Page 177 of Sinister

There are dozens of people here, all the wealthiest in Radcliffe. Unsurprisingly, no one from my congregation is present. This kind of excess doesn’t align with our values. Everywhere I look, there’s extravagant food, wine, and champagne flowing freely, greedily consumed in every corner.

It’s a far cry from the teachings of our church. And yet . . . in the last few months, my father’s entire worldview seems to have spun on its axis. It’s as though I no longer recognize him.

As for my brother, I can’t entirely fault him. He’s only following in our father’s footsteps, as he’s always done. But that doesn’t mean I can reconcile this new, gilded version of our family with the strict, pious household I grew up in.

Naturally, today I was instructed once more not to wear my veil. To put on the gifted dress. To look pretty. And, most importantly, not to speak unless spoken to.

My mother, too, has come out tonight without her veil—a first for her. Yet even without the physical evidence of her conditioning, her behavior remains the same. She’s quiet, absent, invisible.

If there’s one piece of dogma my father has chosen to preserve even as he strays away from our congregation, it’s the belief that a woman’s role is ornamental.

A decoration. Nothing more.

I walk quietly through the ballroom. I hadn’t seen it during my previous visits, but it’s every bit as opulent as I imagined—perhaps even more so.

The ceiling is adorned with neoclassical designs, while the walls boast a mix of Renaissance paintings and a few Romantic-era pieces that catch my eye.

Of course, I’m drawn to them. But I am not allowed to stray far from my mother’s side. I’ve been expressly instructed to stay close, remain quiet, and above all, make myself invisible.

The paintings in the ballroom mirror those in the hallway—gory, bloody, and almost ritualistic in their depictions. As I gaze at them from afar, my mind drifts back to the dream . . . and to the unsettling thought that Snowden might have made a deal with the devil, too. That he’s just as guilty as the very people he publicly condemns.

The music blares through the ballroom—an orchestra that came in from New York City, no less. People speak loudly over the din, their voices clashing with the music. There’s a disorganized frenzy to the room, with everyone moving in a constant swirl, never staying still for even a moment.

My mother, however, chooses a quiet corner and settles there, content to simply observe the chaos. I join her, taking in the spectacle. Across the room, I spot my brother, my father, and Mr. Snowden deep in conversation with a circle of important guests.

Leah hasn’t made her appearance yet.

I find myself anxiously scanning the room for her. I want to check on her, make sure she’s all right. After all, she’s the real victim in all of this. If only I had more power . . . if only I could do something to save her.

“Would you please excuse me for a moment? I need to go to the restroom,” I murmur to my mother.

She glances at me out of the corner of her eye, offering only a small, almost imperceptible nod in response.

I slip away, cutting through the crowd and heading for the double French doors that lead into the main hallway. Guests continue to arrive, with some veering off to the cigar room and others lured into the gambling parlor. The entire estate has been designed to mimic the opulence of English aristocracy, complete with lavish ballrooms and indulgent side rooms.

But the farther I walk down the hallway, the thinner the crowd becomes. Eventually, the noise fades behind me, and the house grows quieter.

And once again, my thoughts return to that creature.

The one Mr. Snowden might be hiding in his basement.

It’s not real . . . right?

It couldn’t possibly be real. It was only a dream.

Or was it?

I remember, with eerie clarity, the sound I heard last time I was here—a shriek, unearthly and chilling, just as I was eavesdropping on my father and Mr. Snowden. Seconds later, my brother had caught me and dragged me away.

But that sound still lingers in my memory.

What had it been?

Perhaps my curiosity is a flaw after all. But I can’t stop myself. I move deeper into the darker corridors of the mansion.

And before long, I realize I’m completely lost.

The sound of the party fades into a distant hum. As I try to retrace my steps, I realize I’m facing the same problem I had during my first visit to this place: The hallways all look identical. They twist and curve into endless little corridors, and I no longer know which way I came.