Chapter Seven #2
“No need for payment,” says the other. “We’ve plenty of room in the wagon, though the ride might not be a comfortable one. You’ll want to bring some blankets.”
I withhold a sigh. Staying here until morning is a risk, but I can’t make the journey on foot. It’s at least five hours on horse. We agree on a meeting place the next morning, then I barter my final two bracelets to the innkeeper in exchange for both a room and her silence.
My sleep is fitful. With every voice I hear through the walls, every creak of the inn, I am certain someone has come for me.
Thankfully, when morning arrives, I emerge undisturbed, albeit sleep-deprived.
The ride to Borov is bumpy and frigid. I bury myself beneath a pile of blankets with their blessing, and after a few hours, the rhythmic clatter of the wagon manages to lull me asleep.
By the time I wake, we’ve made it to Borov.
After thanking them, I depart swiftly. The trouble is finding a way up the mountain, and already evening is approaching, the sky a dusty pink with the sun’s descent.
Luckily, though, I come upon a stable on the outskirts of the town.
Behind one of the stalls is a horse, saddled and ready, tied to a post. Guilt churns within me, but I see no other option.
It’s been years since I’ve mounted a horse; I barely remember how. He snorts and shuffles at my approach. Tentatively, I stroke his muzzle until he warms to my touch. At least he isn’t as afraid as I feel.
I test the saddle, stirrups, and girth strap to ensure they are secure, and all the while the beast is patient with me.
I breathe my gratitude into his ear, giving him a final pat, then hoist myself up, my foot digging its way into the stirrup.
When finally I find purchase, I swing myself into place and grip the reins.
I manage to veer the horse from the town and back into the forest. On the main road, I keep my ears peeled but press on, following its curves and bends.
The forest is a labyrinth, limned only in intervals as moonlight leaks between the clouds. I ride for an hour, dazedly scurrying off the path when the sound of hooves reaches my ears. Each stride jars my bones and jolts my aching back. My clumsy riding frustrates both the horse and me.
I wonder if my father’s manor is still there. If time has weathered it, or if a new family has moved in, taken up residence where I grew up. Where Emilia and I clung to each other, played dress-up, told stories, and fell asleep in each other’s arms.
I wonder if I will make it to the Realm of Morta because of her sacrifice.
My body grows so weary I can barely clutch the reins. Just when I think I’m about to fall off, a familiar stone gate silhouetted underneath the waning moon rises from the forest’s edge.
Clouds swirl from my lips, white as frost.
Wisteria knits across the stone, seemingly choking the manor like serpents coiled around prey.
My father hasn’t been here in some time, I can see, though he’s kept a light staff for modest upkeep if the entrance is any indication.
The paved stones leading to the front door are swept clean, and the glass on the doors is polished.
I wait until I feel my spirit shift into place, then approach.
I see Illian, the ghost of his smile, in the reflection as I creep through the door.
The inside is dark and still, stale as a crypt—the staff are likely all upstairs, turned in for the night. The lone column of moonlight spearing through the atrium’s skylight is my saving grace.
I hear nothing but the sound of my breath as I find my way up the central stairs. They open into the main parlor. All our furniture is still there, draped in dust covers. Then, in the center—
I draw in a painful breath.
The mantel.
The mantel before which Emilia fought my father, distracted him, so that I could escape.
The mantel he shoved her against and split her skull.
It’s a deep brown wood, accented by ironwork, and too dark for me to see if her blood left a stain.
It doesn’t matter. The memories flood in, vivid as if it were yesterday. Her screams, my father’s shove—
Survive, my darling girl.
My stomach lurches, and I double over. Fall to my knees.
What would Emilia make of me now? What would she think about all that I have done? And here I am, about to stride before death itself. Will I find her here? The thought of seeing her again…
My heart slams with a vicious thud. Waiting for it to ease, I press my palms to my chest, then finally, slowly, pull to my feet. I have to succeed.
Illian appears in the mirrored vase above the hearth. The exact spot. Where is it?
I approach the mantel, vibrating with a new wave of anger. The very air feels suffocating, as if I’m breathing in my father’s breath—as if he’s here, waiting for me to make a move. He killed her, all because she wanted to protect me.
Then I remember who she wanted to protect me from.
“You are the reason she died,” I hiss. “She was killed because she didn’t want me forced into a marriage with you.”
I might have ended Illian’s life, but a single death for him doesn’t feel like enough.
His reflection is blurred, like glass fogged on a damp night. I can’t make out his face as he says, Ah, it is indeed here. The thinning of the veil. Look closely.
I stride forward, my arms folded. It takes me a moment, but then I see it, there within the blackness of the soot-stained hearth. The faintest shimmer, like a shadow moving over the surface of a murky pond.
Perhaps Illian is merely leading me to my death. Perhaps this is revenge after all.
No, this is for Anton, I remind myself. For Emilia. And for the fate of the world. I brought down a monster once. I can do it again.
Walking into the veil is like plunging through a curtain of ice, so cold that it pierces me down to the bone.