The Locked Door
Euphemia dashes out of the parlor, feet sliding across the floor.
She searches the closet, finding Cybele’s cloak is still inside.
Which is somehow worse.
On the one hand, Euphemia is relieved her sister hasn’t left without a proper farewell.
On the other, it means Cybele is still here somewhere, roaming the manor on her own.
“What are you up to, Cybele?” Euphemia mutters to herself.
Then, she’s racing through the halls of Thorfell Manor like a child playing hide and seek—only there are consequence attached to the hiding spots here. Secrets that are not Euphemia’s to reveal. Dangers Euphemia has already faced, and those she has yet to comprehend.
As Euphemia whips through one corridor, she rounds the corner and spies Cybele down the hall. Her back is turned. Before her stands the door with the mysterious lock.
She supposes it’s better than her finding the tower.
At least this room only leads to grief and mourning.
Still, as Cybele’s hands spin the mechanism, her fingers violating the twisting metal dials, panic bursts from Euphemia’s lungs.
“Stop!”
Hearing the word echo down the abandoned corridor, Cybele’s shoulders hitch with panic. But she does not heed Euphemia’s plea.
It makes Euphemia’s blood boil.
This is her home now.
Cybele has no right to go snooping around.
Euphemia charges down the corridor, velvet skirts flapping against her legs. She grabs Cybele’s shoulders and spins her around.
“I said stop. You have no right.”
Cybele ignores her, glancing over her shoulder back to the strange door. “What’s in there?”
“It’s nothing. Only a room that belonged to a dead man and now belongs to his widower.”
Cybele crosses her arms. “You’re lying.”
“Why would I lie about that?”
“I don’t know. Why would you lie about any of this?
You stealing my dowry. Running off in the middle of the night.
All because you supposedly married a baron in some northern region none of us have ever even heard of?
To a lord who—” her arms spread wide as she looks at every corner of the dimly lit corridor “—is apparently a ghost. Or a figment of your imagination. For I have not seen him once.”
Euphemia forces her sister’s arms down. “That’s because he isn’t in right now.”
Cybele scoffs, a look of hurt pinning her sister in place.
Then she spins around and starts working on the mechanism again.
To Euphemia’s surprise, it actually looks like she’s made some progress. At least three of the rings appear to be connected, and Euphemia thinks the fifth one might be in the correct place as well, though it’s difficult to tell without the fourth one ready.
“Stop.” Euphemia grabs her elbow, attempting to spin her away again. “You won’t find anything in there but dust and memories.”
“Then tell me where to look! Tell me where I find the truth because I’m tired of being lied to.” Euphemia opens her mouth to protest, but Cybele shouts over her. “Do you think I don’t know what the people are saying about you?”
Euphemia goes still.
“Neighbors. Travelers. The people I’ve met in this cursed town.” Cybele’s gaze sharpens on her, searching. “They say the nightmare that haunted Nottinghamshire has moved on. They say it’s here in Thorfell now, that it’s following my sister.”
Suddenly, Euphemia’s blood runs cold.
She had forgotten her sister’s final words before she’d fallen asleep.
Now they batter her until she is broken glass.
Everything she’s tried to hide…
Cybele knows.
Or at least, she’s starting to guess.
How soon before she learns their father’s death was her fault? How long until she looks upon Euphemia with the same disdain their mother does?
Euphemia can’t bring herself to accept it. She can still salvage this. She can tuck her secrets closer. Keep herself more guarded.
“Cybele, those are just rumors—”
Cybele holds up a hand, palm aimed like a shield. “Don’t. Just…don’t waste your breath.”
Euphemia fights back the tears.
Cybele’s palm becomes a pointed finger aimed at her nose. “I will get to the bottom of this, and I will bring you back home.”
The ferocity of the declaration grinds against Euphemia’s bones.
She already is home.
No one will take this from her. Not Percival. Not Thurstan. And certainly not her stubborn sister.
“That is enough!” Euphemia screams. “There is no secrecy here. Nothing insidious at play other my own sister being welcome into my home and then trying to break down one of our doors.”
Cybele’s jaw snaps open in offense, finger waggling. “Don’t you try pinning this on me. If you would just be honest—sorry, forget that. If you wouldn’t have left in the middle of the night and brought the entire town’s suspicion upon us, I wouldn’t even be here!”
And there it is.
The ugly truth at last.
Cybele isn’t here because she thinks Euphemia needs saving.
She’s here to save the others.
Euphemia should be grateful there is at least someone looking out for her mother, Ismene, and Atia. But the sting still pierces deep. A sharp slice against an old wound.
But the truth, no matter how painful, is also liberating.
Euphemia clenches her fists so that she can keep her voice steady. “You treated me like a plagued rat back home.”
Cybele rolls her eyes as if Euphemia is being a petulant child. “That was our mother—”
“Yes, it was. But you just stood there and let her! You didn’t defend me. You never asked if I was alright. You only told me that she didn’t mean any of it, even when you saw the look in her eyes too and knew that she did.”
For a moment, Cybele looks as if she might say something, but she stops herself.
“So yes. When someone offered me a reprieve from that? Somewhere I could feel like I belong? Like I’m wanted?
Of course I accepted.” Euphemia sniffles, collecting herself and steeling her emotions.
“I am sorry if it brought you more struggle. I thought my choice would help you prosper. And as Lady Kelda said, we can send more coin—”
“We don’t want your coin. We want you.”
“Well? I’m not returning. So I suggest you tell Mother to accept what we send so the four of you can make it through the winter. I’m sure after that, the rumors will die back down, and business will resume again.”
By the time Euphemia is done, Cybele looks small and childlike. She is rendered speechless for once. But the effect does not linger long.
“What about Thurstan?” she asks, and Euphemia wishes that she hadn’t overheard the conversation last night. “What will you do when he takes everything from you?”
“He won’t,” Kelda’s voice calls out from behind them.
They turn and watch as she strides down the corridor, a fur pelt draped over her shoulders.
She eyes their proximity to the door and Euphemia’s belly tightens.
Kelda narrows her gaze on Cybele. “The rains have stopped. I think it’s time you returned home.”
Cybele glances to Euphemia, one final plea in her expression.
Euphemia draws her shoulders back. Cybele’s head falls.
“Very well. I shan’t bother you again.” Spinning on her heels, Cybele walks down the dimly lit hallway.
Stops. Her eyes glisten with pain and ferocity as she glances over her shoulder one last time.
“Congratulations on your new, blissful, completely inconspicuous life. I hope you and the baron are happy living in ignorance.”
And then, Cybele finally abandons her.
Euphemia’s heart pinches. She forbids regret from taking hold though. She did nothing wrong. She didn’t abandon them. If anything, her plan worked. The nightmare left Nottinghamshire and it will not bother them again.
Euphemia had not known, however, that the creature had been spotted in town…but that is a problem for another day.
As Cybele’s footsteps slowly fade, Euphemia turns to Kelda, spluttering, “I’m so sorry, Kelda. I tried telling her to leave Lord Otho’s room alone, but she wouldn’t listen—”
“Otho’s room?” Kelda frowns. An idle hand traces the designs in the door. “Who told you this room belonged to Otho?”
“N-no one,” Euphemia answers, but now it’s her brows that bunch. “It was just so neglected, I assumed that was the reason. That perhaps it was too painful to come here.”
Kelda’s hand stills.
She steps back from the door, watching it with wariness. “It is painful. But not because it was Otho’s. This room belongs to Dagfinn.”
Euphemia’s wide eyes snap to the door. Suddenly, it’s like she’s seeing it in a new light. All she knows about her husband is that he has a fondness for the sciences, and now this too. A peculiar mind with an inclination toward…what? Secrecy? Challenge? A test of worthiness?
“Only Dagfinn knows how to open this door,” Kelda says after a long silence. “That is why I do not come down here. That and because this room makes me feel unsettled.”
Involuntarily, Euphemia’s gaze flits to the sconce across the corridor, the one that had lit itself without anyone nearby to do so.
It’s lit now, too, she realizes. She wonders if Cybele witnessed it too.
Kelda’s keen eyes catch the trajectory of Euphemia’s gaze. She leans forward intently. “You saw something, little cloud.”
The air in the corridor shifts wildly.
Not the gentle breeze of an old and drafty manor.
This is something more severe.
Like a storm’s wind thrashing down the hall.
Euphemia and Kelda watch it in silence.
“What did you see?” Kelda asks with utmost severity.
And perhaps it’s for that reason, Euphemia answers honestly and swiftly.
“Just a flame. The first morning I slept here. I woke up and followed the lit sconces like Asvald instructed, but then—” she points a shaky hand to the sconce behind them, the flame erect and leaning forward as if it is listening too. “That sconce ignited on its own.”
She expects Kelda to burst out laughing.
Instead, the woman nods sagely. “Otho saw things too. Strange things. Shadows moving between the halls. Mirrors breaking only to repair themselves a moment later. Flames starting with no one nearby to light them.”
Euphemia feels her heart slamming against her ribs.
“And…you?” she asks.
Kelda shakes her head. “Only Otho ever saw them.”
Euphemia frowns. “Then, how do you know—”
“Oh, I do not need to see such things to know that they are real. There are bridges between the realms, you know. The veils and gates are just that—obstacles, but not impossible to break through.”
Blinking, Euphemia tries to keep up with her assessment. “Are you saying you believe there are…spirits in the house?”
“In the house. In town. All over the world.” She pats Euphemia’s shoulder with a sad smile on her face. “I knew you had the knowing. I just didn’t know how strong it was.”
The way she says it, it’s almost like she’s proud. Like this is something to be celebrated instead of the horror that it is.
“I’m not—ghosts aren’t real.”
Kelda throws back her head and laughs. The flame in the sconce ripples like it’s laughing with her.
With a flick of her wrist, Kelda starts walking down the hall. “Come, little cloud. I think I’d like your help after all.”
Not wanting to be left alone in a haunted hall, Euphemia rushes after her. “Help with what?”
“When you first arrived, you asked if you could help tend to Dagfinn.” Kelda raises an eyebrow at her. Looks her up and down. “I think it’s time I show you what really goes on in that tower.”