I rush back to my room and curl up in bed, drawing my knees to my chest. All night, I stare at the windows that overlook the dark woods and remind myself if I needed to escape—truly needed to—I could shatter them. I have a way out.
Even if that way out is into the woods I have sworn to everyone never to venture into.
When morning finally comes, I breathe easier. There were no more sounds. No other strange things happened in the night.
I venture to the bathroom. I only inspected it briefly the night before. It’s the third door in the hall, situating it between the study and my bedroom. It’s a strange room with water that flows hot and cold from the tap by a magic I don’t understand. I test this phenomenon twice during my morning ablations. Both times the water steams if it runs long enough.
This is a strange place indeed.
Dressed and ready for the day, I stride down the hall. I’m far more confident in the sunlight than I was the night before. The door handle turns effortlessly, granting me access to the rest of the manor. I step out and am drawn to the dining room by the aroma of freshly baked bread.
A plate has been laid out for me. Two eggs have been fried and laid over cooling slabs of toast. Half a sausage is nestled beside them. It’s a breakfast fit for a queen and I make quick work of it.
There’s no sign of Oren, or Lord Fenwood, however. And I had desperately been hoping to catch one of them. I wonder if there was an accident last night that prompted them to leave early in the morning and take the carriage to town.
The scream still resonates in my ears.
When I’m finished, I collect my dishes and head to the side door I saw Oren step through the night before. Sure enough, it leads to a well-stocked kitchen. I can’t fight my instincts; I look through the pantry at the dry and jarred goods. It’s enough to feed ten people for two winters, easily. There’s another door that leads down to the basement that I presume is cold storage. I’m not brave enough to venture into the dark after last night.
I walk along a preparation table to the back of the room, where there is a large basin sink set into the countertop, and tidy my dishes. The open shelves along the wall opposite the hearth allow me to return them to their proper place with ease. I emerge back into the dining room, half expecting Oren to be there, ready to scold me for daring to lift a finger.
But there’s still no one.
The silence is unbearable. Especially since the last sounds I heard in this manor were those screams. I head back to my room with renewed purpose. I can’t stay in this building a second longer. I can’t live with that noise as my only company.
I change into a far simpler dress, one that only goes down to my knees so it doesn’t get caught in brambles and with slits high on the sides to give me mobility. Underneath, I wear a sturdy pair of leggings. I take my lute, sling it over my shoulder, and venture back out to the main hall.
I come to a stop before the front door and repeat the rules Oren told me to myself. I am allowed to leave right now. It’s daytime. And I am only venturing out in front of the manor, not behind. It’s within their parameters; I’ll be safe. I slowly glance over my shoulder. I might even be safer than in here.
The morning is crisp and refreshing. The air, even at the foot of the mountains, feels thinner and lighter. I can smell the dense pine of the forest behind me. The small saplings that make up the woods before me pale in comparison to their ancestors.
Out of curiosity, I follow an offshoot of the drive around the side of the building. Sure enough, it ends at a carriage house and stables. The horses are in their stalls. Carriage parked. So it appears they didn’t head into town.
I almost go over to the horses but immediately think better of it. They’ll remind me too much of Misty and that wound is still too fresh. Instead I turn on my heel and walk along the drive all the way back out to the main gate. It’s closed, and the gravel here shows no sign of the cart being driven out this morning. Then again, I’m no real tracker—if I had been, my family might have eaten better—so it’s hard to be sure.
Feeling braver, I walk along the wall among the brush and bramble. My sturdy work boots give me sure footing. Somewhere between the wall, the manor, and the drive, I come to a glade. Arrows of sunlight strike the ground in beams that pierce the thinning canopy above. The coming winter is making these trees shed and they’ve bled on the ground in shades of orange and red. At the center of the glade is a massive stump. It must have been one of the old trees, felled long ago to stop it from encroaching too far into usable land.
I sit and brace one ankle on the opposite knee, lute in my lap. Holding the neck with one hand, I lightly strum with the other. It’s out of tune. Of course it is, it’s been weeks since I last played. I make my adjustments and strum again, repeating until I’m pleased.
Pressing down with my fingertips, I pluck a single note and allow it to hold in the air. I hum, adjusting the pitch of my voice until it matches with the resonant sound in the body of the lute. I allow the harmony to fade and take a breath, before my fingers begin to dance atop the strings.
Pluck, pluck, pluck, strum. The introduction rises to a swell before stopping in a sudden silence. Then, the first note. I sing with the second.
“I knew you,
When the trees
Were on fire.
“I saw you,
When you were
Not a liar.”
A brief interlude. I rock with the music. Swaying with the trees and breezes that round out my merry troupe. Strumming as we reach the chorus.
“Our song, rode on the mists of mountains high.” I close my eyes, feeling the music within me as much as around me. The forest has fallen to a hush, as if listening to me play. It’s been ages since I had a space to play and sing. “Our song, lurked in crypts of kings gone by.”
I shift my fingers on the neck, transitioning back to the verse, now playing each note in harmony as I find the melody once more.
“I saw you,
When the—”
“Well aren’t you a surprise?”
I’ve only heard his voice once before and yet I would know it anywhere. That resonance is deeper than a bass string. Richer than dark chocolate. I jerk, startled, and glance over my shoulder on instinct.
“Don’t look,” he reminds me.
I quickly stare forward again. “I didn’t see anything. Well, just your shoulder again.” He’s hiding behind a tree.
“You’re going to make me think you have some kind of obsession with my shoulders.”
I let out a soft snort of laughter and play along. “Well, so far as I can tell, they are quite nice shoulders.”
It’s his turn to laugh. The sound is as bright as sunlight and as sumptuous as velvet. I have to force my hands to stay still so I don’t try and harmonize with it on instinct. I know how annoying I am with the lute in my hands.
“I didn’t know you can play the lute.”
“I suspect there’s much about each other we don’t know.” He hadn’t seemed interested in opening up the night before to discover such things.
“Where did you learn that song?”
“I’m not sure…” The taste of metal explodes in my mouth, like I ate something burnt or bit my tongue and now have blood on the insides of my cheeks. I hate lying. Whenever someone tries to tell a lie to me, I smell smoke. Whenever I tell a lie, I taste metal. Either way, lies are unpleasantness I try to avoid at all costs. “I must’ve heard it somewhere when I was very young. I’ve known it for a long time.” Half-truths are easier.