Page 12

I glance at the black lacquered door a moment before it unlocks with a click, then—on its own accord—sways open.

I push into step, a cautious pace as I pass Eamon at the gate.

He’s quick to shadow me up the path.

My steps are soft and hesitant under the rustle of my bell-skirt. I throw my anxious gaze around the modest gardens, which I would consider more of a porch with some cherry bushes and vines and short mossy statues.

But the garden departs too quickly, my hesitant pace too fast, because too soon I am stepping through the front door. And I feel like I’ve been stuffed into a blue phial.

The foyer is tighter than the last time I was here. But the last time I was here, I ran through this foyer for the front door—alone.

Now, I have an audience.

Tris—the human servant I have a vague, sluggish memory of in all my brutal drink-illness and shame—stands in the middle of the foyer with her hands clasped behind her back and her chin tucked to her collarbone in something of a bow.

Behind her, Melantha commands the bottom step of the stairs, hand on the banister. Morticia, at her side, at least offers me a small smile, and if I looked closer, I would find a gentle reassurance in her warmth.

I manage nothing in response.

I blink at her as dumbly as I would death, in that final moment before my final breath—then I turn my bleak stare to the gold that glints like drawn daggers.

Across the foyer, a smaller staircase of just a half-dozen steps descends the wall to, where I guess, the kitchens are. They are always in the basements of these sorts of homes.

There, on those stairs, Dare is perched on the edge of the banister, watching me. Rune leans against the wall. And, silent, Samick advances on them both with his slow, disinterested climb up those shorter stairs.

For a heartbeat, they stare at me, faces impassive.

Dare blinks, a startled look tightening his face—before it splits with a magnificent grin that would steal hearts more available than mine.

Beside him, Rune lowers his head and turns his cheek to me, and I know the move is to hide the outbreak of stifled laughter that silently jerks his shoulders.

Samick considers me and my ridiculous dress like we are little more than the berry bush out front, of no use to him, therefore of no interest, and in a fleeting second, he’s pushing past his brothers. He makes for the front door without a backwards glance, a mere breeze of ice mist.

The door shuts behind him.

I feel theclickin my bones.

I’m officially trapped within the walls of Hemlock House.

The breath that escapes me is a defeated one, and it rustles the yellow gown much too loudly. The bell sleeves crinkle at my shoulders, but it’s the feathery hat with the dead, stuffed bird sitting on my head that has Dare doubling over in silent heaves of laughter.

Rune has turned his back to me fully now. His head rests on the wall as he fights his joy at my absolute disaster of a dress.

But I lost all humour somewhere between Comlar and Kithe.

A soft, soothing touch grazes my hand.

I blink out of the daze and look up at Eamon, at his smooth face, the fine slant of his perfect nose, and the muted gold of his eyes, and I think of embers dying in a neglected hearth.

His mouth turns up at the corner, an attempt at a reassuring smile. He must have inherited his gentle side from Morticia.

It works.

I almost melt into him. But before the muscles in my body can relax, Tris moves with a curt bow, then turns her back on me. “This way, miss.”

She starts up the staircase, passing Morticia and Melantha. Only the former has any trace of warmth in her gaze as I push into tangled steps, then drag the weight of my skirt up the stairs.

No one follows me, except the laugh that Rune finally releases, and it’s nothing less than a bark.