He nods again and hugs me. The warmth of his hug reminds me how badly I miss the comfort my father used to share. In his moments of lucidness, he’d hold me when I’d cry after being locked in the basement for weeks. He’d snap out of the cruel trance, pull me from the murky pit of the house, and hold me tight.
“I’ll be here when you get back.”
~
This pocket of land isstowed away, once holding the path of a paved road, with a secured gated entrance and perimeter. Once, there were fantastical towers, barracks alongside an open field, and a dazzling wide river that coursed through grounds. There were armed men on posts, occasionally known to disguise themselves among the trees.
At least, that’s what I read in one of Aurick’s books in his study.
Now, the once skyscraping iron gates are melted to the ground, blasted through from chemical warfare within the first ten years of settlement. Trees, bushes, and weeds have conquered the open fields, grown through the barracks, and swallowed the paved roads. Headquarters lie beyond the barracks andpastthe once open field, a stone and pebbled tower—reigning as tall as a mountain as it kisses the underside of the clouds. All part of a strike of war from our southern rival country, Vexamen. War since settlement, sixty years ago.
My buggy leaves me at the entrance, promising me two hours to explore before returning. I gape up at the monumental architecture, shielding my eyes from the hot glow of the setting sun beaming alongside the tower. The wind had intensified before I left Aurick’s estate, beating against the windows of the buggy like a possessed whip. Now, it whirled through my hair and the silk, stormy-gray evening dress I changed into, blasting it around like a loose flag.
If I get tetanus here, I’ll beat him.
I walk right in, stepping over the double walnut entry doors, which are punctured and flattened at the threshold. Aside from the piles of ash and chandelier-sized holes in the ceiling and walls, this place doesn’t look so different from the inside of the asylum. Without the overtone of potpourri, there is even that same draft of murky lake water with the heavy difference of charcoal and soot.
To my left are spiraled stairs that look like they go on forever. Sadly, my legs aren’t equipped for all of this action—Dessin should have figured that out by now.
My heart batters slightly in my chest as I ascend, hoping there aren’t too many floors. He said the top one and the last room. I could be hiking up these stairs for leagues, fainting before I finally reach the end.
I count as I pass each floor, wondering what Dessin’s life was like before he admitted himself to the asylum. How did he come to know about the last floor in this tower? Where did he live? What were his passions? What did he care about?
My legs burn with the constant uphill battle to reach my destination, passing floor number six, my arms now sticky from sweat. I tug my gray gloves off my hands, fiddling with them to exert my frustration.How many more?
Seven.
I smile to myself, leaning up against the wall for support, swallowing to assist my now drier-than-dirt throat. The heavy winds whistle through the holes and gashes in the hallway.
I look to the end—the last door, wooden, cracked open, and a gentle breeze nudging it wider. I wish Dessin was here with me. He could tell me what really happened here. Even though details were left out, I know he’d have some way of knowing.
Not to mention his company—it would have been nice.
I step over chunks of debris and stone cascaded over the dark wood floors. Setting my sights and tunnel vision for that door, jittering with new energy to find what clue he’s left for me. How will I know what it is? What if this is a wild-goose chase? It feels like something he would do. Toy with my emotions by getting me to spill my buried memories in exchange for false leads and useless hours spent following them.
I push open the door, greeted by a rush of cold wind carrying the smell of rain.
A miniature library. Its shiny wooden interior, red carpet, sconces, and a scotch decanter with two crystal glasses on the corner of the desk. The makings of a savant’s study, much like Aurick’s, minus the old papers crumpled about and littering the floor.
Where do I start? There is no sign pointing me in the right direction, no illuminatingly peculiar object lying around for me to immediately see. Does he expect me to dig through all of this? The cabinets, the drawers?
I take a few more steps inside, letting myself wander around, waiting for that sign, that pointing finger, to a location I can investigate. But everything here is ordinary, unremarkable, at least not to the standards that would help me identify a clue from Dessin. I suppose I could start with the desk drawers. Peeking behind the desk, I glance over at the bookshelves—a carving into the wood catches my eyes like a spark from a lighthouse.
It’s the shape of a tree, with the letters S.W.A.
S.
W.
A.
It’s as if the red seas have parted, and those letters glow. Those aremyinitials.
Skylenna Winter Ambrose.
But, no, it isn’t possible. Dessin couldn’t have left the asylum, come all the way here in the time I’ve met him, knowing I’d play his game, knowing I’d come here and browse this room in this abandoned tower. He couldn’t have planned this. And even if he somehow could have, I never shared my middle name with anyone at the asylum. In fact, Scarlett was the only other person who knew it, other than my father. And now, it’s just me.
I lightly touch the carving, careful not to miss a detail, afraid it’ll disappear, wash away under my caress.How could you know so much, Dessin?The tree’s carving is deeper than the letters, the line darker. I push down on the trunk of the tree, and it gives no resistance, falling into the backboard of the shelf. There’s a double click, and the underside of the shelf splits, dropping down on top of the books below like a swinging attic door.
