“We’re here.” The driver wakesme. I adjust my sight as I lean my forehead against the window to behold the source of many of Scarlett’s nightmares.
The castle is small and planted in front of the Emerald Lake Mountains.
As we pull into the long and wide graveled driveway, I get a closer look. There’s a clock tower, several chimneys, and long bay windows cloaked on the inside by curtains. With east and west wings, it gives me the impression of a lavish estate. The entrance has double-sided steps to the doorway, and there are four to five women staggered on the steps, shoulders back, chins raised, matching navy-blue, knee-length, fitted dresses. A man, towering above the women, stands in the doorway, dressed in an all-black suit. Their gazes are all directed at my buggy, unflinching stares that give me pause.
We pass a lush screen of greenery on either side of the driving path. Emerald-green arborvitae, like foot soldiers disguised on the front lawn. Fresh morning dew glistens as the sun pours over the crevices on the small castle.
I don’t know if I have the nerve to start yet. I’m not entirely sure I have the guts my sister had. I haven’t even let myself grieve Scarlett’s death, and I don’t think I ever will. But I remember one of the last conversations Scarlett and I shared. The night before she died, we were sitting on her bed, legs crisscrossed. She was brushing her long straight hair, and for the first time since we were reunited at the age of fifteen, she admitted the raw and bitter feeling she had been holding on tight to.
When we spoke about our mother, Violet Ambrose, she would express her anger and hatred toward her—how she shouldn’t be allowed to be calledMother. How if she ever saw Violet again, she would probably kill her.How could a mother let men touch her daughter? How could she hear my cries and collect her coin as I suffered?
But… that night, Scarlett didn’t cry, or yell, or scream at the memory. She looked at me sadly, she said,She was my mother, Sky. She was my mother, and all I ever wanted was for her to love me. She’s made me feel unlovable and for that… I don’t hate her. I hate myself.
That night, Scarlett held my hands in hers and said:It’s just you and me now. We have to promise to never leave each other.
It was the next night that her mop of golden hair and long skinny legs burned in that fire. She was nineteen years old.
I know there’s only one way to never leave her—like we promised that night. Despite my fears of stepping foot in this crypt of living corpses and the malevolent people killing them slowly, I have no choice but to wipe my face clean of anxiety and step out of this buggy.
This is me keeping my promise.
4. The Interview
Taking my first two stepsout, there’s a crunch where my heels dig into the gravel. My breath releases from my chest in a small gust of fog; its particles separate and disappear into the morning breeze.
The five women tower in front of me, mounted on the steps like memorial statues, icons of the history of Emerald Lake Asylum. Grim looks of judgment painted over their doll-like features along with rouge-pink lipstick, blushed cheeks, brown or smoky-gray eyelids, and painted eyebrows like markings of a calligraphy pen.
As I scan the faces, I land on the gentleman in the doorway. He is a little over six feet, thin like an Aspen tree in the mountains, with slicked-back charcoal hair and gray streaks on the sides.
The tallest woman, standing closest to the doorway, bows her head graciously, careful not to let any loose blonde curls slip down into her eyes. She’s older than the other women, but one could hardly tell. If it wasn’t for the lines around her thin lips where her mouth has probably bunched together around a cigarette hundreds of times, drawing in the smoke-filled nicotine daily, I probably wouldn’t have noticed. Other than that, her makeup is applied precisely, appropriately, covering any other signs of aging. She’s had years of practice. I can assume by her white collar and gloves that she’s in charge here. She’s who I need to impress.
“You must be Sky Ambrose.” The woman flashes me a tight smile, her voice flowingpasther lips like the soft notes of a flute.
Skylenna.Don’t correct her.
I nod my head. “I’m here for an interview.”
The one with short black hair at the top of the steps rolls her eyes. It was quick enough that I immediately doubt if I saw it at all.
“Indeed, you are. That will be conducted by me.” She walks down the steps carefully, allowing each heel to gently make an impact. “I’m Suseas Parlomon. Head conformist and one of the six board members on the asylum’s council.”
Suseas is no longer on a heightened platform and yet is still a good three inches taller than I am. Her posture is so straight that I’m convinced there are poles in her back to keep her upright permanently. She takes my right hand and gently squeezes it between both of hers.
“When we received the call from Mr. Aurick Dawson recommending this meeting with you, we assured him your time here would be most exquisite. He is, of course, a highly impressive figure to give a recommendation. We take his opinion very seriously.”
I should have asked him what he does for a living. I can’t help but raise my eyebrows in disbelief. I open my mouth to respond, but all that comes out is the clicking of my throat contracting as I gulp.
“I do hope you find our greeting as acceptable,” she adds with a fixated stare on my expression.
“Oh.” I look back at the women standing straight in perfect alignment with the double staircase. This was all to impress me? “Sure. Yes. It’s lovely.”
She smiles to herself with temporarily closed eyes. Pleased, she looks back at the gathered women with a reassuring nod.
“Please join us in the main hall. You must be chilled to the bone.”
I follow them up the stairs and through the wide double doors. The man disappears the second I step inside.
The bottoms of my shoes clack against the cream-colored marble floors. I look up to see why the echo is so loud, and the cathedral ceilings take me aback. There are stone arches webbed over our heads and a golden chandelier that doesn’t quite match the antiqueness of the room. The walls are stone, with pillars stationed at each corner of the vicinity meant to be a lobby.
