Page 9 of Wolfsbane Hall #1

Celestine cocked her head and rubbed her face. It was a sacrifice play. The Specter put his knight directly in the kill zone of her queen.

What are you up to? He was filled with tricks. Tricks on tricks on tricks. But sometimes, Celestine thought she could match him. In this, at least, because she was a brilliant strategist.

But he would always be more powerful—always more clever.

Her eyes tracked to the cabinet filled with corked bottles of the Specter’s extra elixir—the source of his magic. Every night, she drank some of that power, but he also gave her an additional bottle, which she placed in her cabinet for later use.

The Specter let her have his power.

She often needed it to live in the house, but it was still touching that he gave it to her so freely. Celestine had hundreds of vials because she used them very rarely.

“I wish you would stand up for yourself and tell Babette off. For that matter, all the patrons, too.” His voice was rich and dark, sweet yet bitter. “You don’t deserve that treatment.”

Celestine had no response. There was no value in standing up for herself. It wouldn’t change anything. It would only make the situation far worse. Whenever Celestine tried, it only ended in more pain and abuse. It was far better to fawn, withstand, and not rock the boat.

The only times she was truly able to stand up for herself were when she played a character. Dorothy could tell off Richard and the audience at Wolfsbane, but Celestine never could.

Not as herself.

“Fortune favors the bold,” the Specter said.

“As does misfortune.”

“Celine… ” He pulled out the word in an exasperated sigh. “Don’t let her treat you that poorly. At this point, she could knock you over with a fender.”

It was a malapropism. He meant feather, but he often misspoke. The Specter was brilliant, but sometimes he struggled with words. Using words that were very close but oh so subtly off.

“Anyone could knock me over with a feather.” Celestine hated the truth in that.

“Celine…”

His Celine. She loved that nickname, because he was the only one who used it. And only when they were alone in her rooms. Their little secret, and it warmed her soul. The Specter called her by many nicknames, but this was by far her favorite.

She liked it so much that she began to refer to herself by this nickname.

“Celine…” he said again. The Specter didn’t like the lack of response. He was impatient, but not as impatient as he was during the shows.

In as soft a tone as she could muster—because she’d learned that negative feedback could only be given in a biddable fashion—Celestine said, “If you want me to stand up to her, shouldn’t you also want me to stand up to you, Specter? You force— ”

“Don’t call me that. Not right now,” he interrupted, but the words weren’t harsh.

The words were a caress. It was like a plea to see him differently—to see him not as the monster who played with her emotions during every show.

“I’m sorry about tonight. I don’t like it when you’re the murderer, either. ”

Celestine swallowed. What he meant to say was, I don’t like it when I make you the murderer. But she wouldn’t correct him. Forgiveness was not in the cards for the night, but she softened. He’d saved her life, and she repaid that debt with murder and obedience.

“I no longer want you to call me the Specter at night. It’s too…”

Too what?

But Celestine would never find out, because the Specter never let anyone into his deep feelings.

“Will you tell me your name, so I don’t have to call you the Specter?” It was an appeal. Tell me something profound. Tell me something real, please.

Please .

He said nothing.

“What would you like me to call you?” Celestine stared at her ceiling and pulled her covers ever so slightly up, as if defending against the inevitable rejection.

The Specter may not tell her anything tangible, but he showed his thoughts in the rustling of the curtains, the whispered hum of the electricity, and the oh-so-slight rattling of the shadows.

The room twisted with his emotions, but Celestine wasn’t scared.

It sometimes shifted with hers, too, but only after she’d drunk the elixir.

“For now, call me Winter.” His voice echoed through the pages of the books strewn throughout her room, even causing some of them to flip.

A muscle in her cheek twitched, unprepared for an actual answer.

“Winter,” she whispered back, testing the name on her tongue.

“Yes, like your favorite season.”

Celestine gulped, and her face burned with unwanted emotion. Emotion she couldn’t let him see. But his response meant far too much.

And that was dangerous.

“Wolfsbane was incredibly helpful tonight,” Celestine said. “It did everything I asked.”

“Ah, yes.” The air sparkled as he spoke. “I made sure of it. It was the least I could do after…” After I forced you to murder again . He didn’t need to finish, and never would. He changed the subject instead. “If you could have anything, what would it be?”

He never talked shop in her rooms. He only asked about her life, books, and their common interests. They had comfort and camaraderie in her chambers, but never work. Never. Except to sometimes reprimand her for being too lenient with people, like Babette.

She rolled her fingers into her blanket and propped herself up. “Including impossible things?”

“Yes, of course.”

“A family.”

“Children?”

“No, children are not in my future.” Celestine swallowed.

“I mean siblings, parents…people to infuriate and love me. Family . I desire nothing more than to have people who will be there for me no matter what. People to be by my side through thick and thin.” She was forced to stop, because her throat grew too dry to continue.

So she swallowed several times in order to finish what she truly wanted to say. “Someone to mourn me when I am gone.”

“You already have that.” He didn’t say with me , but it was implied. Tears leaked from her eyes, and the Specter reached out with his shadows to stroke them away. “I will mourn you when you’re gone.”

He said it like it was a foregone conclusion that she would die before him—which it was. With his magic, he would outlive her. It was inevitable.

Celestine sucked in a breath, and her eyes burned from withholding more tears. She was frail. It was the one thing everyone knew about her, but just because it was true didn’t mean she had to display her weakness for the world to see—and especially not him.

But inevitably, she feared they already saw everything anyway, despite her attempts at hiding it.

She cleared her throat. “So, a book or piano tonight?”

Every night, they fell asleep with either her reading to him or him playing the piano for her.

“Your choice,” he said. “Always your choice.”

Celestine reached out and touched the wall as if he were there on the other side. “I’ll read to you. Would you like to reread And Then There Were None or start Death on the Nile ?”

The Specter didn’t like reading; he found the practice difficult, so she always read them their favorites, which were always Agatha Christie.

“ Death on the Nile . We’ve read And Then There Were None too many times.”

Celestine nodded, leaned down to the bookshelf holding up her bed, plucked out the book, opened it, and began to read.

She read to him for what seemed like hours, time blurring together like a Picasso painting, lines swirling with the abstract art .

Eventually, her eyes fluttered shut, too weary to read anymore, and as sleep nearly claimed her, she whispered, “One day, I would like to know all of you.” Celestine’s eyes closed, and she barely heard his final response as sleep claimed her.

“Perhaps someday soon you will.”