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Chapter Thirteen

Promenade

My room resides in the east wing of the castle.

Though someone has lit a candelabra in the deserted corridor, shadows gather as thick as the cobwebs on the tapestries. A single door looms ahead. Statues of angels carved from black marble adorn either side of it, except—

I draw to a halt behind Odessa.

With broad, membranous wings like a bat, the angels aren’t angels at all.

I lift a hand to one of their faces, tracing the harsh contour of his cheek, the palpable anguish in his eyes. The sculptor has captured him mid-transformation, torn between man and demon, and the golden veins and white inlay of the marble do little to soften him. His tortured expression seems to personify the castle itself.

Whereas Requiem is beautiful and strange and alive , its castle is stark, dark, with none of the city’s whimsical touches. Here, there are no horned toads or three-eyed crows, no stolen kisses between witch and sailor or heartfelt reunions between father and son. There are no strange cats or haunted music or even terrified screams.

Here, there are only shadows and silence. A bitter draft through empty corridors.

The castle reflects the hollow shell of its master.

Any creature who touches her will be subject to his wrath—and the wrath of the entire royal family.

I repress a shudder, dropping my hand from the statue’s face. The castle reflects the hollow shell of its king .

“Here we are.” Odessa opens the door with a screech of hinges. When I make no move to enter, however—peering tentatively into the dark room, lit only by a single wall sconce—she sighs and speaks to the ceiling. “If I’m not sequestered in my room, blissfully alone, within the next three minutes, I will cheerily kill someone. With any luck, it won’t be you.”

She steps back farther.

I still don’t move.

“Someone will return at dusk,” she says impatiently, pressing a cold hand against my back and pushing me inside.

“But—”

“Oh, relax , darling. As our esteemed guest, you have nothing to fear from anyone inside our home.” She hesitates at the threshold before reluctantly adding, “That said, this castle is very old, and it has many bad memories. It would be best not to wander.”

I whirl to face her, dismayed. Before I can argue, however, she closes the door, and the small click of the lock echoes in the bone-deep quiet of the room. I seize the sconce from the wall, lifting the brass to better see my new cell. As with the ship, the room sprawls before me without end. Entirely too large. Too empty. Too dark . The door itself sits at the highest point of the room; wide stairs crafted of the same black marble sweep immediately downward, disappearing into the gloom.

I take a deep breath.

If I’m to remain here indefinitely, I cannot fear my own room.

Right.

When I step forward, however, the air seems to shift—seems to sharpen, seems to wake —and suddenly, the room doesn’t feel empty at all. The hair on my neck lifts with awareness. I thrust my candle outward, searching for this new presence, but the shadows swallow the golden light whole. My free hand tightens on the banister, leaving a palm print in the dust there.

“Hello?” I ask softly. “Is anyone there?”

The silence deepens in response.

I glance at the marble beneath my feet. Like the banister, thick dust coats its surface, undisturbed except for my own footprints. Clearly, no one has entered this place in many, many years, and I have indeed lost my mind. Breathe , I tell myself sternly. You are not in a casket. You are not in the tunnels.

Still, as I force one foot in front of the other—down, down, down into the shadows—I cannot help but shudder. Never before have I felt such an ambience in a room, like the walls themselves are watching me. Like the floor itself breathes . My fingers tingle around the sconce, and I exhale a shaky laugh.

It sounds only semi-hysterical.

I refuse to succumb now, however—not after surviving an abduction and nearly drowning, not after discovering a clandestine isle ruled by creatures who want to kill me. Unfortunately, my chest seems to disagree. It tightens painfully until I can scarcely breathe, but I close my eyes and breathe anyway.

A little dust hurts no one, and this room—it will not hurt me either. I simply need to introduce myself, perhaps coax it to like me, to divulge its secrets. “My name is Célie Tremblay,” I whisper, too fraught—too exhausted —to feel ridiculous for speaking to an empty room. My eyes sting. My head aches. I cannot remember the last time I slept or ate, and my knee still throbs from striking Michal. “I don’t normally like the dark, but I’m willing to make an exception for you.” My eyes flutter open, and I take a deep breath, studying the shapes around me. “That said, if I could find a candle or two, it would make this friendship much easier.”

Matching screens rise on either side of the staircase, concealing a small dressing area to my left and a wash area to my right. I trail my hand across the paper-thin silk of one screen. It stretches across wooden panes, black as the rest of the room, with a pattern of deep blue violets and golden geese. Pretty.

“Our gracious hosts tell me I’ll be staying here indefinitely.” With a trembling finger, I trace a goose who flies with its mate, or perhaps with its mother or sister. Pippa and I used to stand at our window and watch flocks of them fly south every winter. The memory sends an unexpected pang of longing through me. “I stood at the bottom of the sea last year, yet I’ve never felt so far from home before,” I whisper to the room. Then, softer still— “Do you think birds ever feel lonely?”

The room doesn’t answer, of course.

Giving myself a mental shake, I continue my search for candles.

A fresh cloud of dust engulfs me as I pluck the sheets of a lavish bed, coughing and nearly extinguishing my candle. I lift it higher, illuminating a full wall of bookshelves cloaked in cobwebs, two squashy armchairs near the fireplace, and a spiral staircase in the corner. The floor of a mezzanine hangs overhead.

My eyes widen.

Windows.

Three of them, enormous and shuttered tight. If I can open them, I won’t need candles; outside, dawn has surely broken. Thunder continues to rumble around me, yes, but the sun is still light , even shrouded by storm clouds. Moving quickly, I cross the room and test the spiral staircase once, twice, before giving it my full weight. Though the metal groans, it doesn’t give, and I race up the tight steps until I pitch forward onto the mezzanine, slightly dizzy. “Thank you,” I tell the room.

Then I run my hand down the shutters in search of a latch.

Only worn wood meets my touch. With a frown, I try again—feeling inside the seam, along the bottom edge, lifting my candle to search above my head—but no telltale gleam of metal flashes. No hooks. No locks. No battens. I check the window to the right next, then the left, but the shutters on all three remain resolute. Impenetrable.

My frown deepens as I lean the sconce against the wall at my feet.

Using both hands this time, I pry at the seam of the middle window. It refuses to budge. Behind me, the air seems to stir in anticipation. It presses closer, near palpable, until I can feel it on my neck, until a lock of my hair actually moves . The ache in my head continues to build. I throw myself at the shutters now, clawing at them until a sliver of wood slides under my nail and draws blood.

“Ow!” Jerking my hand away, I stumble sideways, and my foot sends the sconce toppling. My eyes widen in panic. “ No —” Though I lunge for the candle, it skitters from its holder, rolling across the mezzanine and pitching over the edge to the floor below. The flame winks out abruptly.

The room plunges into total darkness.

“Oh God.” I freeze, still half crouched, as familiar panic claws up my throat. This can’t be happening. Oh God oh God oh God—

I wrench myself upright before my entire body locks down, darting for the rail and following it to the spiral stairs. You are not in a casket. You are not in the tunnels. I repeat the words like a lifeline, but the smell —it envelops me with a vengeance, as if the room itself remembers the fetid stench of her corpse. The fetid stench of death . I knock into the chair, the bed, nearly break my toe on the first step of the grand staircase. Crawling up it on my knees, I tear the last pin from my hair and lunge for the door. I forget about sharp teeth and black eyes and cold hands. I forget about Odessa’s warning, about anything and everything except escape .

I am not in a casket.

I have to leave this place.

I am not in the tunnels.

I cannot stay here.

“Please, please—” My fingers shake violently as I shove the pin into the keyhole. Too violently. I cannot feel the tumblers of the lock, cannot think beyond the faint glow emanating from the keyhole. “Just let me go,” I beg the room, still stab, stab, stabbing until my hairpin bends. Until it breaks . A sob tears from my throat, and the glow of light flares brighter in response. The softest strain of a violin follows.

It takes several seconds for my mind to catch up with my senses.

Light.

Confusion flares at the sight of it, at the sound of it, but relief quickly follows, crashing through me in a hideous wave.

Sinking to my knees, I press my face against the keyhole. This light isn’t candlelight; it isn’t warm and golden but cold and silvery, like the glow of the stars, or—or the glint of a knife. I don’t care. I drink it in greedily, forcing myself to breathe as the strange music builds.

I am not in a casket. I am not in the tunnels.

One breath.

Two.

The tension in my shoulders releases slightly. The pressure in my chest eases. I must be dreaming. It’s the only explanation. My subconscious—recognizing the familiar nightmare—has turned lucid at last, creating this strange music and stranger light to comfort me. Both seem to originate from the end of the empty corridor, just around the corner. Unlike my room, however, no windows interrupt these long, gilded walls. The candles in the candelabra have blown out. I settle against the door regardless, resting my cheek against the wood.

I will remain here—kneeling on this hard floor—until Odessa returns for me. I will live here indefinitely if I must.

The silver light pulses brighter as the music grows louder, wilder, and deep voices join in. Feminine laughter. I try to ignore it. I try to count each breath of my lungs and beat of my heart, willing myself to wake. This isn’t real.

And then—as the music peaks in a bizarre crescendo— figures appear.

My mouth falls open.

Human in shape, they waltz around the corner in pairs, their bodies translucent and glowing. Dozens of them. Silver light spills from their skin, from the lavish lace of one’s gown, the thick manacles on another’s wrists. The chains drag behind him as he lifts a woman in rags overhead. Two men dressed in tunics play violins upon their shoulders, while behind them, a maiden with perfect curls spins a perfect pirouette.

None notice me as they promenade through the empty corridor, laughing, celebrating , before the first in their caravan whirls through the wall and vanishes. I watch the rest glide past in horror, no longer convinced my subconscious has turned lucid. No longer convinced I’m sleeping at all. Never before have I conjured spirits—actual spirits— in my dreams.

The music fades with the violinists, but the last of the ghosts—a truly lovely woman with clouds of translucent hair—continues to twirl, laughing delightedly as the train of her gown sweeps the floor. It leaves soft circles in the dust there. Just as her hand slips through the opposite wall, however, her gaze catches upon my door. Upon its keyhole.

Upon me .

Her smile vanishes as I scramble backward, away , but it’s too late—swooping low, she fills the keyhole with a single upturned eye. Black spots my vision as it meets mine. “Te voilà,” she whispers curiously, tilting her head.

Her words are the last I hear before passing out.

There you are.

Still curled in the fetal position, I wake to a strange man crouching above me. Startled, I jerk away, but something in his grin—in the tilt of his dark eyes, the cast of his amber skin—feels familiar. “Good evening, starshine,” he croons. “I trust you slept well?”

When he extends a large hand to help me rise, I stare at it in confusion. “Who—who are you?”

“A better question”—he slants his head, those feline eyes still learning my face—“is who are you ?”

Sighing, I roll over and stare at the ceiling in resignation. Or at least, I think I stare at the ceiling. It remains too dark to discern much of anything except the man’s silhouette. In the corridor behind him, someone has reignited the candelabra, and golden light diffuses his dark hair and wide shoulders. It casts his face in shadow.

Wretched thunder still rumbles outside.

I’ll never see the sun again.

Frustration wells sharp and sudden at the realization, at the injustice of this entire situation. The hopelessness. The lie comes to my lips easier this time, at least.

“My name is Cosette Monvoisin, but I assume you already know that.”

He scoffs. “Come now, mademoiselle. We are to be great friends, the two of us. Surely you can divulge your true name?”

“Cosette Monvoisin is my true name.” When he says nothing, only raises his brows in a vaguely amused expression, I snap, “Well? I told you my name. Etiquette now dictates you tell me yours.”

In response, he laughs and wraps cold fingers around my wrist, lifting me into the air like I weigh nothing, like I am nothing—not flesh and bone, but ether. Te voilà . I stiffen at the intrusive thought, at the ominous words of the ethereal woman, and the events of this morning return in a sickening rush. Ghosts.

They weren’t real , I tell myself quickly.

A perfect cleft marks the man’s chin as he drops me to my feet. “My, my—and Odessa said you were sweet .”

“You know Odessa?”

“Of course I know Odessa. Everyone knows Odessa, but alas, I know her more than most.” At my blank look, he gestures down his svelte frame, inclining his head in a regal bow. From beneath thick hair and thicker lashes, he winks at me. “She is my twin, Mademoiselle Monvoisin. I am Dimitri Petrov. You , however, must call me Dima. May I call you Cosette?”

Twins.

“You may not.”

“Ah.” He clutches his chest in mock affront. “You wound me, mademoiselle.” When he straightens with a dramatic sigh, I hear Odessa in the inflection; I see her in his bearing. Though he wears garnet velvet instead of plum satin—though his eyes glint with sharp interest while hers drift elsewhere—their regal manner remains the same. They are cousins to the king, after all, which makes them... a duke and duchess? Do Les éternels prescribe to the same social hierarchy as humans?

I bite my tongue to halt the questions.

“If you insist on falsehood and formality,” he continues, snaking his elbow through mine, “I will of course oblige. However, I must warn you—I do enjoy a challenge. From this moment onward, I intend to bother you until we’re on a first-name basis. Coco shall be the only name on my mind.”

I cast him another reluctant glance. Like his sister—like Ivan and Pasha and even Michal—he is almost too beautiful, which makes everything so much worse. “I’ve known you for only ten seconds, monsieur, yet I already suspect yours is the only name on your mind.”

“Oh, I like you. I like you very much.”

“Where is Odessa? She said she would return for me at dusk.”

“Ah. I’m afraid there has been a slight change of plan in that regard.” His grin fades as he leads me into the corridor, where the soft circles in the dust have disappeared. Odd. “Michal has, er... requested your presence in his study, and Odessa—the wastrel—has not yet woken from her beauty sleep. I volunteered to fetch you in her stead.”

“Why?” I ask suspiciously.

“Because I wanted to meet you, of course. The entire castle is humming at your arrival. I heard the name Cosette no less than twelve times on my way to your chamber.” He peers down his shoulder at me with a sly gleam in his eyes. “It seems the servants have been given the coveted privilege to use it.”

As if to punctuate his words, a plainly dressed woman steps from what appears to be a sitting room, a bundle of cloth in her arms. Her eyes narrow when she sees me, and one of the rags slips to the floor. Immediately, I bend to retrieve it, but she moves faster—preternaturally fast—and snatches the cloth from my outstretched hand. “Excusez-moi,” she mutters, revealing the tips of her fangs as she speaks. To Dimitri, she bows her head and says, her voice strangely meaningful, “I will return, mon seigneur . ” Then she darts down the corridor and out of sight.

Unnerved, I stare after her. Fresh blood soaked that rag; scarlet still smears the floor where it fell. When I lean to peer into the sitting room, however—anxious to find the source—Dimitri is there, blocking the doorway with a too-quick smile. “Nothing to see in here, darling.”

My eyes fall to the stain on the floor. “But someone is bleeding.”

“Are they?”

“Is that not blood?”

“Someone else will clean it.” He waves a hasty hand, refusing to meet my eyes. “Shall we? I fear Michal has beastly manners, and he doesn’t like to be kept waiting.” He doesn’t wait for me to respond, however, instead tucking my arm firmly into the crook of his elbow and dragging me away.

“But”—I tug fruitlessly against his ironclad grip—“why did she look at me like that? And the blood—where did it come from?” I shake my head, feeling sick, digging in my heels as he tows me down a staircase and across the castle. “There was too much of it. Someone must be hurt—”

“And there is that elusive sweetness. Odessa didn’t lie about you, after all.” Though he clearly aims to defuse the lingering tension, his arm remains taut beneath my hand. His eyes tight. A curious flush has spread up his throat, and he still won’t look at me. I don’t know him at all, but if I did, I might say he looked ashamed . “Another personal challenge,” he says ruefully when I don’t respond. “Coax Mademoiselle Monvoisin into being sweet to me . Would you do me a favor, darling?”

I stare at him in bewilderment. “That depends.”

“Would you mind not mentioning this to anyone? I don’t want my sister to worry—nothing is wrong, of course—and Michal and I, well...” He shrugs a little helplessly. “We just don’t need any more misunderstandings, what with his beastly manners and all. You won’t tell him, will you?”

“Tell him what ?”

He studies me fervently for several seconds, indecision clear in his gaze. “Nothing,” he says at last, and that strange color in his cheeks flushes deeper. “Please, forgive me. I should’ve never—no matter.” His jaw flexes as silence descends between us, and we draw to a halt outside a pair of enormous ebony doors. “This is it,” he says quietly.

At last, I succeed in wrenching my arm away from him. He doesn’t fight me this time. No. Instead he ducks his head in apology, stepping back as if equally keen on putting distance between us. And I feel vaguely nauseous. I don’t understand this, any of it, and I’m not certain I ever will. This place, these people—they’re all sick.

Something is wrong, Célie.

It isn’t just the trees and roses. The land itself... it feels sick somehow. My magic feels sick.

Dimitri winces at my expression and bows low. “I’ve made you uncomfortable. I am sorry. This—well, I envisioned this all going much differently in my head, and I’m sorry.”

My head begins to ache, yet still I must ask, “Why is the castle humming at my arrival? Why are the servants talking about me?”

He does not answer, walking backward in earnest now. At the last second, however, he hesitates, and something akin to regret shadows his features. “I am sorry,” he repeats. “Sweet creatures never last long in Requiem.”

Then he turns on his heel and leaves.

I have little time to contemplate his warning, however—no matter how ominous—because in the next second, the ebony doors swing inward, and Michal appears between them. For several seconds, he says nothing. Then he arches a brow. “Is it not rude to linger in doorways? By all means...” He extends a pale hand, those black eyes never leaving mine. “Join me.”