“Ye wee shite, get back here,” Like he was a spoilt lump of fur.
I missed the farms, the sound of tractors grumbling awake before the sun was even up, the way the fields smelled of cut grass and diesel and that awful morning manure.
Jimmy the farmer used to swear and say, “The dung is good for yer lungs, lass,” every time I complained. I even miss that. God help me.
And I missed my dad. My real dad. One minute he was there. The next he was gone. Mum never talked about him. It was the one thing that shut her down, the one question that made her eyes water. She said the past hurt too much to look at. So, she didn’t. But Dennis never held back.
“You don’t want tae end up like your faither,” he’d say shaking his head like the thought alone was tragic.
“The man went aff his head”
And the more I heard it, the more it stuck. What if I was like him?
“What if this being taken was what happened to him too?
All I ever knew was what they told me, after the fire, after Mum’s stroke, he was “locked away for his own good.” But I never remembered that version of him. Not once. Not the madness. Not the danger. Just the absence.
I crawled into bed without bothering to undress, surrendering to the darkness before my thoughts could catch up with me.
.
TWENTY
CHAMBER OF SOULS
Sunlight stretched across the floorboards as I stepped out of my room, the pale morning light making Sternwacht seem almost harmless.
I had already eaten, dressed, and decided that hiding in my room would only make things worse. Today, I needed answers. Today, I needed to see this place clearly.
Stepping into the hall, I left my door ajar and quickly rushed down the hall. Though I noticed movement in my peripheral vision, I kept my eyes averted from the tapestries.
I tried the first door I passed. It was locked. Then another, also locked. A third, this one rattled,as if something pressed back from the other side.
A prickle of fear ran down my spine, and I quickened my pace. I hurried down the spiral stairs and turned left into the corridor, passing door after door, perhaps even the brothers’ quarters. A library rose on my right, its shelves stretching from floor to ceiling.I’d come back here later. I’d meant to find the kitchen, but instead I’d wandered into the West Wing.
I spent what felt like hours exploring, trying doors, tracing corridors, hoping for some clue about what they truly planned for me, or some hidden way out. Every path led only deeper into the Manor’s maze. That was when I heard it, the hauntingly beautiful notes of a harp drifting through the corridor, pulling me forward even as every instinct warned me to stop.
Was someone else here? Or was this another ploy to make me fearful? I looked at a set of double doors at the end of the corridor and approached with more anger than concern. If someone was playing games, it was time for me to score a point. I pushed through the doors and stopped as I gazed into an enchanted salon bathed in the glow of candlelight.
Luxurious French-style furniture filled the vast room, dominated by a sculpted marble fireplace. Flames danced cheerfully within, the glow reflecting from crystal vases displaying artful arrangements of every imaginable flower.
I paused to sniff a cluster of pink and blue roses, In the flickering light I noticed the portraits gracing the creamy silk-papered walls in the same intricate masks from the tapestries.
The more detailed portraits revealed a disturbing resemblance to Seraphina in that they all looked her age.
Not one of the women was younger. I could only guess that the masks were worn in the brothers’ world to conceal their age.
I noticed one woman appeared in more portraits than any of the others. She bore such a resemblance to the brothers that I assumed she was related. Each portrait depicted her wearing a different mask and gown. Although she looked older, she was stunning, elegant, and fiercely proud that despite the curse, her beauty and pride couldn't be touched.
Nor could my artistic eye stray long from the shimmering creations she wore in every colour and design. Silks, laces, taffetas,chiffon, and some fabrics I did not recognise, flowed from her body like a visual symphony as beautiful as the artwork in the salon. I longed to reach out and touch them and visualised what it must be like to wear such gowns.
A fleeting tune from the harp startled me. I approached an annex leading off the main salon and stopped. A magnificent gilt harp with angel wings rose beside a brocade-draped window. Staring in admiration, I moved across a rich Aubusson rug toward it. I’d never seen a harp before, and the sight of its polished edges was yet another work of art.
I sat on the cushioned seat beside it and gently plucked one of the strings. A heavenly sound filled my soul, and I sat enchanted. I gazed at more portraits and at eyes that seemed to follow me, then noticed an ornate gilt mirror reflecting some of the paintings.
At first, I thought it was a trick of the flickering candlelight, but as I focused my gaze, I noticed that the faces no longer looked older. Glancing back at the paintings, I saw that the faces were indeed older, yet when I looked back into the mirror, the faces were distinctly more youthful.
Disturbed, I rose and approached the mirror. Sure enough, as I gazed at the reflected images of the portraits, the masked women were clearly younger. When I turned to look directly at the paintings, the faces were older.
