and as sumptuous as velvet. I have to force my hands to stay still so I don’t try and play along with it. I know how annoying I am with the lute in my hands.
“I didn’t know you could play the lute.”
“I suspect there’s much about each other we don’t know.” He hadn’t seemed interested in opening up last night.
“Where did you learn that song?”
“I’m not sure…” The taste of metal explodes in my mouth, like I ate something burned or bit my tongue and now I have blood on the insides of my cheeks.
I hate lying. Whenever someone tells me a lie, I smell smoke.
Whenever I tell a lie, I taste metal. Either way, lies are an unpleasantness that I try to avoid at all costs.
“I must’ve heard it somewhere when I was very young.
I’ve known it for a long time.” Half-truths are easier.