“Thank gods I’m wearing my traveling boots,” Penelope said under her breath, shaking the excess moisture from her feet.
Blood painted the walls, the floors, the broken pieces of doors and furniture. And yet Penelope continued on, unhurried, no concern for what might be lurking. This house held her demons and the worst that could have happened, which already had. If she were to die like everyone else, no one would be left to mourn her. Hell, those who had died below wouldn’t have mourned her death anyway.
Penelope stopped in front of a door that was untouched, both by blood and damage.How odd…
Easing the heavy door open, Penelope stepped into her childhood haven. She felt a ghost of a smile ease across her face. This room had nothing but good memories. Her fingers trailed over the books her sister used to read to her:Songs of the Siren, Fairytales are True. The familiar spines steadied something tight in her chest.
Then her hand stopped.
A cloth-covered tome sat wedged between the others. It did not belong. Carefully she eased the book out and pulled the dark-blue cloth cover off to reveal a black cover etched with silver sigils. With trembling fingers, Penelope traced the sigils and a glow emanated from them, causing Penelope to jump back startled.
They had hidden the Grimoire in the nursery. Why? They might as well have left it sitting on the table in the parlor for all the protection the nursery offered! And yet, despite the destruction in the house, the nursery had remained untouched. Maybe her parents had known something she hadn’t; they were evil but not stupid. Suddenly, the nursery being untouched made even less sense. It was almost like she had been led right to this spot to find the Grimoire.
Grimacing, Penelope replaced the cloth cover and slid the book into her pocket. The silence in the house felt heavier, more menacing. The metallic tang of blood permeated everything, even on the floor where the nursery was. Suddenly, Penelope was desperate to leave. She whirled around, ready to flee, but stopped dead in her tracks.
“Lysandra,” Penelope whispered, stretching her hand forward.
The portrait was so lifelike, her sister at her most beautiful, ready to debut in the Ton. Her parents had commissioned the portrait, but it had been over a decade since Penelope had seen it. Not sincethatnight, not since she was sent away.
The portrait had always been beautiful.
Even hanging crooked in the dusty nursery, Lysandra’s eighteen-year-old face glowed with impossible elegance. Her gown was immaculate. Her posture perfect. Her smile soft but practiced. The Diamond of the First Water, the season’s most coveted beauty.
But to nine-year-old Penelope, her sister hadn’t looked untouchable; she was Penelope’s home in human form.
The memory rose before Penelope could stop it.
She had wandered into the parlor that day, book in hand, curious about the commotion. Penelope wrinkled her nose at the sharp, oily scent of paint that assailed her the moment she stepped into the parlor. Her parents had fretted over lighting, posture, and legacy while the painter murmured apologies for every adjustment.
Lysandra had sat there, poised like a goddess in cream silk. Penelope let out a little huff of awe, her sister was perfection personified.
Then Lysandra’s gaze had found Penelope, and the perfect mask cracked.
“Come here,” Lysandra had whispered, extending a gloved hand, a warm smile softening her lips.
Their mother hissed, “Not now. I told you to stay in the nursery. How dare you leave!”
But Lysandra had kept her hand out, patient and sure. Penelope had ignored their mother and gone to her.
Lysandra had taken her hand and pressed it to her cheek. “You’ve grown. And you get lovelier every year.”
Penelope had flushed at the praise, uncertain and shy. Their parents scowled.
“She encourages vanity,” her father had scoffed.
“Affection is not vanity,” Lysandra had replied, her voice soft but fierce.
Her mother had objected, and the painter hesitated, his brush suspended mid-stroke, a flicker of nerves tightening his posture before he resumed painting.
Lysandra had leaned closer, whispering so only Penelope heard, “You shine brighter than any diamond, my poppet.”
The nickname, given so long ago, still warmed Penelope’s chest.
“You look…” Penelope had struggled for the word. “Lonely.”
Lysandra had flinched, barely, but enough for Penelope to understand.
“I am only lonely when you’re not near me,” Lysandra whispered. “And I will protect you. Always.”
