“I don’t know,” I admit.
Anything is possible in the seer school. It’s haunted by the Tragedy and our own personal ghosts. That’s why I rarely volunteer to patrol here. Not only would Father think I’m taking the easy way out, but something about this place has always feltoff.
As I continue down the long line of paintings, I study each face carefully. The rest appear to be regular portraits. Each background is plain, placing the focus on the individual. I don’t even know what it is I’m looking for—
A familiar face stares out at me.
TRYGVE LUND, the plaque below reads. My uncle.
Father keeps a framed photo of him on the wall of his office. In this painting, Trygve isn’t smiling. He appears somber and serious, resembling Father far more than I realized. Beside him is…
Wait.Father?
Why is there a portrait ofhimhere? He’s a hunter, not a seer.
I check the name beneath to make sure:AGNAR LUND.
Father, a seer? Impossible. I stare at his portrait in disbelief. If he were a seer, then that would mean he’s been lying to me my whole life. I know my own father. There’s no way he would have kept something like this from me.
“Amund?” Edith asks, joining me. “Who is that?” She narrows her eyes at the portrait. “Wait, he looks kind of like—your dadis a seer?”
“It would appear so,” I say, though I’m still not certain.
“You didn’t know?” When I shake my head, Edith adds, “I never realized mine was a berserkr either. I guessbothour dads kept secrets from us.”
“I’ll have to confront him about it if we ever get out of here.”
Ifbeing the key word. Right now my focus should be on finding a way out. I force myself to continue my inspection, searching for some clue on how to escape. Beside him is a portrait of a girl with a freckledface and brown hair. According to the plaque, her name isAnastasia Orlova.She reminds me of Irina, actually. Was this her aunt?
Anastasia’s eyes blink.
I stumble back. “Did you—”
“Hmm?” Edith asks, still studying the portrait of my father.
My jaw tightens as I turn back toward Anastasia’s—
It’s empty.
Anastasia is gone, leaving only the black brushstroke background.
Suddenly, it’s difficult to breathe.
Impossible. My eyes dart down the corridor. In the darkest reaches, I see a girl standing there, bathed in shadows. Her face is unmistakable.
Anastasia.
Only now her throat is slit ear to ear. Dark red stains the front of her dress like a gruesome waterfall. She tries to speak, but no words come out. Her vocal cords must be severed, even as a ghost. Her hand shoots out of the shadows, a long finger extending toward the opposite end of the hall. The way we originally came from.
Realization dawns on me.
“We have to go back,” I say, thinking out loud.
Edith turns to me, seeming unaware of the ghost. “What?”
“To get out of this hall, we have to goback, not forward.”
As soon as I say the words, Anastasia shoots toward us. On instinct, I grab hold of Edith, shielding her with my body. But instead, Anastasia passes through us like a wisp of smoke, leaving icy tendrils in her wake. As cold spreads through me like frost, I hold on to Edith and her warmth more tightly.
