Five deep gouges scar the wood. Five gouges that look likeclawmarks.
I back up until my shoulders bump against the window behind me. As I survey the rest of the room, looking for signs of struggle or death, I find nothing. Everything is in pristine order, just as it has been the previous times I’ve come here.
Except I get caught on one thing. On that spill of ink.
Black.
The darkness of which reminds me of something—something so close I nearly lean off the window toward it. Like I can break through the walls in my head and remember.
The wall of ice in my skull creaks, then cracks. A small glimmer of a memory slips through.
Cyrus’ back is to me, his head low as he faces the office window. Arms crossed over his chest. He sighs, “Agnes saw it.”
I lean up out of the armchair, swinging my boots off the ottoman onto the floor so I can stand and walk toward Cyrus. “She saw what, exactly?”
Devin interjects, “That blood will fill the halls.”
I roll my eyes at Devin. He’s always kept Cyrus safe—but often to the point of detriment. Agnes is not allowed to be in the same room as Cyrus, so it means trusting in Devin or Cyrus’ other advisors to share the exact translation. “That’s vague. You can’t possibly assume it means Cyrus will be dead. Perhaps the castle will come under attack?—”
“Blackblood, Marcella,” Devin hisses through his teeth.
It undoes the kernel of doubt I’m holding onto in my chest. I stop mid-step, a few paces from Cyrus. “You’re sure of it?” I ask quietly, ignoring Devin and staring straight at Cyrus.
He shakes his head, shoulders dropping even lower. “She’s a Dark Seer. It’s not her imagination—it’s the future. It’s truth.”
The memory is whisked away, and I’m left staring at that pool of black ink. Emptiness in my chest.
What was he writing to me, then?
I search the rest of the desk, pulling open drawers when an object catches my eye in one.
A long pointed object wrapped in blue velvet lies in wait. As I wrap my fingers around it and lift it, I already know what it is long before I take off the cover.
A dagger. The handle is elaborately carved to perfection, with green and red jewels glimmering in the golden hilt. I flip it over, running a finger from the tip of the blade down to the details etched in the metal.
My heart stops.
MBis carved into the center of the hilt. Small, but there.
Mydagger. Marcella Briarstone’s. No wonder it has such a comforting presence, such a familiar weight.
I sift through the rest of the drawers, hoping to find some sort of sheath. When I find nothing, I close the drawers.
How can I possibly carry this discreetly?
Pulling in a quick breath, I slice off a strip of my underskirts then wrap and secure the fabric around my thigh before sliding in the dagger. That’ll do for now.
As I glance behind me, the moon is nearing the midnight mark.Lyra.I slip out of the office, feeling a tad more secure with the dagger strapped to my thigh. As I tiptoe down the hall back to our rooms, a woman’s scream rips out across the silence.
I slam myself back against a wall, dropping down when I realize the mirrors lining the hall not only reveal the hall around the corner to me—they’d reveal me to whatever is on the other side, too.
The scream cuts off immediately.
Crouching on the ground, I rip my dagger out. Staring at the golden mirror reflecting the top half of the hall around the corner.
I swallow, forcing myself to still in the panic slamming against my chest.
A vibration shakes in the halls, the floors—myblood. The flames on the wall sconces within the mirror’s reflection whip wildly, then still.
