Page 8

CHARLOTTE

I’m a big fan of sleep. It doesn’t really require anything, but shutting off my brain is something I can always do.

I sigh, rolling over in the bed and tangling myself further into the incredibly decadent sheets and blankets.

I never would have splurged on something this undoubtedly expensive for myself, but since it’s already here, I allow myself to enjoy it.

“I could probably afford to have this entire bed shipped to Kennedy so she could feel how unreal it is.” The thought flows past my lips with a snicker.

I could, but I won’t. Something deep inside me bites down on the idea, sharp gnashing teeth refusing to part with a single part of this castle.

My castle .

I jolt up, one of my tits popping out of the stretched-out neck of my oversized shirt and nearly slapping me in the face as I rip myself away from the thought.

“Damn it.” I yank my shirt off over my head.

The day needs to get started anyway, and why not just dive into it with some clean clothes…well, clean- ish . As an artist who doesn’t have time to change or find a smock, all the items of clothing I own get paint stains.

I fumble from the bed, feet not wanting to escape their tangle in the sheets, until I’m nearly face down on the carpet. I force myself to stand and groan, my back popping sharply.

“Fuck, that felt so good,” I moan, rubbing at my eyes, trying to wake myself up quickly by any means possible.

I grab my phone from the charger, shoot a quick “here and safe” to Mom and Dad, then send Kennedy a text with a picture of the view beyond my window.

The loch and lush green banks, drops of rain rolling down the window.

I manage to keep my naked body while giving her a peace sign in the old warped glass.

With the task of providing proof of life taken care of, I set about dressing.

I groan as I clasp my bra and pull on a band tee with a few dried paint splatters from the first drawer.

I barely fight the urge to toss on a pair of overalls and just decide fuck it .

It’s the simplest way to feel and look mostly put together, and after all the fun of yesterday, I need something simple.

I have several pairs of overalls, and each one has their own quirks.

This is a favorite of mine, with patches made by some artist friends as a part of art trades.

I absentmindedly pick at some of the loose threads of a death’s-head moth on my thigh before I tug on my shoes. Shuffling around in my carry-on bag, I snag the shiny new black card Michael gave me before my trip. He said the balance was “yes,” and I’m more than ready to see what that means.

Sweat and drops of atmosphere cling to my brow as I push into the only shop in town that has a nonpractical purpose.

Books, Bits, and Baubles is incredibly charming.

The shop, painted bright blue with quaint brown shingles, is situated on what I’ve gathered is the main street of Colbéliard.

There are two grocery stores, a butcher shop, some various farming goods stores, and a trinket shop that is as gray as the oncoming clouds, but Books, Bits, and Baubles is bright and fun.

The bell over the door announces my arrival with a sweet little chime. The smell of melting wax, amber, and apples stops me in my tracks. Something about the scent sits in my chest, warming me to my bones.

Eloise stands behind the counter, an apple in one hand and a knife in the other, which she waves in my direction.

“Come in now, Charlotte. No reason to be letting in the breeze.” She chides gently.

I step in, and the door snaps shut behind me, the open sign banging against the window sharply.

I grit my teeth and wince. “Sorry.”

“Not a problem. That door has been through far worse. How is your first day in town?” she asks with a grin, placing the apple on a little wooden plate and slicing it with the knife.

“Um, well, I got some groceries delivered to the castle so I can stock up on some things,” I say, feeling more than a little weird ordering so much considering I don’t know how long I’ll be staying.

I don’t want to go into town if I don’t have to, so buying the biggest bulk packs of rice, noodles, some beans, and flour was a good start.

I could basically live on that, some fats and potatoes, until Michael has deemed I’ve fulfilled the terms of the inheritance.

Then I can go back to New York. I want to buy a place to live where Kennedy and I can room together again, and then maybe a studio.

A big “fuck off” space where I can throw paint at the walls if I want.

“Smart, the weather has been fairly”—she purses her lips, turning a discerning eye to the deep gray clouds in the sky—“shit for the most part since you’ve arrived, but really, all this greenery needs to be watered, and the Gods do that for us.”

“Gods?” I ask with a little squeak.

Sure, monsters are real. Vampires, werewolves, mummies, fairies, oh my; so I guess multiple gods really are in the cards. Still, to have this mostly normal-appearing older woman going all polytheist on me out of nowhere shocks the hell out of me.

Eloise smiles, the corners of her eyes crinkling slightly, before she gestures to a chain hanging around her neck with the tip of her knife.

A drop of apple juice rolls down the sharp edge of the blade.

My eyes follow it to a set of three swirls in a triangle formation, each section made of a different precious metal.

“Pretty necklace,” I say, rubbing the back of my neck.

“It’s a triskele, not claimed solely by the Celtic pagans, but used a damn lot in our symbology.”

“Pagan, that’s cool, so you and your wife practice?”

“We do indeed, all the holidays and rituals too.” She chuckles softly at my wide-eyed expression. “She works at the butcher’s shop down the street. Brought the concept of the charcuterie boards to town.” The pride in her voice makes me blush.

The other woman isn’t even here, but I almost feel like I’m intruding. It reminds me of how the lust-struck guys that Kennedy had around spoke about her. Like she hung the moon and crafted each of the stars.

I bite my cheek to keep from asking any other dumb questions or making a stupid comment about how cool she is. That type of love feeds my desire to feel the same one day.

I let my eyes wander, taking in the cute, kitschy little shop. Books, Bits, and Baubles is an apt name for the space dominated by bookshelves labeled by genre, baskets filled with spools of yarn in every color, and tables filled with trinkets that lack purpose but look cute.

“Have a browse around. Don’t let an old woman chat your ear off.” Eloise waves me farther into the shop.

“Thanks, this place looks like a lot of fun,” I say before cringing internally.

I’m not the best with my words. I’d much rather throw some colors on a canvas.

That’s what I need. Art supplies.

A dozen neatly wrapped parcels are waiting just inside the door when I get back to the castle.

The shopkeepers did say they delivered, but I never expected the stuff to arrive back at the castle before I did.

I really didn’t expect it to arrive inside either.

Not going to think about that . The food stuff is separated from the art supplies in neat piles I would be way too lazy to bother with. This is too weird .

I grab the paints and canvas I got at Books, Bits, and Baubles. Then I head in search of the room with the best light.

If I had to guess, this was the armory. Ancient-looking pieces of armor still hang on the walls.

From breastplates to helmets, shields, and bracers, beams of light constantly reflect off the polished pieces right into my eyes as I try to find a suitable spot for my new painting area.

Toward the back of the grand space is a small alcove with windows on all sides of the semicircle-shaped nook.

Heavy velvet curtains frame the windows, their gold accents glittering as they catch the light.

“If I put that weirdly cut drop cloth down right here…” I run my fingers through the air as I imagine the space filled to the brim with my supplies, the sunlight as it is right now, and the peace to do the work I love. “It’s perfect,” I sigh.

Setting up the easel, canvases, and then all my paint sets takes enough time that the sun has started to set. The view makes me itch to pick up a pallet and mix colors to match, but I put the urge aside as my stomach audibly growls.

“Guess I’ll actually have to make use of all that food I bought,” I huff.

Cooking is an art form I’ve never mastered—nor wanted to take the time to try.

I lumber out of my beautiful new studio, dragging my feet as I shut the thick curtains and plunge the space into darkness.

The air fizzles in my lungs, and I have that feeling at the edge of my consciousness again. I’m not alone in this house . Whatever is here hasn’t made its presence known yet This was certainly the devil I didn’t know.

“Fuck, please don’t be the actual devil,” I whimper as I sprint from the room, nearly knocking a set of bracers to the ground in my rush.

The armor turns into mirrors, projecting back my terror blended with shadows. My twisted visage makes theater mask–level expressions of fright.

My feet pound on the stairs as I return to the entryway to get the packages that had seemed less important compared to the art supplies.

A startled laugh explodes out of my mouth as I take in the empty space.

“Great, the devil is stealing my food!” I snap, throwing my hands in the air as if to ward away the food-stealing jerks.

My heart is racing in my chest, but you don’t show fear to wild animals, so showing it to evil spirits should have the same rules.

I pull out my phone and scroll through the numbers I collected during the day, mostly shop owners and Eloise’s friends, until I find one for a takeout place in town.

I shut my eyes to help me recall earlier in the day.

The signs on the doors of the restaurants in town advertised short open hours and weird days off but were good to keep in mind if I was feeling lazy.

The only place I remember seeing open on Saturday night was a pizza place.

My thumb, guided by hunger, presses call.

“McGnash’s Tasty Pies, how can I help you?” The thick brogue on the other end of the line gives me a momentary pause before my stomach howls its displeasure. “You that new cailín in town?”

“I think so. I don’t know what that means.”

“Then you are she—” The man on the line laughs heartily. “I’m Seán Walsh, co-owner of this fine establishment.”

“I met the McGnash half earlier,” I grumble, that same traitorous thumb flitting to my lips. I gnaw on my nail. “Can I have a pizza?”

“Course you can. What toppings do you want on it?”

“I don’t take it you have Canadian bacon?” My voice is thin and embarrassed around the question.

“Ah, no, we don’t really, but I think I could get some ham from Dara, and it’ll be about the same thing. How does that sound?”

“Perfect, thanks. Make that a large pizza, please.”

I’m going to need the extras until it’s socially acceptable to go out for another order of groceries now that mine have been pilfered.

“It’ll be ready for delivery in an hour. This order is on us, welcome to town.”

As the line disconnects, my shoulders sag, and every ounce of nervousness from being out and about today crashes into me all at once.

When I was prepping my supplies, nothing else mattered but the color, consistency, and range I was developing as the ideas bubbled away in my head.

I wanted to paint big landscapes and show off the colors all around me, but at the same time, I was too caught up with all the little things—the flowers and stonework and people—to dive right into something so big.

I decided that my first project in this new space would have to wait until I had food in my stomach.

No good ideas came from a place of hunger.

At least, not mine. If I went into ideation like this, then all I would be able to paint would be pastries and cake, like the ones in the window of the grocery store.

My mouth waters as I remember the glittering icings and sugar decorations that sat delicately along the carefully appointed layers of cake.

“Fuck, too hungry, too hungry,” I groan and press a hand to my stomach.

I eye the time on my phone and decide against calling to check on the pizza. The last thing I want to do is seem too pushy.

I debate calling Kennedy, but the time difference is another thing I’m getting used to.

I’m ahead by a few hours, and calling her in the early evening is just about lunch for her.

I know my sister better than most people in the world, and if I were to call her now, she might just be at lunch with Chad.

I don’t know why I’m surprised to hear the soft chime of a doorbell, but I am. After a single night and some scattered hours of days, I’ve almost come to expect some great thunderous booming from the door knockers when my pizza arrives.

Pulling myself from my sketchbook and the cozy spot I’ve made by the window in my selected bedroom, I tiptoe down the hall. I’m not used to living alone, so my volume goes down with the sun. I’ll have to teach myself that it isn’t necessary.