Page 30 of House of the Beast

Chapter

T hat night, for the first time in a long time, I dreamed of my mother.

I’d done good work of banishing her from my mind over the years, but perhaps it was because I had fallen asleep in an unfamiliar place.

At first, my dreams were inhabited by familiar fevered shadows.

They reached for me, tried to whisper in my ear, their breaths cold and carrying news of something terrible.

Drifting in and out of my vision was the umbral gate, burning in the sky.

I saw the temple back at Avera and the spatter of my own blood on the ground. I saw my little guesthouse, so lonely before Aster came along.

And then I was in my childhood home again.

I stood in the doorway, turning to say goodbye to my mother.

She was thin and pale and dying. She had given her life for me and now was watching it crumble before her.

I looked upon the devastation on her face and somehow I knew it would be the last time I ever saw her.

I woke with tears running slow and hot down my cheeks, and shadows haunting the corners of my room.

They crawled up the walls weakly, desperately, like all the small creatures whose lives I had snuffed out.

By the window, a dark figure stood, watching me.

The armor he wore was familiar—as was the mangled mess of his face.

The guard with the missing jaw. My pulse quickened as I waited for him to come close, perhaps to enact his revenge, but it was another shadow that slithered up my bed to grab at my heel.

Icy tendrils curled around my skin, but even as I sluggishly kicked at it, I could not help but notice that something about it felt familiar.

A brush against my hand drew my attention away. My ghosts faded. Aster sat on the edge of my bed, peering down at me with concern.

“You had a bad dream,” he said. It wasn’t a question.

“I saw my mother.” My heart still thudded. My voice was no more than a shaky whisper, but I knew he would hear me anyway.

He leaned toward me. In the dark, with his moonlight hair and funeral robes, he could have been one of my ghosts. But he was the one who had always driven them away. “You must have been more tired than usual.”

I shrugged, lifted my one hand to wipe at my tears. He was probably right. “I don’t know if I can go back to sleep.”

“You should. You have a big day ahead of you.”

“I don’t like dreaming like that.”

Quietly, he laughed. I glared at him, confused, until his hands came up to my face, and he was gently brushing away some of the moisture I had missed. It was a comforting, grounding touch, driving away the last sleepy remnants of fear.

“My sweet, stubborn Alma. Still having nightmares, like when you were young. What if we did something to take your mind off them?” He grinned. “We should go snooping.”

“Snooping?” I managed, my voice still raspy from sleep and sorrow.

“Yes,” he said, getting to his feet, more excited by the second. “One should always learn what they can about an enemy. Your cousin’s bride-to-be has invited you into her home, and now you have a chance to see what she’s really like.”

“What time is it?”

“Dawn, but only barely. A lady like her won’t be up until late morning at least. Come on, Alma, let’s go and explore.”

His wheedling got the better of me. And he was right—I did want to do something to take my mind off the memories of my mother. This was easy and familiar—a task to better serve my eventual revenge.

I nodded and got out of bed.

The house was still dark by the time I dressed and eased open the door to my room.

Noise drifted up from the kitchen downstairs, muffled through the floorboards—quiet chatter and utensils clanking as the maids woke up, lit the stove, prepared breakfast for their mistress.

Down the hall, the door to Sevelie’s room was closed.

I watched as Aster crept toward it and put his ear to the wood in an exaggerated gesture before nodding to me.

“Still asleep,” he whispered—as if he needed to. He was having fun with this. He crept back to me like a specter in the predawn dark before taking my hand and leading me onward.

We kept to the upstairs, where the house was still quiet and sleepy.

The first room we came across was a guest bedroom, as luxuriously furnished as my own.

Then another. The third was a small library, which was promising.

Plush red carpet covered the floor and there were wide windows to let in the weak dawn light.

Wondering if Sevelie had any books that weren’t in the Avera library—perhaps there would be information about the city I could make use of—I padded softly inside and began to browse, squinting to read the titles in the gloom.

The ones I saw were mostly literature, which I had little knowledge of.

The titles were strange to me, with some even in other languages; my cousin’s fiancée seemed to be an extensive reader.

I was running my finger along the spine of one when it occurred to me that I recognized it.

The Pauper Girl and the Prince .

I had read this book before, in my mother’s collection.

My throat suddenly felt tight. I had come sneaking here to try and expel the thoughts of her from my mind, but here was another reminder.

Yet I could not help pulling it from the shelf and opening it up to the first page.

The story was about a young, hardworking farm girl who drew the attention of a disguised prince with her earnest demeanor, and eventually married him.

A romantic, silly story—the kind that Aster had been born from.

This version of the book was illustrated, unlike my mother’s—and yes, there he was, the golden prince who fell for a plain but pleasant girl.

I wondered what it was doing here. Perhaps it was a popular story, and Sevelie simply owned it because she was well-read.

Or perhaps she had dreams like this as well, of finding love and being whisked away to a better life, even though she was already living in luxury.

“What are you reading?” Aster’s voice startled me out of my thoughts. I slammed the book shut, which made him raise his brows. “Was it something dirty?”

“No,” I hissed, and then showed him the cover. “Just a fairy tale.”

Instead of taking it from me, he went to my side and flipped it open with one hand, leaning over my shoulder to read. “Ah,” he said when he spotted the illustrations, as if recognizing his visage in the beautiful prince’s face.

I felt as if my own face would explode from the heat flooding it. I slammed the book closed again. “I was a child when I read this,” I muttered. “Don’t make fun.”

“I’m not,” he promised, relenting and letting me shove the book back onto the shelf, where it could embarrass me no longer.

“I simply think you can do better. I’m far more exciting than some prissy little prince, and you’re far more interesting than a well-behaved farm girl.

They should write a book about us instead. ”

“Was there something you wanted?” I said, trying not to smile at his antics. “A good reason to disturb my reading?”

“Yes, actually.” His eyes glimmered as he drew himself up with exaggerated pride. “I found her study.”

He led me toward the other side of the library, where a door stood open in dark invitation.

Inside, cold gray light seeped in through a gap in the curtains, dimly illuminating an elegant wooden desk with a comfortable chair parked behind it.

On the desk were a couple of journals and opened letters.

This room did in fact seem to be Sevelie’s private study.

There was another door opposite me that would presumably lead into her bedroom.

A small pang of guilt went through me. Though I did not yet know what I was trying to find, I knew those journals and letters would have to be personal. If someone were to read my journal, it would devastate me.

Then Aster said, “Let’s see if she’s written anything about you,” and the guilt was pushed away. She had been the one to intrude upon my privacy first. Even though she had offered her hospitality in return, she should not have expected any different from me.

“If any of these letters are addressed to my father, they better not be love letters, or you’ll have to kill me,” I muttered.

Aster barked a laugh so loud that I jumped and almost shushed him on instinct, before remembering that there was no need.

Instead, I wrinkled my nose at him as I made my way around the desk and grabbed the letters.

Aster hooked his chin over my shoulder again to read with me, his soft hair tickling my cheek.

“If they really are addressed to your father, you should show them to Kaim,” he said.

“You just want to watch the world burn,” I murmured.

The thought was mildly amusing, even if it was also horrifying.

Though I didn’t know for sure if my cousin was aware of his fiancée’s wandering affections, such solid proof of it would have to warrant some sort of response.

Maybe my father and cousin could duel each other to the death before the Pilgrimage even started.

To my disappointment and relief both, the letters seemed innocuous enough.

Simple correspondence from Sevelie’s high-society friends in the capital.

A couple of them mentioned looking forward to seeing her at the banquet tonight, which made me purse my lips.

No doubt she would have a wonderful time gossiping with them about me later—but there seemed to be nothing else of importance here.

I set the letters down in favor of picking up one of the journals.

Holding it up to the weak morning light, I began to page through it.

I wasn’t sure what I had expected. Something emotional, maybe, like The Pauper Girl and the Prince . A word or two about Kaim’s negligence or Sevelie’s friends, or maybe something incriminating about my father.