A draft rushed past me, ruffling my hair like a pat on the head, and the door clicked shut behind my back.
The promise of frying bacon pulled me down the last tight curve of the spiral staircase, but even the scent of food couldn’t chase the chill from my spine. That moving wall had unsettled me more than I cared to admit. It was one thing for a house to be draughty or decrepit; it was another entirely for it to rearrange its own anatomy to confuse a guest. I stepped off the final stair onto a threadbare rug. This wasn’t the kitchen proper, but a narrow service corridor lined with dark wood paneling that seemed to swallow the weak morning light filtering through the high, grime-streaked windows.
A few paces ahead, the corridor hooked sharply to the left, disappearing into a maw of shadows. But before the turn, hung slightly crooked on the wall, was a mirror. It was framed in tarnished silver carved to look like tangled briars. I slowed, intending only to check my appearance, and to smooth the hair I’d hastily shoved back and wipe the sleep from my eyes before facing whomever happened to be in the kitchen.
I caught my own gaze in the glass, my eyes wide and encircled by fatigue, my lips pale. My breath hitched, locking in my throat. In the reflection, the corridor didn’t turn left into darkness. It stretched straight ahead, the paneling gleaming with polish, the gloom replaced by a wash of sunlight. Thereflected hallway opened into a conservatory I hadn’t seen on Fenrik’s tour, a space of glass walls and lush, vibrant greenery. Standing amidst the ferns in that sun-drenched reflection was a woman. She stood with her back to the glass walls, the light turning the loose strands of her hair into a halo. Her dress was a pale, sea-glass green, the silver embroidery catching the light like ripples on water. It looked very much like Lady Kelda. She was watching me. Her hands were clasped loosely in front of her, her expression one of serene patience. Her eyes met mine in the glass, and a smile plucked at the corner of her mouth. I spun around, my boots scuffing loud on the wooden floor.
“What are you—“
The words died on my tongue. The corridor behind me was empty. There was no conservatory. No sunlight and no Kelda. I whipped my head back to the mirror. The reflection showed only me now. Me, and the dark, empty turn of the corridor behind my shoulder. The sunlit room was gone. Kelda was gone.
“I saw you,” I said, my voice trembling.
The house offered no answer. No floorboard creaked; no draft sighed. Was this how the madness started? Did the manor feed on sanity before it fed on life? I took a step closer to the mirror, my reflection stepping with me, mirroring my fear. The silver frame seemed to writhe in the corner of my vision, the briars tightening.
Fighting every instinct that screamed at me to run, I raised my hand. I needed to know it was real. I needed to feel the cold,hard assurance of glass. My index finger met the surface. There was no click of nail against crystal. Instead, the surface yielded. It felt thick and cold, like pushing my finger into the surface of a freezing pond. The reflection rippled from my touch, distorting my own face into a grotesque swirl of skin and eyes.
I gasped and jerked my hand back. The ripples settled, smoothing out until the glass looked solid again. I backed away, clutching my hand to my chest, staring at the tarnished silver frame. This house wasn’t just crumbling; it was sick. It was playing with my reality, dangling hallucinations like bait. This house seemed to use the dreaded veil magic. But veil magic could not invent lies, it could only strengthen the ones people were already telling themselves.
I turned and sprinted for the door at the end of the hall that smelled of bacon, desperate to put a door between me and the watching glass. I practically fell through the oak door, slamming it shut behind me. The sudden normality nearly knocked me over. The kitchen was a sanctuary of copper pans reflecting firelight, the heavy scent of frying bacon, and the bubbling of a kettle.
Mrs. Crane stood at a vast wooden worktable, a knife flashing rhythmically as she dismantled a bundle of chives. She didn’t so much as glance up at my frantic entrance.
“Morning, Miss. Or I suppose it’s ‘My Lady’ now, though the words still taste like unripe persimmons coming off the tongue.”
I leaned against the door, waiting for my heart to stop. “Please, just Lysa. Mrs. Crane, the hallway... the mirror... it moved. The wall moved.”
“Mm.” Mrs. Crane scraped the chives into a bowl of eggs. The look she gave me said that ‘just Lysa’ would never do. “The West Wing corridor tends to be temperamental before noon. It likes to route guests past the portrait gallery. A bit vain, this house.”
“Vain?” I pushed off the door, my legs still trembling, and moved toward the heat of the stove. “It felt predatory. Does Lord Stormgarde navigate a labyrinth every time he wants a cup of tea?”
“Him?” A ghost of a smile softened Mrs. Crane’s mouth. She poured the egg mixture into a sizzling pan. “The Manor has always had a soft spot for Fenrik. When he was a boy, before the... troubles... he used to play hide-and-seek with the pantry door. It would hide him from his tutors for hours.” She nodded toward a stool. “Sit. You look like you’ve seen a ghost, and while we have plenty of those, I prefer you eat before you start conversing with them.”
I climbed onto the stool, wrapping my hands around the mug of tea she slid across the wood. The heat seeped into my aching fingers. “He was a child here? I have trouble picturing him as anything other than... well.”
“Marble? Unyielding?” Mrs. Crane flipped the omelette. “He was a wild thing once. Skinned knees and pockets full of frogs. The stillness came later. Grief does that to a person, it calcifiesthem.” She set the plate before me. “Eat. You’re too thin, and fighting curses requires strength.”
I took a bite, the savory warmth grounding me, but my gaze drifted past Mrs. Crane to the narrow window overlooking the courtyard. The mist was heavy this morning, clinging to the overgrown boxwoods, but movement flashed through the grey. One of the Garden Drakes, no larger than a house cat, with scales the colour of polished emeralds, stalked along the stone sill outside. These creatures were docile, content to warm tomato vines with their breath. But this one was bristling, the ruff of spines along its neck flared wide.
It hissed, snapping its jaws at the empty air near the glass.
I lowered my fork. “Mrs. Crane.”
The drake arched its back, spitting flame, a tiny spurt of fire, at absolutely nothing. It scrambled backward as if struck, though nothing had touched it.
Mrs. Crane followed my gaze. Her shoulders slumped, the formidable housekeeper posture deflating for a fraction of a second.
“They’ve been doing that for weeks now,” she said. “Reacting to things we can’t see.”
“It thinks it’s under attack,” I said, watching the drake swipe a claw at the damp morning air, its eyes wide and milky with panic.
“Lord Stormgarde says it’s the curse affecting their senses, making them perceive threats that aren’t real.” Mrs. Crane set a teacup down on the counter with slightly more force thannecessary, the china clattering. “But I’m not so certain it’s the curse making them see things. Perhaps it’s the curse makingusblind to what they can see perfectly well.”
The words hung ominous in the warm kitchen air, curdling the comfort of the bacon and tea.
A low growl rumbled near my feet. Kirion had slunk into the kitchen behind me, his midnight-blue scales dull in the firelight. He wasn’t looking at the food. He was rigid, his ears swivelling. He stared intently at the same window, at the same patch of empty, innocent air that terrified the drake outside.
His lips peeled back from his teeth, and smoke leaked from his nostrils, pooling on the floorboards. He was looking at an intruder I couldn’t see.
