Page 130 of Sinister

My heart races. My chest heaves with panic. Morning light spills across the room.

I’m alone.

I turn toward the bed.

There’s nothing. No trace of anyone else.

No blood. No stains. No knife. No one.

I breathe in—then out. Over and over, trying to steady the tremble in my limbs.

It was a dream.

Just a dream.

So why doesn’t it feel like one?

There’s only one way to know for sure.

I walk to the mirror and pull down the neckline of my dressing gown. I expect to see something. Anything. That twisted, arcane symbol inked into my chest. A mark. A scar. A letter.

But there’s nothing.

My skin is smooth. Untouched.

I stare. Waiting for relief to settle in. For my mind to make peace with the idea that it was all in my head.

But it doesn’t.

Instead, all I feel is an unexpected pang of disappointment.

A knock at the door startles me out of my reverie.

“Come in,” I call out, hastily buttoning up my nightgown.

My mother enters, her expression as cold and unreadable as ever. “Your father says we are expected at someone’s house for dinner this evening. You must wear your best ensemble.”

“Oh? Who are we going to see?”

She doesn’t answer. Instead, her gaze drifts around the room with a vacant, far-off look. Then she mutters, almost to herself, “What are we going to do? Poor thing . . .” And then, more clearly: “Do not put your veil on.”

That shocks me into stillness. “What?” I blink. “How am I supposed to leave the house without it? You know I’m not allowed to go anywhere unveiled.”

“A carriage will arrive to take us directly to the house. No one will see you,” she replies flatly. “Remember—you must not anger your father. This is a very important dinner.”

With that, she turns and leaves.

I stare at the closed door, my thoughts a whirlwind of confusion.

What friend? Who are we visiting?

As far as I know, no one in our congregation would allow a woman to enter their home unveiled—unless she were a wife or a daughter. No stranger would be granted such liberties.

And yet, my father, so unyielding about appearances and rules, is the one making this exception?

It’s preposterous. Suspicious. Which only begs the question: What purpose does this dinner serve? Why is it so important?

Of course, my mother offers no clues. She has the best poker face I’ve ever seen. If she weren’t trapped in this life, I sometimes think she could have been the best player in the entire nation. No one can read her; if there’s anything left to read, that is.