“Hello,” she called out through the shadows.
She waited, listening.
And then, a voice hissed through the cracks of the door.
“Wilhelmina.”
She took a step back, her mind returning to the first night, to the whispering she’d heard outside her chamber doors. This did not sound like the voice of Father Petru, that much was clear.
Another voice joined the first. “Wilhelmina.”
Nausea climbed up Mina’s throat. She thought of the figure in the cloak, the one who’d seemed to have lured her out to the wolves, the one that even the intruder had seemed afraid of.Quiet, or we’re both dead.
The two voices called out to her again, this time in unison. “Wilhelmina.”
Mina opened her mouth to respond, but her throat had gone dry as cotton. A new thought crept in, cold and unwelcome. What if the door had never been locked to keep her out—but to keepthemin? What if that was why the Count had never spoken of those who lingered in the north wing? What if they had been kept apart because they were dangerous?
A wolf’s howl cut through the night outside the windows to her right, and she looked into the darkness, seeing nothing but the moon overhead and the shadowed peaks of the mountains beyond. Another howl joined the first, and another. Soon, anentire pack was howling and yipping, and Mina had the terrifying sensation that these creatures were connected to whatever lay behind that door, that these were no mere mortal women. She imagined the witches fromMacbeth, luring her with their incantations, a dark omen of what awaited her in the north wing.
Mina stepped back from the door, grasping the candelabra and trying to focus, trying to ease her trembling hands. But her mind returned to the note which had lured her outside, then to the cloaked figure at the entrance. And suddenly, she could not ease the worry that whoever lay beyond that door wanted harm to come to her. They both did.
Be brave, her mind urged, but a louder, more forceful voice within called out to her:Run.
“Come to us,” a voice crooned.
“Join us in death,” came another.
Her mind flashed to the novel:The Dead Woman in Love.It had been a threat. Before she could question it, she ran.
She stumbled in the dark, nearly crashing into an edge of the stone wall, but desperate to get far away from this wing. Her eyes were fixed to the ground, and she tried to find the pins, but she heard those same whispers, over and over again, and she lost sight of her markers. She looked behind her, unsure of whether the voices were following her, or whether it was her imagination.
Candle in hand, she sped up, terror seizing her chest. She saw an alcove ahead leading to a staircase, and without questioningher direction, she carried on, racing down the stairs, the light held out before her. She heard the echoes of her own footfalls, and she didn’t dare look up to see if they’d followed, only feeling desperation to move, to leave.
She passed one floor and carried on going down, down, down, until there were no more stairs and she was faced with a door. Her body urged her to go forward, to not look back, that nothing that lay ahead could be as dangerous as what lay behind. Tears pricked her eyes as she reached out, knowing the door would be locked like every other door in this castle. But as she pulled the handle, it eased open.
Surprise and relief spilled through her and slipped inside, shutting it behind her and walking backwards, her eyes fixed on the door.
She listened, straining to hear anything over the sound of her rapid heartbeat. She walked back slowly, afraid to turn away from the door for even a moment, for fear that they would suddenly appear behind her, but she glanced over her shoulder, finding a wall nearby, and placed her back firmly against it.
Several moments passed, and still she heard nothing but her own ragged breath. She waited, replaying the voices she’d heard—their cryptic whispers followed by the howling of the wolves, seemingly in response to them, and it sent a new wave of chills down her spine.
Was this why the Count had been so adamant not to go to the north wing? Was it not because of crumbling architecturebut because of the creatures that lay inside? Had it been a fluke that the door was unlocked that night? An accident from either the Count or Sofia? But how had she not encountered them the first time she’d gone in? Had they been away, roaming through the castle like wraiths in the night?
Mina swallowed. Trying to grasp onto the logical part of herself, trying to will herself to be brave despite the fear still coursing through her. She peeled her eyes away from the closed door, looking at the space around her. The air was cold and damp, and her mind returned to the last time she’d been in the underground of the castle—the night of the marriage ceremony.
It brought her mind back to the priest. Had he been the reason the raiders stormed the castle? Did they believe the man was being held here against his will? She considered the possibility of the Count forcing the man, whether through physical force or threats of harm to others. It seemed so unlikely that the husband she’d seen be so gentle with her could be capable of such a thing. And surely, there were other priests willing to marry them? Why force Father Petru specifically?
Mina’s head pounded, her mind spinning with possibility, and yet she felt no closer to understanding. She peered down the shadowed corridor, wondering where the chapel had been in relation to where she stood now. She heard nothing but a distant dripping of water from somewhere above. She would need to face those stairs again if she had any hope of returning toher chambers, but perhaps, while she was here, she could return to the chapel, to see if there was any sign of the priest.
If the man was not in the north wing, could he be down here, behind one of the many locked doors? She walked down the long corridor, seeing no end to it in the shadows. She came across a large wooden door and approached, but as she went to listen in, the memory of what she’d just encountered sent a chill down her spine. She inhaled deeply. She would need to be brave.
With a sharp pull, she tugged on the door handle but found it locked. No sound came from within, and she carried on down the hall, trying the next door she came across and finding it locked as well.
She made her way, trying each door she could, but they wouldn’t budge. The possibility of finding this man seemed less and less likely with every door she tried.
The corridor carried forth, curving and revealing an open space marked with stone pillars at either side of the entrance. At first, she thought it might be the chapel that she and the Count had married in on the first evening, but there were no pews. Only a large wooden box sat in the center of the room, large enough to hold a person.
No, not a box—a casket.
