“Thank you.”
Following his gaze, I climb the steps, silently counting them to ease my nerves while taking in the gargoyles perched on the low stone walls and the urnlike planters that have sprawling ivy creeping out of them. Before reaching the door, I inhale deeply as if this might be the last breath I take, the evening air smelling of fresh rain and damp earth.
As I reach the top, the door opens, light from inside spewing out.
“Good evening, and welcome to Corvus House,” a man dressed in formal attire says as he holds the door, ushering me inside with his arm.
“Thank you.”
“If you head through the foyer and to the door on your left, you’ll reach the Great Hall.”
I nod, knowing full well where the Great Hall is because I’ve been here before.
This is the house from my dreams.
This is where I’ve spent my evenings with Valdemar. This is where he touched me on the balcony, spread me beneath the fountain, and laid me bare on the stage.
The foyer opens up, revealing a large staircase before me, a table in the centre sitting beneath the domed roof—all of it so familiar, it feels like I’m returning to some forgotten childhood home.
Leaving the quiet of the foyer, I turn left and am swept through open double doors and into the bustle of the Great Hall, each step feeling surreal.
Lost in my memories, I see the stage to the right, where a band plays soulful music. My hands flex at the memory of the wood beneath my palms as Valdemar sat me on its edge. Goose bumps flutter over my skin at the thought of the dead hands upon me and how I had wished they were his.
I’m so lost in the dreams that I haven’t noticed the whole room has stopped.
Eyes glare at me. Eyes that are very much alive.
Women. Men. Suits. Ballgowns. The chatter has died, the band the only thing to be heard as I walk into the swathe of people.
Anxiety flares under my skin at the heat of their stares. I crane my neck to gaze over their heads.
Where is he?
The men are wearing black suits, and the women are wrapped in black dresses. My silver gown stands out like a red rag being waved at a bull, and I wonder if the simple fact that I didn’t get the note about the dress code is the reason for theirstares. But I know that isn’t the case. They know who I am, and they’re wondering, as am I, what the fuck I’m doing here.
Ignoring the looks, I continue my search. He has to be here.
A tray arrives under my nose, brandishing tall glasses of fizzy amber liquid. I shake my head. I need my wits about me. Although, as the tray is withdrawn, I think maybe I was too hasty and that the alcohol might dull the barrage of nerves.
Like a ruffling of feathers, the crowd parts the deeper I wade into the twitter of beaks and plucking of plumage. I’m a cat amongst the pigeons. An imposter to the flock.
The music slows to a halt, as if the musicians have run out of batteries. And it’s in the stifling silence that I hear the unmistakable click of a gun.
I stop, the deadly charge reverberating in the air, the twittering ceased and the feathers fallen. The crowd stares over my shoulder, and I deduce that someone behind me has a gun aimed at the back of my head.
Fear paralyses me. I can’t run—there’s nowhere to go, and they would never let me out.
Is this how Ed felt? Am I about to join my brother in death?
Then we all hear him.
“Put the gun away. Now.”
Their heads turn in unison, and I’m flooded with relief as Valdemar emerges from a door in the far corner.
His black suit hugs his lean frame and emphasises his broad shoulders. His dark hair is sleek and shiny, secured in a neat bun at the back of his head. The command he has of the room is frightening. I would have expected Valdemar to have a gun raised at the person who must have one trained on the back of my head, but as I hear the shuffle behind me, I realise Valdemar doesn’t need a weapon to make people listen to him.
He is enough.
