I take it from her, its weight enough to ground my thoughts. Just then, my old phone vibrates. I draw it out, Penny’s face filling the screen. I decline the call as fast as I can and shove it back into my pocket.
“You could have answered,” Aliz says.
“It’s fine,” I say. It vibrates again. I can practically see Penny, sitting in her office, irritation blooming across her features. I decline the call again and hold my phone close, out of sight as I open our chat.Can’t talk,I type quickly.
“Your girlfriend?” Aliz asks.
“Why are you so obsessed with my love life?” I counter. My voice comes out too harsh, leaving no room for a lighthearted reply.
“I’m not,” she says curtly. Luckily enough, Penny doesn’t call again, though she doesn’t reply to my text, either. I feel myself growing awkward, until Aliz says: “That’s her room.” Her voice changes, lowering with graveness. Double doors stand at the end of the mirrored hall, sculptures at either side holding long swords.
Somehow, Ada Astra’s room is exactly what I was expecting. A grandiose chandelier hanging from the vaulted ceiling, crystals catching the lantern’s glow. Unlike the rest of the house, this room is free of dust, as if someone has been taking care of it. The walls boast painted landscapes framed in gold.
There are swords perched on the wall, too, some with a gleaming sheen to them, iron or silver, while others are rusty needles that look like they’d crumble the moment you touch them.
At the centre of the room, on a stained-glass podium three steps high, is a coffin. It’s a monstrous thing, as wide as my own bed, padded with red cushions. The white wood looks like porcelain, and engraved in gold is the same emblem that decorates Aliz’s coffin. And my neck.
She stops beside me, staring at it. “What if someone’s inside?” she whispers.
A cold draft slams the door shut. Aliz jumps at the sound, grabbing my shoulders and letting go just as fast. She hisses something under her breath. Then the palace is completely silent.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” I finally say. “This is your sister’s coffin, isn’t it?”
“Yeah,” Aliz says.
“Can I open it?” I ask, making my way up the three steps.
“Go ahead,” she says. Her arms are crossed, and she shifts uncomfortably, looking between me and the coffin.
I open it just an inch, and scream.
Aliz echoes my scream. She grabs a rusty sword off the wall and immediately drops it when she sees my expression. I shouldn’t laugh, but I can’t help it. “You really are a scaredy-cat,” I say, opening the empty coffin all the wayup.
“Thanks,” she grumbles. I focus on the coffin. There’s nothing inside but more white wood. Unlike Aliz’s, there’s no mattress or bedding. But on the inside of the lid are long and deep scratch marks.
“Okay, this is actually creepy,” I whisper as I feel Aliz come to stand next tome.
“There’s nothing in here,” she says. “Can we go?”
“Did your sister have a study?” I ask. “Maybe we’ll find something there.”
Just then, my eyes pause on one painting right in the corner of the room that’s different to the rest. The canvas has been slashed with an angry diagonal line. I lift the torn edge, until the vaguely familiar features come into view.
The woman in the painting looks like a soldier, her jet-black hair cut short just below her ears. She wields a silver sword, and on her neck, barely visible, is a black moon surrounded by thorns.
“My sister’s Familiar,” Aliz says behind me. “Legend says she was a bodyguard who was immune to compulsion. So in order to control her, Ada consulted with witches to find a curse that would bind them together.” Aliz steps closer to the painting, taking in the mark on the Familiar’s neck. “I wonder how much of that was true.”
Pain twists through my mark. I’m in the exact same position. Immune to compulsion, but on the brink of losing the only defense I have. “What’s her name?” I ask, a sinking feeling in my chest.
“Catherine Lovelace,” Aliz says. My hands go cold.
No.
I think back to Penny’s office and the silver sword that hangs there, that once belonged to the same woman in the painting. My eyes sting. Finding out that Callisto had once worked for the Astras was bad enough. Butthis?
Callisto’s founder was also Ada Astra’s Familiar.
I feel as though the floor is about to vanish beneath my feet. I storm away from the painting, swallowing my panic. My hands have gone numb, my throat too tight to utter a single word. I need to calm down.
