Page 25 of Blackwicket (Dark Hall #1)

The house hummed as I entered, responding enthusiastically to the caustic energy I was emitting.

The sound mingled with the shifting gravel as the Inspector drove away from the house.

I didn’t need to run, but still vaulted every step, my magic, long suppressed, pulsing freely along with my heartbeat, entwining with adrenaline and fury.

As I arrived at the third floor, my vision rocked in and out of focus.

I was too full of negative emotions, fueled by the maddening indifference of a man whose sole aim was to dig deep into the soft viscera of my past, extracting whatever he needed to justify his contempt for me, my sister, and all others like us who were struggling to survive in a world that used us as tools or as alters for blame.

Instead of seeking refuge in the bedroom of my childhood, I turned to the one my mother kept, which I assumed Fiona occupied in years past. I was desperate to be close to the memories of the women who’d loved me, two people who’d been intrinsically part of the only joy I’d ever felt in my life.

As I pushed the door open, Williams’ words slithered through my burning thoughts—menacing yet provocative.

It could be like this again.

I stood in the doorway, shaky, unsure of what I’d find.

On this side of the house, the moon never cast its insistent light, so there were no shutters, no heavy curtains obscuring the silvery light of night beyond the two dormer windows that gave shadowy shape to the sparse furniture: a bed and two wardrobes.

I searched the wall for the light switch, snapped it on, and the two sconces by the bed buzzed to life, their light golden and soft, illuminating the space with a warm calm, in contrast to the storm I carried inside.

No pictures or paintings hung here, the grass cloth papered walls bare.

A single circular rug spanned the center of the room, once as green as summer trees, faded into the dusky color of drying moss.

The bedding was white cotton, not as comforting or whimsical as our old quilts.

It appeared sterile, hospital-like in its austere setup.

It smelled sweet here, the high tart redolence of summer fruit before it turned, and I covered my nose.

But it must have been my heightened senses causing the overwhelming aroma, because as I stepped in, it dissipated, making space for the fainter scents of dust and old wood.

I’d wanted the riot of my sister’s life to exist here, an unmade bed, clothes strewn across every surface, left in small piles as she’d done every day of our lives.

I’d been eager for a moment spent in the comfort of her disorderly housekeeping, which had frustrated me.

But nothing of my Fiona, nor my mother, remained here.

The house shuddered, alive with anticipation of what I’d do with my magic now it was free.

I seethed as I approached the wardrobe by the windows, flinging open the heavy doors to reveal rows of impeccably arranged garments—luxurious fabrics like organdie and silk hanging neatly alongside moiré and velvet.

This was where my sister stored her clothes, all those stunning outfits I’d seen in the pictures adorning the walls.

They represented a life she’d chosen to live without me, filled with choices we’d sworn we’d never make, and in a sudden fit of anger, I reached in, seizing handfuls of fabric, pulling down countless dresses and skirts.

I channeled my power to ignite each in an incinerating magical flame, tossing them to the floor to burn.

The room brightened, shadows retreating like innocents cowering from violence as an aspect of my sister’s unknowable world disintegrated.

I would have destroyed everything, but my magic twisted in grotesque response to my fury, and the silk gown I held slipped away, hovering as though draped over an unseen figure.

As the enchanted flame engulfed it, the invisible form writhed and stumbled toward me as charred pieces fell away, seeping red smoke.

“No,” I whispered to nothing, realizing what I’d done. “No, no.”

The sleeve of the gown raised, an invisible arm reaching in desperation as the remnants of the dress collapsed, squirming as though in agony. When the flames subsided, there were only charred debris, the results of my loss of composure, and the ever-rising rust-colored smog of transforming magic.

I dropped to my knees, immersing my hands in the smoldering pile, attempting to fix the pitiless thing I’d done, to revoke my anger and my actions.

The newly formed Drudge still rose through my fingers, ghastly and vaporous, retreating from me, its creator.

It tumbled, stretched, and darted in frantic directions to escape.

I crawled after it like a supplicant, begging for forgiveness, but it slipped into the narrow gap between the doors of the second wardrobe.

Grabbing the ornately carved handles, I pulled myself up and opened it, expecting to dig through more of Fiona’s clothes to find where the poor thing had gone to hide, but there were no women’s clothes inside.

Instead, an array of children’s toys and games lined several inlaid shelves.

Among the paraphernalia of youth were a bag of marbles and jacks, a deck of cards, and a puppy whose velveteen ears were worn bare from petting.

On the right, an assortment of children’s trousers and shirts, all in varying sizes, were arranged from smallest to largest, creating a detailed map of their owner’s growth.

Below the clothes, a quilt similar to the ones my mother had made for my sister and me, was neatly folded, an uproar of colors and varying fabrics, ragged and worn practically to bits.

In the corner, stitched in small letters by a careful hand, was a name.

Roark .

As I touched the name, heart leaden in my chest, the claw-like hand of something long dead darted from the darkness at the back of the wardrobe, seizing my elbow.

The grip burned like a harsh frostbite, and I instinctively recoiled.

The Drudge hiding in the gloomy corner released me with little resistance, emerging partly from amidst the clothes, hanging from the shadows like a primate from a tree branch.

This creature was old; not as ancient as Auntie, but old enough to assume a vaguely humanlike form.

It was a habit of most Drudge to adopt the appearance of those they tormented, or as my mother used to believe, those they sought help from.

This creature possessed only a suggestion of features: the vague contours of cheekbones and brow, the hollows where eyes might be, and the slash of a mouth, like a tattered rip in a curtain.

The tainted power I’d generated had flown to the nearest of its kin to be absorbed.

There’d be no mending it, not unless I cared to take on this Drudge alone.

Considering how I’d handled the much smaller one I’d stolen from Ms. Rosley, I didn’t trust myself to try, especially with magic weakened by the act of forging a curse.

Sensing my reluctance to engage with it, the Drudge extended its rangy limbs, sloth-like, four fingerlike talons folding around the edges of the doors and pulling them shut. Its fingers disappeared last, like smoke from an open window.

Eyes still locked on the wardrobe, I retreated until my legs collided with the bed and gave out .

I remained still until sitting became unbearable for my weary body, and I lay down, resting my head on pillows that smelled of lye and honeysuckle.

I stared into the dark, listening to the sounds of the house, which had returned to the natural noises of a lifeless structure, battered by winter.

The horrible use of my magic appeared to have shocked it silent, and it was a silence I regretted deeply.

In my twenty-six years, I’d never misused my magic, never given it reason to distort and turn to something ugly and hurt. Pain made tangible. A piece of myself was irrevocably gone, and I felt hollow, not better.

I evaluated the damage, my magic moving sluggishly and thick, fatigued from the incident. To invigorate it, I positioned my right hand by my face, palm up, invoking my power—not to heal a curse or protect myself, but to create, to make beauty from nothing as I’d once done at every opportunity.

A frail thread of magic formed in my palm, stabilized with recollections of Fiona’s sweet smile, her delicate mannerisms concealing a passion for curse work and music. I imagined her face as she played the chords of my mother’s favorite song. Hearing the ghost melody, I sang the words to myself.

Oh, Moira, my love, I meant not to stray…

I had nothing in mind for what I was making, only sang to the emerging magic lacing itself together, tentative and delicate.

I would let it form itself how it pleased, giving no more orders, releasing my will.

But the shape it took didn’t comfort me, the edges rounding into silky crimson petals, mimicking both the flower William had given me and those I’d tended as a child.

I brought the bloom to my nose and breathed in.

“Your garden is strange. The plants are all black, even the lilies. Are they dying?”

“No,” I’d said, barely eight, so sure of myself as I packed more rich dirt at the base of a vine I’d newly transplanted from the house. “They’re not all black. They’re red. Look, hold this one in the sun.”

Thomas was a few years older than I, but was still all curls and boyish softness. His meek demeanor encouraged me to attempt friendship. I handed him a small clay pot with a dark blossom perfectly unfolded and he took it skeptically, holding it up.

“Oh, yeah,” he said, amused at the novelty of it. “Are you feeding them magic to make them this color?”

“You’re not supposed to know I use magic, remember?” Grouching, I scanned the cliffside ahead and the lawn behind for signs of my mother. I’d be in trouble if she discovered I’d told someone.

“It’s just us here.” He was unapologetic, putting the pot back. “And I use magic too. I don’t get to do this stuff, you know, make things grow.”

“What do you get to do?”

He never talked about his magic. I knew he had it from the way mine responded, like a wave buffeted by the wind. My question quieted him, and he pushed at the new pile of dirt I’d made, patting it.

“Nothing I like,” he said at last. “So, can I help you?”

“No.”

“Aw, why not Ellie?”

I hesitated. Thomas and I had been friends for a year, since his father, Grigori Nightglass, began coming to the house more frequently to do business.

I hated Grigori and his greasy smile, but Thomas seemed pleasant, shy, and he’d shown me how to find pill-bugs and race them along the path to the garden.

Even when Grigori briefly stopped harassing us, Thomas continued to show unannounced.

Mother never allowed him inside, but let me out to meet him.

Fiona had played with us for a while as she was closer to Thomas’ age, but she’d grown bored with our rowdiness, preferring her calmer creative activities to throwing rocks into the sea, scaling the porch trellis to the roof, and racing up and down the hill from gate to garden until we were flushed and breathless.

Aside from Fiona, Thomas was my only friend. And friends shared secrets with each other.

“You can’t tell anyone, ever…”

“I never would! Cross my heart.”

I believed him.

“It’s not magic.”

I grew shy myself, picking at the leaves of a nearby thistle.

“What do you use then?”

“Curses.” I confessed timidly.

I half expected him to get mad. His father was Principe, in charge of making sure no one was using illegal magic in Nightglass.

My mother’s license had been sponsored, but that didn’t include me.

I was breaking the law. But he didn’t recoil or laugh, didn’t call me a liar.

He looked over his shoulder at the bulk of Blackwicket House hulking behind us.

“Like the ones in your house?” he asked.

“How do you know about those?”

“Can feel ‘em from here.”

I panicked. “If you tell Grigori, I’ll be arrested!”

“I never tell him anything,” he said by way of reassuring me, but that wasn’t enough.

“Just in case, tell me one of your secrets.”

He eyed me, incredulous. “Why?”

“So, I can make sure you never tell mine,” I replied with all the solemnity of someone demanding a blood oath.

“I don’t got any.”

“That’s a lie. Everybody’s got one!”

He smiled his self-conscious smile.

“Yeah, ok. I guess that’s fair.” He spent a moment thinking, and I guessed he was trying to find a worthy trade. “Grigori’s not my dad.”

“Who is?” I asked, the revelation not so shocking. I barely had a dad. Fathers were a mystery to me. I still hadn’t figured out how they worked.

“Dunno,” he said, shrugged like it didn’t matter, but looked so sad. That afternoon, I made the first of several stupid decisions only children can make.

“Ok, I’ll teach you to plant curses.”

“How come you use curses and not regular magic?”

“Mom says it’s a good way to store them, helps them heal,” I replied, knowing no more.

The following two years had been an opening of my world.

I’d snuck Thomas in the house when my mother was in town, even to Fiona’s great delight, and we’d terrorized the smaller Drudge, catching them from their hiding spots in the shadows.

I’d taught him how to inhale and hold them without it hurting too much.

We’d woven them into our plants a little at a time, and our garden grew.

Then, following my tenth birthday, Grigori’s demands on my mother became more aggressive, and Thomas visited less and less.

When he turned up, we played fewer games, and sometimes he’d only sit on our porch in a solemn state that worried Isolde Blackwicket.

When I’d asked her about his change in behavior, she’d grown somber and warned me Thomas was likely going to stop coming soon but wouldn’t explain why.

Terrified of losing my closest friend, I’d devised a plan to keep him interested in visiting, and did something that would haunt me for the rest of my life. I’d shown him Dark Hall.

The creaking of the wardrobe door pulled me from the bleak memory. In the gloom, I could discern the barest silhouette of a bowed head through the few inches of space. The Drudge didn’t reach or move, simply watched, just as Auntie had watched all those years .

I enclosed the flower in my fingers, crushing it against my palm, pressing my fist to my chest as though I could hold on to everything I’d already lost.