Saying nothing else, he headed to the door.
“Wait,” I said, unsure what I was supposed to do. “Who are you? Are you a friend of his?”
He paused, his hand on the doorknob.
“Excuse my manners. We don’t get many visitors. You can call me Liang. Wei Liang. And I’m someone who owes him a life debt. He saved me when I was a child.”
His fingers tapped the cruel scar over his throat.
“Since then, I’ve been a butler, a friend, a bodyguard—anything he needs me to be. Oh, and one more thing: when you wander around, don’t be scared of the manor’s tricks. It has the annoying habit of taking you where it needs you, not where you want to go.”
The door clicked shut. I listened intently yet heard no lock.
I exhaled and dashed to the tray.
What hand had I been dealt? I wondered while spreading butter over the warm toast with shaking fingers.
Sweet Mother Mary, what a feast this was!
There was hot tea, slices of cheese, an apple, crispy bacon, boiled eggs, and—oh my—scones with strawberry jam!
It had been ages since I had seen so much food.
When there was nothing left but crumbs, the world seemed much brighter.
This lion’s den was not too bad compared to my home—and the purgatory Arthur locked me up in.
I needed a plan, I thought, warming my hands on the fire.
With my belly full and my strength returning, with timid daylight casting colorful specks over the wooden floor, I was ready to meet any challenge.
I hadn’t failed. Not yet.
If I got on Emrys’s good side, there might be a way to find more clues.
Sooner or later, I would walk out of here. Free.
Hell, I might even sneak past Vexley’s men and the monsters! Those Hollowborn seemed to appear only at night.
Humming, I paced around, inspecting the rest of the room.
There was a vanity table littered with dusty perfume bottles and hairbrushes.
Who had lived here? I wondered, heading to investigate the door in the far corner.
Warmth hugged me when I opened it.
Deep green tiled walls gleamed in the flickering light of gas sconces, casting shadows over the porcelain tub at the center of the room. A brass pipe ran along its side.
A bath!
A real bath—not the torture chamber in St. Dismas or the complicated affair of buckets and freezing tin basins at home.
I turned on the porcelain-handled tap, and hot water rushed forth, steam curling into the air.
Shedding my crusty dress, I stepped in and let the heat wrap around me.
I sank deeper, muscles loosening, the grime of St. Dismas peeling away.
