I can’t keep living like this.
Time to find a hotel.
Tossing off the duvet, I take a quick, hot shower and dress for the day. As I make my way downstairs, I go over my alternatives and things I need to consider before making the move.
My number one consideration is waiting at the front door, meowing to go outside. “Morning, Clairee.” I don’t know how hard it will be to find a hotel that allows pets.
And I don’t know when the little stray cat officially became mine.
“Guess we better get you to the vet,” I say, watching her race to the hedge and disappear.
Knowing she’ll be coming straight back for breakfast, I stand in the open door and make a mental checklist of what I need to do to get her back to the States. Vaccines, a pet carrier, other kitty cat paraphernalia.
Soon, she bounds back across the grass, passing me in her flight for food. She gets to the kitchen first, circling her usual feeding spot like a feline shark. Yellow eyes wide, she makes pitiful sounds, as if she’s on the verge of starvation.
“I’m hungry too, but we can both wait another minute.” I get out coffee and spoon grounds into the filter. Filling the pot with water, I glance back at the cat. “Sorry, girl. Priorities.”
The machine starts to hiss and spit as I make a bowl of Clairee’s beloved wet food.
While I wait on the coffee, my gaze wanders to the garment bag hanging from a cabinet. My purse is beneath it on the floor, both left there yesterday when I scoured the internet for articles.
Crossing the room, I unzip the garment bag to let the dress fall free. I won’t be leaving the mansion until tomorrow.
Because the dance is tonight.
I stroke the black satin and sigh. Despite my unsettling experiences at the mansion, I don’t want to cancel on Noah.
I bend to pick up my purse, but it’s heavier than usual.
Weighed down by the book I bought at the vampire store.
Setting my bag on the island, I retrieve the book and flip to the table of contents.
A voice inside warns me not to go down this rabbit hole. I don’t need to read stories of the undead when I’ll be spending the evening in the heart of this eerie mansion.
At an event called the monsters’ dance.
But I have hours to kill, and my curiosity is piqued. I recall the glint in the shop owner’s eyes as he slid the book across the counter to me. How he urged me to visit the cemetery and the mausoleum.
Is there something in the book I should read?
“I am starting to worry about my own sanity.” Dropping the book on the marble, I round the island to the coffee maker and fill a cup.
But as I take my first sip, I’m already moving to pick up the book again. Leaving the kitchen, I cut through the entry hall toward the grand staircase. The portraits glare from the wall above. Especially the man in the center.
No matter where I go, I feel his eyes tracking me.
I enter the grand salon that faces the courtyard, a bright room good for reading. Careful with my drink, I settle into the midnight-bluechaise longueand stretch out my legs.
The title of the book may sound interesting, but the reading is dry. More long, fluid, and formal wording, similar toCarmilla.
Instead of boring myself with long-winded chapters, I skip through the pages, pausing to study the occasional drawing. The first sections detail human deformities, spiritualism, and how to recognize demonic activity.
When I come to a chapter on alchemy, I sit up straight and set aside my cup. The first pages list substances used in the defense against evil. But it’s the chart of alchemic symbols that makes my heart kick at my ribs.
Under a category of “planetary metals,” there’s a drawing of the letter F nestled inside a larger V.
Similar to the late Grégoire Marteau’s favorite symbol, though his had an S instead of an F.
