The wailing rose, echoing through the beams and the air itself.
Poe’s feathers fluffed, his pupils narrowing to black pinpoints. He clicked sharply in warning, but the crying only grew louder, muffling his sounds.
My hand pressed to the wall for balance as another wave of dizziness swept over me, darkening the edges of my vision. My stomach lurched in protest as bile filled my throat.
Panic, I told myself, swallowing hard. Only panic.
You’re not drugged. You are not losing your mind.
But panic did not usually make the walls breathe.
Poe dug his talons gently into my shoulder again, steadying himself as my legs wobbled beneath me.
That was when I heard it again. A thin, strangled sob. It was distant and muffled like someone crying into their own hands.
My breath stalled.
Despite knowing I should run away, hide in my room under the coverlet, I couldn’t stop myself from following it.
This time, it did not pull me toward the east wing. It drew me down.
Down the narrow servant’s staircase. Down where the air was colder, the ceilings lower, the walls damp with old tears.
Poe leapt from my shoulder as I descended, gliding silently ahead of me. His wings cast fractured shadows along the walls.
I continued to follow the sound though each step felt like a descent into a nightmare I had only half-escaped before.
The servants’ quarters were smaller than I’d guessed. Cramped. Close. A faint draft of coal dust and lavender soap lingered in the air.
And the crying was louder here. So loud that I wondered how no one else heard it.
Poe landed before a door near the end of the corridor. His head cocked sharply, eyes gleaming.
There were flowers by the threshold and a mourning wreath someone must have made for her.
“That,” I guessed, my breath trembling, “must be Lydia’s room.”
My fingers hovered above the knob, without touching, but the door eased open on its own, as though someone inside had been waiting for me.
A chill skittered up my spine.
“Is someone in there?” My voice barely carried.
Silence answered as I stepped inside.
Chapter 23
The small chamber smelled faintly of rosemary and something sweeter. Violets, perhaps. The bed was neatly made, the pillow fluffed, blankets tucked with precise corners. A pair of worn slippers waited beside it.
Nothing looked disturbed. Nothing looked as though its owner had been murdered only hours before.
It appeared, like most rooms in the manor, to be neat, tidy, and completely ordinary.
But then my eyes fell upon the vanity.
The top drawer was slightly open.
Poe landed upon the cracked mirror’s edge, tapping once with his beak.
