XXX
His face was beautiful and terrible—ageless, with eyes like black diamonds. He smiled, and it was not a kind smile.
Sonia’s blood turned to ice. The girl. She meant her.
The west wing corridor was colder. The wallpaper was a faded pattern of peacocks. At the end stood a heavy oak door, slightly ajar. Golden candlelight bled through the gap.
“Well, well,” he whispered. “Lady-Sonia. Seventeen years, ten months, twenty-seven days. Right on time.”
“The moon is full in three nights, Marguerite. The veil will thin. We must decide—does the girl stay, or does she go?”
Sonia crept closer, her bare feet silent on the runner. She pressed her eye to the crack.
For three days, Sonia had heard the sounds: a low, melodic humming at midnight, the click of a latch, and the soft brush of silk against stone floors. Her aunt would disappear for hours, returning to breakfast with flushed cheeks and dreamy eyes, refusing to say where she had been.
Aunt Marguerite only poured the tea, and her hand did not tremble.
But the door to the west wing was locked once more.
A man stood at the window, his back to the door. He was tall, dressed in a coat the color of midnight, and he did not cast a reflection in the mirror beside him. When he spoke, his voice was like distant thunder.
The man turned.
Her silver-streaked hair was unbound, cascading past her waist. She wore a gown of liquid crimson, embroidered with constellations. In her lap lay a leather-bound book, its pages glowing faintly, and her lips moved in a language that sounded like rain falling on glass.
His face was beautiful and terrible—ageless, with eyes like black diamonds. He smiled, and it was not a kind smile.
Sonia’s blood turned to ice. The girl. She meant her.
The west wing corridor was colder. The wallpaper was a faded pattern of peacocks. At the end stood a heavy oak door, slightly ajar. Golden candlelight bled through the gap.
“Well, well,” he whispered. “Lady-Sonia. Seventeen years, ten months, twenty-seven days. Right on time.”
“The moon is full in three nights, Marguerite. The veil will thin. We must decide—does the girl stay, or does she go?”
Sonia crept closer, her bare feet silent on the runner. She pressed her eye to the crack.
For three days, Sonia had heard the sounds: a low, melodic humming at midnight, the click of a latch, and the soft brush of silk against stone floors. Her aunt would disappear for hours, returning to breakfast with flushed cheeks and dreamy eyes, refusing to say where she had been.
Aunt Marguerite only poured the tea, and her hand did not tremble.
But the door to the west wing was locked once more.
A man stood at the window, his back to the door. He was tall, dressed in a coat the color of midnight, and he did not cast a reflection in the mirror beside him. When he spoke, his voice was like distant thunder.
The man turned.
Her silver-streaked hair was unbound, cascading past her waist. She wore a gown of liquid crimson, embroidered with constellations. In her lap lay a leather-bound book, its pages glowing faintly, and her lips moved in a language that sounded like rain falling on glass.
