4. Pippa
PIPPA
The extravagant hallways are empty and dark, apart from the glowing orbs of light in the intermittent sconces.
Parties have never been my favorite way to spend an evening, and since most of my nights on the island have been spent in the company of women I don’t have much in common with, I opted to forgo the festivities.
I prefer quieter pursuits to the constant scheming of fruitless matchmaking.
Especially when I’m missing my boy. He wasn’t on the boat tonight, and I don’t understand why the orphanage still hasn’t sent him. Surely, there can’t be so much red tape that it takes weeks to send a boy to a wealthy benefactor, especially one as influential as Shemaiah Roan.
Determined to distract myself from my malaise, I set out to explore the mansion.
My experience with the Roan Estate has been limited to the bedrooms in the East Wing, a few parlors, the library, and the conservatory, where the new moon party is being held tonight.
The Roans gave us freedom to explore, but I’ve spent a great deal of time in bed since arriving here.
When I’ve been up for a little exploration, it hasn’t felt appropriate to leave the group and go off on my own.
There were a few times I imagined asking Shemaiah for a tour, but I didn’t want to bother him—or feed Kay and Anna’s competitiveness.
Roaming on my own is better. Exploring someone’s house is an intimate endeavor.
It reveals things about them you couldn’t discover otherwise.
I’m eager to uncover what this massive house hides.
I wonder if they have a pianoforte somewhere, and if so, who might play it.
Are there secret passages like in the mystery novels my mother used to read?
How do you get to those piercing towers, and how far can you see from their narrow windows?
I ascend the first stairway to find a carpeted hall lined with paintings.
There’s a stillness in the air that lifts the hairs on the back of my neck.
The hallway stretches into darkness, giving me pause, but I tentatively continue forward, my feet making no sound across the plush carpet runner.
At the first door I encounter, I find an empty room that smells of dust and despair.
Ghostly sheets cover the furniture, and thick shadows hover like dark specters, even though the room is empty.
A chill skitters up my spine, the feeling of someone watching.
The sensation drives me to turn back the way I came, returning to the familiar paths I’ve traveled before.
As the music gets louder, I feel foolish about my fright.
The only thing to fear in this house are the Mavarri downstairs, currently well occupied.
There’s an undercurrent of melody and bass to the song that drifts on the air, something meant to be felt rather than simply heard and admired.
They’re probably dancing. I like dancing.
Not that I’ve had much opportunity, but I’ve always loved to watch the way the colorful dresses make patterns as the couples twirl around the room.
I love the way the music reaches down into my soul and compels my body to move to its rhythm.
Sadly, that’d be difficult now. I’d rather not behave like I’m sick, but the simple truth is my body is dying even if my mind is not.
On instinct, my feet follow the sound of the music, leading me to more well lit sections of the house.
When the corridor dead-ends and splits into two options, I stop.
To the right, the conservatory where the party is being held.
To the left, the library, my favorite room in the house so far. In front of me, a mirror.
I’m not dressed for a party. Not even for trying to sneak in unseen.
I’m wearing my own frock, not one of the dresses Mrs. Darning regularly lays out for me.
I’ve tried those beautiful garments on a few times in the privacy of my room, but they’ve always seemed excessive, impractical, made for someone other than me.
There was a time when I thought I could wear dresses like that, when I pictured my life being full of fancy gowns and elaborate balls. But that hope was a lie.
My dress is one of the nicest I own, and it’s practical, fitting to my station and lifestyle, nothing compared to the opulence of tonight’s rich guests.
There’s a pale pallor to my skin, a shade lighter than the delicate ivory lace that curls around my neck.
I feel tired in a way I didn’t when I left my room.
Exploring the many stairways and rooms of a mansion this large suddenly seems more exhausting than invigorating. I turn left, toward the library.
As I push against the closed door, my heart beats a little faster. This is where I always find Shemaiah. In the wingback chair by the fire, with a book in his lap, an elbow pressed to the armrest, a hand supporting his head. Completely engrossed in his reading.
The men I’ve known always preferred nonfiction, but not Shemaiah. He reads stories, and that information twists my insides with an awareness I’ve not taken time to ponder.
Of course, he isn’t in the library. I know he isn’t in the library. And yet, in the half second it takes for the door to swing open, I wish for his company, even tonight when I was looking forward to being alone.
But the room is empty. As expected.
He’s at the new moon party. He needs… blood.
The thought should unnerve me, and perhaps it does if the chills along my skin are any indication, but after what I’ve seen, after what I’ve been through, I’m not sure it’s discomfort I feel.
My gaze lands on the double doors that lead outside to the little brick patio.
Is it possible to see the conservatory from there?
I’m not wearing a coat or shawl, so I grab a blanket off the fainting couch.
I don’t know who brought it in here, but I know it wasn’t here yesterday because I retired early due to a draft in the room.
Re-energized by the idea of being able to watch the party unseen, I go outside. The night is thankfully drier than normal, though still bitterly cold. I won’t be able to stay out long.
The conservatory juts from the house like a glass crown atop a reclining monstrosity of stone.
The music is loud and unlike any I’ve heard before.
It pounds through the dark night as if it’s taunting the serenity of the moons.
I can’t see much from here, but it’s clear that no one is in the straight lines and structured dances I’m used to.
Most people aren’t actually dancing at all.
There’s less colorful moving fabrics and more… skin.
The Roan siblings warned us about tonight, so I knew it would be uncivilized and unencumbered, but knowing something is different from seeing it with one’s own eyes.
There’s a woman pinned against a window, her dress pulled down to her waist and her breasts pressed to the glass.
All the partygoers are wearing masks to obscure their identities, but hers is pushed up and askew on her head.
Mrs. Potter? Is that really the head nurse from The Sanatorium?
It seems strange that she would be at a new moon party reserved for the most elite of society, but then I remember Dr. Witten once mentioned she’s married to someone important.
I don’t remember who. He also said she works tirelessly on behalf of the cause with an obsession he’s never seen before.
I’m not sure what he meant by that, but she doesn’t seem to be working now.
Jafeth leans into her from behind with his mouth to her neck, no doubt sinking teeth into veins. Drinking her in. Filling himself on her.
Is he the first to feed from her tonight? Does she know what he’s doing—what he is—or is she too lost in pleasure to understand?
She throws her head back, one hand flattened on the glass as the other dives back into Jafeth’s hair. I swear I can hear her moan, even from here, even over the music. I know I’m imagining it, but it’s almost like I’m experiencing her rapture just from watching, my own core throbbing in response.
I felt the pleasure they’re feeling once. Back when I believed in love. A lifetime ago.
Looking away, my gaze scans the other windows for someone I’m not sure I want to find.
Is he as lost to pleasure as his brother? Does he have multiple partners or one who consumes all of his attention? Is he only drinking or…
I shiver, pull the blanket tighter, and turn to go back inside, but freeze in my tracks.
A scream lodges in my throat. A creature, a monster, a mask as white as snow stares out at me through the library window. Hollow holes that hide hollow eyes. A nose so long and pointed it spikes against the glass.
I blink.
The apparition is gone.
I clutch my chest, my heart racing. With a deep breath and an unsteady laugh, I shake my head. I must have imagined it. Certain my exploration created visions that aren’t there, I return to the library to force my imagination on less frightening pursuits.