Chapter 9 Lysa #2
“Him?” A ghost of a smile softened Mrs. Crane’s mouth.
She poured the egg mixture into a sizzling pan.
“The Manor has always had a soft spot for Fenrik. When he was a boy, before the... troubles... he used to play hide-and-seek with the pantry door. It would hide him from his tutors for hours.” She nodded toward a stool.
“Sit. You look like you’ve seen a ghost, and while we have plenty of those, I prefer you eat before you start conversing with them. ”
I climbed onto the stool, wrapping my hands around the mug of tea she slid across the wood. The heat seeped into my aching fingers. “He was a child here? I have trouble picturing him as anything other than... well.”
“Marble? Unyielding?” Mrs. Crane flipped the omelette. “He was a wild thing once. Skinned knees and pockets full of frogs. The stillness came later. Grief does that to a person, it calcifies them.” She set the plate before me. “Eat. You’re too thin, and fighting curses requires strength.”
I took a bite, the savory warmth grounding me, but my gaze drifted past Mrs. Crane to the narrow window overlooking the courtyard.
The mist was heavy this morning, clinging to the overgrown boxwoods, but movement flashed through the grey.
One of the Garden Drakes, no larger than a house cat, with scales the colour of polished emeralds, stalked along the stone sill outside.
These creatures were docile, content to warm tomato vines with their breath.
But this one was bristling, the ruff of spines along its neck flared wide.
It hissed, snapping its jaws at the empty air near the glass.
I lowered my fork. “Mrs. Crane.”
The drake arched its back, spitting flame, a tiny spurt of fire, at absolutely nothing. It scrambled backward as if struck, though nothing had touched it.
Mrs. Crane followed my gaze. Her shoulders slumped, the formidable housekeeper posture deflating for a fraction of a second.
“They’ve been doing that for weeks now,” she said. “Reacting to things we can’t see.”
“It thinks it’s under attack,” I said, watching the drake swipe a claw at the damp morning air, its eyes wide and milky with panic.
“Lord Stormgarde says it’s the curse affecting their senses, making them perceive threats that aren’t real.
” Mrs. Crane set a teacup down on the counter with slightly more force than necessary, the china clattering.
“But I’m not so certain it’s the curse making them see things.
Perhaps it’s the curse making us blind to what they can see perfectly well. ”
The words hung ominous in the warm kitchen air, curdling the comfort of the bacon and tea.
A low growl rumbled near my feet. Kirion had slunk into the kitchen behind me, his midnight-blue scales dull in the firelight.
He wasn’t looking at the food. He was rigid, his ears swivelling.
He stared intently at the same window, at the same patch of empty, innocent air that terrified the drake outside.
His lips peeled back from his teeth, and smoke leaked from his nostrils, pooling on the floorboards. He was looking at an intruder I couldn’t see.
“Kirion?” I reached down, my fingers hovering over his tense spine.
He snapped at the air, retreating as the drake had, as if something invisible was pushing into the room, pressing against the glass, testing the boundaries of the house. The Manor gave a deep groan and the fire in the hearth flared green.
After I’ve eaten some of Mrs. Crane’s amazing omelette, armed with a handful of dried jerky and a stubborn refusal to be intimidated by masonry, I marched toward the East Wing.
Kirion skittered at my heels, his claws clicking a chaotic rhythm on the flagstones.
The further we went, the colder the air became, leaching the warmth of the kitchen from my skin until I was shivering in my linen blouse.
The corridor ended in a set of massive, iron-bound double doors that smelled faintly of sawdust and wild animal musk. The Sanctuary.
I reached for the iron ring handle. The shadows to the left of the doorframe solidified.
A sound like grinding stones filled the corridor, raising the hair on my arms. I snatched my hand back as a shape poured itself out of the gloom.
Yes, the sentinel. This sentinel was a serpent, easily fifteen feet long, its scales glowing with the luster of polished obsidian.
It didn’t slither so much as flow, a river of black stone coiling itself across the threshold until the door was barred.
It raised its massive head, until its eyes were level with my own.
A forked tongue, flickering like a black flame, tasted the air inches from my face.
My heart slammed against my ribs. I took a hesitant step forward, waiting for it to strike. The serpent hissed and rose higher.
“The House doesn’t want me here on my own, just like Fenrik warned,” I muttered in frustration. First the labyrinth, then the mirror, now this.
But at my feet, Kirion didn’t cower. The wyrmling let out a soft, questioning chirp.
He moved past my boot and pressed his flank against the sentinel’s massive coils, head-butting the obsidian scales with affectionate familiarity.
The sentinel didn’t strike him. It merely shifted its gaze to the wyrmling, before snapping those golden eyes back to me.
“The House has a mind of its own, miss,” a voice said from the shadows behind me.
I spun around, hand going to my chest. Mrs. Crane stepped out from behind a tapestry depicting a dragon hunt, her hands clasped over her apron. She looked at the giant serpent like a mother finding a muddy dog on the carpet.
“Always has,” she continued, her gaze drifting to the barred door. “But lately... it’s been agitated. As if it’s trying to warn us of something.”
She paused meaningfully, her blue eyes sharp on my face. The silence stretched.
“The sentinels used to protect us from outside threats,” she said, her voice dropping to a murmur that barely carried over the serpent’s low hiss. “Now they seem just as concerned about what’s already inside these walls.”
A chill that had nothing to do with the draft swept down my spine. Inside. Did she mean me? Was I the threat the manor was closing ranks against?
Mrs. Crane didn’t elaborate. She brushed past me, her skirts rustling, and stopped in front of the beast. She murmured something under her breath that sounded a lot like a scolding.
The serpent let out a long, defiant breath and uncoiled, clearing just enough space for a person to squeeze through.
But it held its position, its golden eyes fixed on me as I stepped forward.
I slipped through the gap, careful not to let my arm brush against those scales, and pushed the heavy door open. The air that hit me was a mix of humidity and life.
The Sanctuary was by no means a stable; it was a masterpiece of architecture.
The ceiling soared three stories high, enchanted to mimic the sky outside, though currently, it swirled with an artificial dusk.
The space was divided into terraced habitats rather than cages.
To my left, a pit of heated, black sand radiated warmth, perfect for the sun-loving Basilisks of the southern deserts.
To my right, a miniature waterfall cascaded down a rock face into a crystal-clear pool, the air around it smelling of wet slate and moss.
There were scratching posts made of petrified weirwood trees, nesting boxes lined with self-fluffing cloud-silk, and floating platforms of slate hovering gently in the air for creatures that preferred to sleep off the ground.
It was magnificent. It was a place designed by someone who loved the beasts.
And it was unnervingly quiet. I stepped fully inside, the door groaning shut behind me.
I moved toward the nearest habitat, the dry sand pit, where a Sun-Scaled Drake should have been basking.
Instead, the creature paced the perimeter, its gold scales dull as tarnished brass.
It snapped at the air, fighting the same invisible phantoms I had seen in the kitchen window.
I dropped my satchel onto a workbench. Despite Fenrik’s warnings, despite the house throwing up walls to stop me, I couldn’t leave them like this.
This was more than a curse; I was beginning to suspect the sickness spreading through the bonds was turning their own magic against them.
Kirion huddled against my calf, letting out a low whine as he watched the drake. I rested a hand on his head, grounding us both.
“I know,” I said, rolling up my sleeves. “We’re going to fix it.”
I stepped toward the enclosure, my heart steadying into the rhythm of work. The house might have its secrets, but healing broken beasts, that was the one language I spoke fluently.