“Home sweet home,” Aliz says, unease in her voice.
“You scared?” I ask.
The path is even, and the starry sky lends just enough light to the dirt road for me to know I won’t trip again. All the same, Aliz keeps her arm aroundme.
“I moved in here the night I arrived,” Aliz says. “With two maids and a bodyguard. But even with them nearby, it was terrifying. I couldn’t sleep. I kept hearing sounds in the attic. There are rumors that there’s someone squatting up there, but even though I lived here for two years before moving to Tynarrich, I never saw them.”
The windows, which in my dreams are always smashed in, are intact. The frizzled-up wisteria is somehow in full bloom, despite being months past its season. Perhaps, like the rest of the small palace, the vines are frozen in time, lilac petals turned to glass.
It doesn’t feel real. How could I have dreamt of a place like this before seeing it? I stare up, taking in every detail that matches the palace that haunts us both at night. When I glance at Aliz, she’s doing the same, a grimace hardening her jaw.
The one thing that’s missing now, though, is the panic I feel at the start of our dreams. Aliz’s eyes are black. I don’t have to run from her. And she’s not going to chaseme.
“Is that why you moved to Tynarrich?” I ask, as we approach the front gate. “Because of a squatter in your attic?”
“It was a contributing factor,” Aliz says. “I wanted to feel like an ordinary student. And nothing set me apart from my classmates like living in a place like this.”
She gestures up at the towering stone façade, and I try to imagine her leaving Hungary behind and moving into this lonely and decrepit place. What exactly made her move here? “Where is the maze?” I ask.
“Across the river,” she says, letting go of my shoulder. “But I don’t want to go near it.”
The palace’s front garden is overgrown, tall bushes and weeds crawling over the path, blocking our way. Aliz draws out an old, oxidized key. The front doors groan as she pushes them open.
“Why not?” I ask. My voice echoes into the dark hall. Aliz ignores my question, searching the ground for something. A second later, a lantern lights up in her hands, an old fashioned one with a black frame encasing a candle. She holds it up, its golden glow illuminating dozens of sculptures and paintings lining the walls.
Something akin to vertigo stops me from moving as I stare along the hall. It’s just like the one from my dreams. I can’t wrap my head around it being a real place.
I follow Aliz into the hallway and stare up at the paintings.
Even in the dim light, I can make out her features, and I know it’s her: Ada Astra is painted like Circe, amongst lions. She’s in a deep burgundy gown, and her white hair is piled above her head in intricate curls, her lips ruby red. She’s breathtaking and terrifying. The sort of vampire I’m glad I’ll never cross paths with.
This time, though, none of the paintings come to life. Even so, I’m afraid to walk past them, in case the paint cracks and she reaches out, covered in blood.
“You know why,” Aliz says, snapping my attention back to our conversation. “Every nightmare has the exact same ending,” she whispers, low enough for her voice to not echo off the ceiling, chipped frescoes adorning the surface. There’s a faint whiff of soot, a chimney that must have been burning a few days ago. “I always catch you.”
She runs a hand down my back, and I swallow hard, playing with the wire frame of my glasses.
A grand staircase marks the end of the hall. Behind it is the crystal ballroom, stars and branches visible through the glass ceiling. “Do you know where your sister’s bedroom is?” I ask.
“Upstairs,” she says. We begin our ascent, marble stairs covered in dust. A large portrait of Ada Astra decorates the landing, this one displaying a more natural side of the old heir. She’s in a flowy, Grecian inspired dress, and her white hair falls in soft waves to her hips. Her blue eyes follow me as I walk past her.
“She was pretty,” I say. Aliz frowns atme.
“Like me?”
“You’re…” I glance at her, attempting my best impression of indifference. I cup her cheek. “Gorgeous.” It’s true, but I ensure sarcasm drips from my voice, as saccharine as I can muster. She bristles, pursing her lips.
“Cassie,” she complains. “Don’t be mean.”
“Don’t fish for compliments,” I reply.
The walls of the first floor are identical to those on the ground floor, a variety of sculptures, marble and bronze with limbs reaching out to grab passersby. Behind them, though, instead of paintings are mirrors. I gawk at my reflection. I barely resemble myself, my dyed red hair with a brassiness in it that I’d not noticed before.
But worse are my features, flushed, glasses hiding eyes that are somehow…softer. Everything about me before reaching Tynahine, all my edges and sharp corners, are blunt now, curved. I’m a picture of health. What would Penny think if she sawme?
The lantern moves, floating away, and only then do I remember Aliz doesn’t have a reflection. Just like last time, I can hear her, feel her, but she’s missing. Instantly, I’m there, ten days ago, just after finding the mark crawling across my collarbones, her hand tugging my hair, her tongue running up my neck, fingers slipping beneath my shirt, pressing her knee between my legs.
“It’s creepy,” Aliz says. “Perhaps you should hold the lantern, so it doesn’t look like you’re being stalked by a ghost.”
