Page 131 of Sinister

I sit with the unease for a moment, turning the possibilities over in my mind.

What could this dinner mean for me? For our family?

39

PETRA

The entire family gathers in the foyer for dinner. Everyone is dressed in their finest. My mother wears her veil, of course, so I am the only one without mine. My father and brother are impeccably dressed, as well, waiting in composed silence for the carriage to arrive.

And still, the question gnaws at me: Who are we going to see?

I’ve never known my father to have connections outside our insular community. He’s famously strict, a devout man with an almost fanatical adherence to rules. And yet now . . . he merely glances at me, studies me from head to toe, and gives a single, curt nod.

Approval. Silent and unexpected.

Not a word about my unveiled face. No rebuke. No lecture. Nothing.

We step outside and into the waiting carriage. The ride is short. I count each second to steady my nerves: exactly eight minutes before we arrive in front of a sprawling estate.

We disembark. A wrought-iron gate swings open for us, manned by a uniformed staff member. We walk through it and then continue for nearly half a mile along a winding, tree-lined road. Whoever this person is, they must be unfathomably rich.

Even with my limited exposure to the world outside, I know this isn’t ordinary wealth. It’s the kind that makes my own family’s fortune look modest.

When we finally reach the house, another servant opens the door, takes our coats, and gestures us inside. We are led down an impossibly long corridor toward the drawing room.

The hallway itself feels like a gallery—lined with paintings on either side. Some are vibrant: fields of flowers, sunlit scenes, genteel moments of daily life. Others are dark, grim, and haunting. It’s an odd juxtaposition that makes the air feel heavier with each step.

But one painting in particular stops me in my tracks.

I linger behind to get a better look. In the corner, scrawled in elegant hand, are a signature and a title: Sinful Desires.

“Sinful . . .” I whisper.

“Petra, come on.”

My father’s voice cuts through the silence like a blade. I hurry to catch up.

Once I fall into step beside them, he looks down at me, eyes hard.

“Don’t you dare embarrass me today,” he hisses. “Do you hear me, Petra?”

“Yes, Father,” I murmur, lowering my eyes.

“Do not speak unless asked.”

“Yes, Father. Of course.”

The drawing room is lavish, with gilded walls, rich tapestries, and more paintings, some of which echo the eerie tone of those in the hallway. In the center, two sofas form an L-shape, and already seated are two people.

One of them I recognize immediately: the man from the square on the day of the murders. He’s the voice I overheard speaking with my father, the one behind that disturbing plan to purge sin and dismantle the faculty at St. Anselm Hall.

The other must be his daughter. She’s young, perhaps two or three years my junior, with golden curls tumbling around her face, the rest pinned neatly at the back of her head. Her cheeks are full and rosy, but her eyes remain fixed to the floor, her hands knotted nervously in her lap.

The downcast expression surprises me. She doesn’t even glance up when we enter.

“Jeremiah, welcome,” the man says, his voice sending a chill down my spine. Maybe it’s because I’ve already cast him in the role of villain, or maybe it’s because I can tell that title fits him far too well.

“Thank you for hosting us, Andrew,” my father begins as we step into the center of the room. The introductions follow. “You already know my son.”