Page 38 of Crowned by the Shadow (Bound by the Veil #5)

The blizzard hits like a living thing, teeth of ice and claws of wind that tear at my cloak with deliberate malice.

I pull the wool tighter around my shoulders, but it does nothing for the cold that lives deeper than bone.

Always cold , I think, and immediately hate myself for the thought. Self-pity won't keep me alive out here.

My boots crunch through snow that reaches mid-calf, each step a negotiation between forward momentum and the very real possibility of disappearing entirely into a drift.

The satchel across my chest bounces with each labored stride, the glass vials inside clinking like tiny bells.

Don't break , I tell them silently, because losing Lord Valtier's commission would mean no coin for winter stores, and Melora's already stretched our supplies thin enough.

I can't feel my fingers inside these damned gloves.

Silver-threaded leather that cost more than most people see in a season, and still they feel like wearing ice.

But Melora insisted, years ago, when I was too young to argue and too na?ve to understand why.

"For your protection," she'd said, the same way she says everything that's actually a warning wrapped in care.

Protection from what? I'd asked then. From yourself , she'd answered, and I'd thought she was being dramatic.

Now I'm not so sure.

The wind shrieks through the trees overhead, turning branches into a hundred reaching fingers, or maybe it was voices.

Sometimes I thought it sounded like singing.

Sometimes screaming. The difference didn’t bother me as much as it should.

But worry is a luxury when you're three miles from civilization in a storm that could kill you before you even realize you're lost.

Focus, Aurea . One foot in front of the other. That's all anyone can do, reduce the world to the next step, the next breath, the next heartbeat. Everything else is just noise.

The snow crunches differently under my left foot, and I pause.

Wrong sound . Too hollow. I test the ground carefully with my walking stick, solid enough, but there's something underneath.

A stone marker, maybe, or the remnants of an old foundation.

The kind of thing that tells you people lived here once, before whatever drove them away.

Everything in world is built on something that came before .

Melora taught me that. She taught me to read the signs, the way certain plants won't grow in specific soil, how animals avoid particular clearings, why some wells taste of sadness no matter how clean the water runs.

Most people dismiss it as superstition. Most people are fools.

I pull my cloak higher and keep walking.

The estate has to be close now. Lord Valtier's message was very specific about the timing, arrive before nightfall, when the thing in his mirror grows strongest. What kind of problem gets worse in the dark?

The obvious kind, but I've learned not to assume obvious means simple.

The trees thin as I climb the last hill, and suddenly the estate looms out of the white like a ship emerging from fog, all dark stone and sharp angles that seem designed to cut the sky itself.

Lord Eirian Valtier's ancestral seat, they call it, though I've heard whispers in the village that his family built their fortune on things best left unexamined.

The kind of wealth that accumulates in dark corners and doesn't bear scrutiny.

Rich enough to afford my services , though, which makes him tolerable regardless of his methods.

The house is older than I expected, and stranger.

The architecture shifts styles like it was built in phases over centuries, each generation adding their own interpretation of what "home" should look like.

Gothic towers sprout from classical foundations, while baroque flourishes clash with austere medieval stonework.

It's beautiful in the way broken things sometimes are, too complex to be simple, too deliberate to be accidental.

Like the whole place was arguing with itself, and nobody was winning.

What kind of family needs a house that looks like it's arguing with itself?

The grounds are immaculate despite the storm, which means staff.

Lots of staff, and the kind of money that keeps them working through weather that would send sensible people indoors.

I can see tracks in the snow, paths kept clear, walkways salted and swept.

Even the topiary animals lining the drive are shaped to perfection, their forms sharp and distinct against the white.

No one maintains a garden like this without serious coin backing it. Or serious fear.

A servant opens the door before I can knock, a thin man with the pallor of someone who never sees sunlight. His eyes dart to my gloves, then away so quickly I almost miss it. Almost. In my line of work, you learn to notice the things people try not to see.

He knows . Whatever Lord Valtier told his staff about my visit, it included warnings about my hands. The question is: warnings about what?

"Miss Aurea," he murmurs, stepping aside. "His lordship is waiting. May I take your cloak?"

I shake my head, unwilling to let go of even that small barrier between me and whatever waits inside. The servant nods like he expected the refusal, which tells me more about Lord Valtier's usual guests than I want to know.

The warmth inside hits like a physical force, and I have to resist the urge to simply collapse against the nearest wall and let the heat seep into my bones.

Instead, I follow the servant through hallways lined with.

.. strange . Everything feels strange here, but I can't quite name why until we pass the third alcove.

Some spaces were so aggressively empty it felt like the house was trying to erase itself from memory.

No mirrors.

Not just absent, deliberately absent. Where mirrors should hang, there are paintings.

Where silver should gleam, there's only dark wood and darker iron.

Even the candelabras are brass and pewter, nothing that might catch a reflection and throw it back.

The absence is so complete it feels like someone declared war on their own image.

Interesting . And expensive. Removing every reflective surface from a house this size would take dedication. Or desperation.

"His lordship has very specific preferences about... decor," the servant says, catching my stare.

"I can see that." I keep my voice neutral, professional. No point in spooking the help before I've even met their master. "How long has he lived here?"

"The family estate has been in Lord Valtier's possession for three generations, miss. Though he only took residence himself six months ago."

Six months . Recent enough to be relevant. "After his father's death?"

The servant's step falters almost imperceptibly. "Yes, miss. Lord Aldwin passed quite suddenly."

There's the story . Whatever's happening in this house started when the current Lord Valtier inherited it. Haunted mirrors tend to be family affairs, old sins, older secrets, the kind of inheritance that comes with interest compounded over decades.

We pass a sitting room where a tea service waits on a side table, pewter and ceramic, I note, nothing that might catch a reflection.

But what draws my attention isn't what's there, it's what isn't. The walls bear faint marks where frames once hung, and the arrangement of furniture suggests pieces have been moved to fill gaps.

Deliberate removal . Someone went through this place systematically, eliminating every surface that might show a face.

What kind of reflection is he afraid of seeing?

The servant stops outside a door marked with brass nameplate reading "Blue Parlor," though I can see hints of silver leaf beneath the brass coating. Even the door hardware has been changed.

"His lordship will be with you shortly, miss. He's just... finishing his preparations."

Preparations, like meeting me was ritual or battle or both.

The servant retreats with the kind of swift efficiency that speaks of long practice at avoiding questions, leaving me alone in the hallway with my thoughts and the growing certainty that I'm walking into something far more complicated than a simple haunting.

The door opens before I can knock.

Lord Valtier is already standing when I enter, which is either politeness or nerves.

Given the state of him, I'm betting on nerves.

The man looks like he hasn't slept in weeks, dark circles ring his eyes like bruises, and his hands shake just enough to notice when he reaches for the wine decanter.

His clothes are expensive but rumpled, like he's been wearing them for days, and there's a gray pallor to his skin that speaks of more than simple exhaustion.

Haunted . He has the look of someone being slowly consumed from the inside out.

"Miss Aurea. Thank you for coming in such weather."

His voice is cultured, careful, but there's an edge underneath that speaks of control held by fingernails. I've seen it before in clients with the particular kind of problem that brings them to me. The kind that can't be solved with conventional medicine or conventional anything else.

"The weather's nothing," I lie easily, settling into the chair he indicates. The leather is fine quality, probably worth more than everything I own, but it feels strange under my hands. Too smooth . Like it's been treated with something beyond the usual oils. "Your message was urgent."

"Yes." He pours wine with steady hands, too steady, like he's concentrating on each movement.

The bottle is old, expensive, but I notice he doesn't pour himself a glass.

Interesting . Either he doesn't trust his nerves to hold it steady, or he doesn't want anything that might impair his judgment.

"I have a problem of a... delicate nature. "