Chapter 8
Ksenia hesitated but stepped through, pulling the mirrored door closed behind her. A labyrinth of corridors revealed itself in shafts of dim light, shining through select spots on the walls. She listened carefully, but not a soul was in the musty hallway.
She crept up to one of the lights, at roughly eye-level, and found herself peering out into the foyer.
Evidently, the multitude of portraits had the dual purpose of not only looking imposing but also shielding from prying eyes.
The canvas was slightly more threadbare before the peephole, retaining a sheen of paint while allowing one to peer through.
Her ears picked up chatter as she neared the next peephole, this one overlooking the dining room where Varka and her house staff sat together sharing dinner. It was oddly disarming to see Varka mingling—
Her boot caught something.
The resistance was so slight, she almost missed it. A hair-thin wire stretched across the stone floor at ankle height. Her momentum had carried her forward a half step before her mind could process the trap.
Ksenia flung herself backward, her ass slamming against the floor as something hissed through the air where her throat had been a heartbeat earlier.
A metallic think echoed in the narrow space—a needle-like dart embedding itself in the opposite wall, the shaft still quivering.
She pressed herself flat, breathing hard, her heart hammering against her ribs. She ran her gaze delicately along its length, as if it would re-trigger with a look alone. One end anchored to a hidden mechanism in the wall, the other disappeared into a minuscule hole.
She dusted herself off and examined the dart.
The shaft appeared to be iron, but Ksenia knew better.
With such a short distance and that delicate a structure, the dart had to have Grastelian steel for a core.
That was the only way it would’ve buried itself into the stone instead of pinging off the hard surface.
She couldn’t help herself. She grasped the needle and pulled it out. Its point was wickedly sharp, and a dark residue stained the tip.
Poison, most likely.
Ksenia straightened, pulse still racing, and scanned the corridor ahead with renewed wariness. Varka had stayed true to her word that the manor would be full of surprises, and Ksenia was wiser than to think this was the only one.
She continued on her path, running her hand along the dusty brick as she approached the next peephole, then the next. She now had a view into the kitchen, the library, and the sparring hall. At the end, a drafty staircase led her to the second floor.
The passageways were relatively bare and free of debris, but Ksenia worked through them at a snail’s pace, checking for more traps.
Perhaps they served as a makeshift escape route in case of emergencies—or insurrection.
Her stomach growled loud enough to be heard through the walls, and she clutched her belly. Although she had discovered these passageways, there was no way she’d sneak into the kitchens right now with the cooks and servants streaming back and forth through the swinging doors.
She found herself on the second floor and in a similar situation, except most of the peepholes were darkened—unused guest suites, she presumed.
She noticed a spot of light near her quarters.
It must’ve been Varka’s. She paused before squinting through the hole.
Her breath caught in her throat.
A shirtless man with a tall, angular frame cut into view.
His muscular, broad-shouldered physique tapered to a lean waist, his pajama linens slung low on his hips.
Firelight warmed his tawny skin, peppered with pale scars.
His defined muscles rippled as he wrung droplets of water out of his tresses with a towel.
His back was turned to her as he busied himself at the weapons rack, selecting a handsome sword.
There was something gracefully predatory about his movements, and she pegged him as someone who carried their strength lightly. His long, lean legs strode across the room to an oaken desk where a pot of oil sat over a warming lantern, along with felted cloths.
Ksenia smelled mineral oil simmering—a wise choice for polishing a weapon during the cold season to reduce any splitting of the hilt.
The towel sank against his neck and shoulders as he settled into the leather armchair before the table and began anointing the sword’s hilt with a rag, dabbing warm oil now and then.
Ksenia pressed ever closer. He was familiar, but she couldn’t place from where.
Even through the canvas, she could make out his sharp jawline and high-planed cheekbones.
The man went still before turning to look in the direction of her hiding place. She stumbled back, shame heating her face, and she inwardly cursed herself before padding as quickly as she could to the safety of her own room.
Her clammy hand found a low-profile door handle beneath the peephole.
She tripped but caught herself as the portrait swung open on the wall of her quarters.
She grabbed a spare blanket and draped it hurriedly over the painting.
Her face told the traitorous story, however, as she peered into the bathroom mirror. Her cheeks tingled with the prickle of blood, and she didn’t need to look further to know her ears were tinged pink as well.
Whoever that was knew their way around weaponry. Ksenia was mildly impressed, but she had more basic issues to deal with as her stomach protested loudly.
For now, she studied her catch of the day: the wrought-iron skeleton key.
Her eyes were heavy, but she had to sate her hunger. The full moon was overhead as she snuck through the front courtyard to the forge, the apron door still half open.
It smelled like home: steel, burnt leather, and woodsmoke. She leaned over the door and peered inside before unlatching it and letting herself in.
With a gentle hum, she selected a few logs from the kindling pile and expertly stoked a flame within the forge, patiently coaxing the spark into a steady blaze with the bellows.
“Old Hollow, light my forge.” Her voice low, reverent.
An assortment of metal bars and blanks was in a scrap bucket, and she found a suitable one before settling down in front of the furnace.
With tongs, she heated the crude iron until it glowed orange, then beat it into a flattened shape on an anvil.
She continually checked the shape and size against the key, achieving a near-perfect match.
She hadn’t even broken a sweat by the time she dunked her copied key into the oil vat with a sizzle.
Ksssssssssssss.
Ksenia glanced up. The darkness of the forge crept into its corners where the furnace’s light couldn’t reach.
There had been nights when she was delirious from lack of sleep that she heard the fire hissing her name, the way it would spit and sizzle at any presence of water, instantly turning to steam.
She spotted the culprit. A light rain was drifting through the cracked window above the furnace. She put down her tools and went to it.
Her gaze snagged on a dark shape in the courtyard.
A figure moved amongst the bare, leafless trees. It was broad-shouldered, tall, and imposing. Her pulse quickened with recognition.
Then, a pure, sharp chime rang through her head, the note humming and lengthening from the direction of the figure.
It was a piercing ring, like a heavy bell resonating upon marble: precise and powerful.
She ducked as the figure turned in her direction. The rain intensified, pelting the flames.
Kssssssssssenia, kssssssssssssenia. The hiss sounded behind her ear and she whipped around, flattening against the leg of the worktable.
There was no one.
The shadows crawled up the room, the fire coiling and licking higher in the furnace. Her pulse beat in her ears as she cast her eyes toward the growing flame.
Her curiosity led her to lean closer and closer until beads of sweat formed on her forehead.
She rubbed her eyes, once, twice.
Yet there she was: Danika. Her visage, formed out of rolling flame, turned over the crackling logs in a grotesque scream that leaped from the hearth and almost singed Ksenia’s cheek.
The worktable skidded back across the dusty flagstone as she slammed against it before rushing for a bucket of water, dousing the fire once and for all.
Darkness consumed the room, and she clutched her head.
Vornaya’s voice cut into Ksenia’s mind. Fulfill the terms of our pact lest you wish to succumb to madness.
“Stop it, stop it, stop it.” Ksenia crouched and rocked on her heels, face buried in her knees. The hallucinations were preying on her anxieties.
The fire ebbed to a weak ember nestled in the ash. Ksenia’s breath quaked, her sweaty hand clutching the still-warm key. Minutes passed before she slowly rose and peeked out the window, but found only darkness amongst the sheets of rain.
In the manor, the warm flicker of candlelit chandeliers illuminated her way to the kitchen, where foot traffic had slowed considerably. However, she could still see shadows passing beneath the doorway.
She let herself into the servant’s closet once more and pulled on a clean uniform. Reaching back into the bin of clothing, she found the blackberry jam–stained apron and carefully tucked the nicked key into the pocket before letting herself out into the empty hallway.
The kitchen sprawled across most of the first floor’s west wing, next to the dining room.
Dark wood beams crisscrossed the high ceilings, from which gleaming copper pots and cast-iron pans hung in neat rows, catching the light of a fire subsiding in a great stone hearth.
There were three total, each big enough to roast a whole boar.
Ksenia’s stomach protested again as the scent of rosemary, woodsmoke, and fresh bread wafted around her.
A scant few kitchen staff remained, scrubbing dinner plates and sweeping the floors.
Ksenia’s heart beat in her ears at the prospect of being caught, and she busied herself with the spice rack along the wall nearest to her, clinking the glass spice jars in her hands and placing them back onto the shelf in somewhat alphabetical order.
Between sorting, she stole more glances around the room.
At the far corner stood a pantry and cold storage, its door reinforced with iron bands and a lock.
The kitchen hands began returning perishable goods to the pantry before locking it with a key.
Ksenia found a damp rag and wiped the countertops and butcher blocks clean until she heard the last cook call out a “good night” to her over his shoulder, which she returned with a half-hearted wave.
The double doors swung back and forth, and she couldn’t wait any longer; she stuffed a stale crust of grainy bread into her mouth.
She didn’t want to risk suspicion if large quantities of food suddenly went missing, so she refrained from taking a bite out of a cake that was cooling on the shelf, instead sticking to leftovers that’d been stored away.
She slotted the forged key into the pantry door, and the lock mechanism ground open in response.
A veritable treasure trove of goods awaited her, stacked on shelves and spilling over on a butcher block island in the middle of the room.
Cured sausages and ham hocks hung from the ceiling, but she beelined toward the fruit, bread, cheese, and hard-cured meats, piling a cheesecloth full then knotted it into a neat package. This would have to do for tonight.
She crept back through the manor into the tentative privacy of her room, the candles having melted low in their holders and the bathwater long cold.
She couldn’t bring herself to do anything more than stow away her stolen provisions before tucking into bed, where she fell into a fitful sleep, haunted by visions of her sister within the flames and that slender, lingering chime in the distance.