That’s all the confirmation I need.
My head is pounding by the time I make it to my room, but thankfully, Lydia (my angel) has replaced the candle I recently finished. I operate without even realising what I’m doing, my arms already reaching to light it. Once it’s burning, I lean over the dresser and try and waft some of it into my face.
A migraine before my birthday is honestly just my luck. In record time, I’ve washed my face, changed my underwear and slipped into my pyjamas. I blow an annoyed raspberry before plopping down before the dresser. The air smells like clove and vanilla with something herbal buried beneath. Almost medicinal. Hell, Lydia will be getting a year’s supply of mebos from me if this actually cures my headache.
The robe slips off my shoulder, and I toss it onto the ottoman. The nightdress beneath it is minimal, all soft ivory and silk, and it slides against my skin as I shift and reach for a hairbrush. Slowly, tiredly, I brush through my hair. One stroke. Then another, until I’ve fallen into the familiar rhythm. With one hand, I dig my knuckles into my scalp, desperate to alleviate the pain in any way.
But nothing works.
I pause. Swallow. There’s a scratch at the back of my throat, faint at first and barely noticeable. I try to clear it, but nothing happens. Sand clings to the back of my mouth, the sensation sickening, yet there’s nothing there when I cough. Oh, I just had theworstbloody luck, didn’t I? Perhaps the headache should’ve been my first hint, but if I’m on the verge of being sick, Gran will skin me alive.
I set down the brush, replacing it with the glass of water beside the decanter. Yet the water only exacerbates the situation, as though it thickens the dust, which multiplies minute by minute. Again, I try to cough, but the sound comes out wrong, like the dust grows needle-like legs and digs into me. My chest is tight, and something burns beneath my breastbone.
This isn’t a regular cold.I lift my hands to my throat and poke around for swelling. My reflection shows nothing out of the ordinary, not even red patches or bumps. Yet there’s a blockage somewhere.
“Hello—” I whisper aloud to test, but my voice doesn’t come out right. It sounds compressed, more like a strained puff of air than a true sound.
My chest is heaving, my throat tightening, and I can’t speak. Can’t make more than a low groan. The scent of the candle thickens in the room, crawling its way through my nose and to my lungs, where it steals something vital. I can laugh at myself at a later time if I’m being paranoid, but I snuff the flame instantly. My first thought is allergies, some herb to which I had no idea I was allergic, but my suspicions vanish as soon as I turn around.
There’s no time to move, no time to think as a blur of black fabric slams into me. The floor disappears, and I’m tumbling back; my spine slams into the dresser, and the back of my head strikes wood. Pain blooms behind my eyes, white-hot and sickening. The mirror rattles, and something clatters to the flooralongside me. What air was left in my lungs is pilfered, and I put all effort into a scream that amounts to nothing. There’s so much fabric. A mask.
The eyes, remember the eyes—but I can’t see the eyes.
Gloved hands grab my throat, and I paw futilely at the rough cloth. My nightdress rides up as I twist, but the intruder is too heavy. I can’t breathe.Fuck, fuck—can’t die half naked.The edge of my vision pulses, and I kick violently. Humiliation boils in my gut as more skin is bared, and I’m reduced to a mess of uncoordinated limbs. From the corner of my eye, I see something rolling towards me. The decanter. It hit the carpet, leaving a massive stain around it.
A voice is whispering into my ear, and it takes me a second to clock it as my own.These are Sheffolk walls. Sheffolk blood in your veins.The title, the land, every stone is yours. If you die here, it should be underyourdamn terms.
“Adelina, scutum mihi esto,”I say in my head, desperate.
The protective spell can do no more than slacken my attacker’s grip for the briefest of moments, and my fingers abandon their clawing and reach frantically to the side, grabbing onto the glass. I swing upward blindly. It connects horribly and shatters in a loud burst. The attacker reels back as glass rains down on me, but I feel nothing, angling my body away. I scramble out from under them and watch through hazy eyes as they stagger back, barely able to push themselves to their feet.
My throat is raw. I’m still trying to scream. Something warm drips down the back of my neck, and my knees are trembling, but I crawl anyway. Across the room, towards the bookcases.
Towards safety.
Towards Eric.
I fumble with the latch as I try to stand. My fingers are shaking too badly, and tears blur everything. Footsteps ring loud behind me, and I sob.
They’re coming. They’re coming for me. In desperation, I call on ghosts that have never claimed these walls. I cry for Luciana and for my parents.
Papa, please, I think.Guide my hand.
I look back; the attacker took one step forward. A concealed latch slides under my palm as my hand moves. The bookshelves shift, and the corridor yawns open. I trip over the threshold and land with abang. My knees ache, and yet still I scramble towards the other end.
Unable to stop myself, I cast another glance back. But the figure doesn’t follow. They stand motionless, watching me fall onto my bottom and scoot backwards. We stare, and though I can’t see their eyes, I can feel the satisfaction.
Without warning, they turn their back on me and swiftly approach the window. A gloved hand rips the heavy drapes aside. The window is already ajar—how did I not notice?—and with just a single leap, they’re gone from the third floor.
No hesitation.
Nothing.
Just gone like smoke. I can’t even bring myself to check whether there’s a rope or anything. Sobbing, I drag myself down the rest of the corridor. I can feel how wet and raw my knees are. One side of my nightdress is ripped, exposing pale and glass-lacerated legs. And still I can’t scream.
I try.
I do.
