I spend the day pacing my floor, swearing at each creak of the boards, and when night finally does come, the air smells of snow. From my window, I watch Farmer Whitley’s wagon rumble across the bridge, lantern swinging, while he carries the last remaining crop for market in the morning.
I remember market days. The spritz of ripe orange flesh against my teeth, the comforting scent of roasting chestnuts, spiced rye cakes. Mother used to take me when she went to sell her flowers and tinctures. I remember seeing Bram there once, his little sisters trailing like goslings behind him, and I smile at the memory.
And then it is replaced by something else. A shadow approaches the tree line from across the river.
Ransom’s voice is silk in my head, his hands on my waist like winter wind. I grind my teeth, jaw cracking. We enter the woodtonight. But I am not doing this for Ransom, for his father’s obsession with death, for the wreckage and ruin that has become Blackbourne Castle. I am doing this for myself. For my family. For the mother I lost too soon and the father who has forgotten how to love me.
I look at a portrait above my small mantle. Mother’s lips like rosebuds, a gold locket for Ithrandril hanging from her throat. Father’s steel-gray eyes.
For them. Everything for them. To stitch my family back together, soul by soul, even if it means stealing two additional lives back from the gods.
The light of the moon is cool on my face, and I press the glass open, welcoming the night. It greets me with the cold scent of frost, the rot of apples down in the orchards, the leaves falling from the trees like flecks of gold in the moonlight. I take a deep breath of it all, letting it fill my lungs near bursting.
My door erupts, and my heart turns double in my chest.
Father stands in the frame, a candle wicking below his face, hollowing out the sallow shadows of his cheeks.
“Close your window.” His voice is hard and cold.
I finger the bell, toying with the idea of ringing it right here and now, summoning Bram and showing Father the power I wield. This power of life and death. But I don’t. I listen to the careful beats of my heart and smile.
“I’m sorry if the chill disturbed you. I was only—”
“I do not care for your excuses, Adelaide. I said, close the window.” His words are sharp now, metal licked over by a whetstone.
But mine are the edge of beaten brass.
“Ithrandril is good to those who wait.” The Blessed Scripture spins from my lips like mud from a wheel.
I watch in satisfaction while his lips part, shock veiling his eyes.
“And you have waited long enough, have you not, Father?”
“What are you talking about, child?”
“Ever since Mother died, you have wanted me gone. But you couldn’t. The vicar, send away his own child? Heaven forbid it. So, you spoke of my evils, my weaknesses.” My hand curls to my throat, just to feel my heart. “The town believes you now.She’s a monster, you know? The one responsible for all the killings.That’s what they say, isn’t it? Down in the village? What the Mayor himself believes?”
Father flinches, steps closer, but my hand is already on the windowsill, reaching for the frame, the slate tiles.
“Adelaide, I know you are not—”
“You don’t have to wait any longer, Father. The truth will set you free, will it not? And the truth is—” My words stick in my throat, turning to hot gobs of paste. I blink back tears. “The truth is, I’m going to fix us. I’m going to set this all to rights.”
Before he can stop me, before I can turn away from this disastrous plan, I leap for the windowsill and crash out against the tiles. They crack beneath my boots, and the cold air rams into me like a thousand iron nails.
Father dashes across the room, my name on his lips, but he is too late. Already, I am hurtling toward my mother’s forgotten garden beds. The wind blows at my skirts, and I hold tight to the bell while I slip into the night.
For family. To piece us back together.
Three souls will make me Death itself.
Ransom is standing near the tree line while Father’s cries hound my heels. His stance is nonchalant, shoulders tipped back against the silver moonlight, but he straightens when he sees me. I fumble the bell from my pocket, sweat already freezing on my forehead, heart racing.
Ransom’s brows lift. “Not the quiet escape you were hoping for?”
“Shut up.”
I push him in front of me and glance behind us. Father is through the kitchen door now, the candle guttering in his hand. He bellows my name. In one fluid motion, I hold the bell aloft.
