Page 84 of Wicked Court

Something about it catches my eye, though, a discrepancy that’s almost laughable. The west wing it depicts hasn’t looked like that for centuries.

“Trying to rewrite history, are we?” I mock the long-dead artist, tracing the edge of the frame with a finger.

There’s a thrill in the hunt, even if it’s just a visionary artist painting something unlike the others.

My mind kicks into gear, instincts honed not just for the kill but for the chase, unraveling the secret hidden in plain sight.

The frame is a golden relic crowned with dust, making it almost blend into the faded wallpaper. The painting itself is a lush depiction of Thornhaven Estate, as it might have been if the Sovereigns hadn’t gotten hold of it and converted it to their harsh standards. It’s a sun-drenched summer day. Every window gleams, reflecting the clear blue sky, a stark difference from the current, weather-beaten facade.

The west wing, particularly, draws my eye. It’s there, painted with such meticulous detail, yet I know for a fact it’s nothing but rubble now, a victim of some long-forgotten calamity. In the foreground beside the garden, a small, solitary figure gazes up at it, an intriguing anomaly.

My gaze sharpens.

I dissect the tableau with the precision of a surgeon. There is more here than mere artistry.

My fingers itch, compelling me to touch the canvas, expecting nothing more than the brushstrokes and thick hemp under my fingertips. But as I trace the line where the vibrant garden meets the architectural marvel of the west wing, something feels off.

“Well, fuck me,” I murmur.

The surface beneath my fingers shifts slightly, a panel disguised within the painting’s scenery. Surprised, I press down, and the piece of canvas depresses with a satisfying click. It’s clever, and I nod at the painting like it’s a person who’s particularly impressed me.

Encouraged, I examine the figure standing alone. It seems odd, out of place. On a hunch, I touch the figure, applying a bit of pressure, and another section behind the painting compresses.

Who would have thought?

The painting, a static relic of the past, now feels alive under my hands, a gateway.

A final shift, a soft whirring from behind, causes me to turn in time to watch a fissure emerge, slicing through the floral motifs of faded roses and creeping ivy painted on the wallpaper before it slowly widens into an open doorway.

“My, my.”

I proceed without hesitation. Each step down is a stride deeper into the manor’s heart, every echo of my footfall a bold challenge thrown into the cavernous void.

My favorite kind of summons.

The long, tight staircase hidden in the walls ends in what memory serves as below the first floor, below even the basement. The air is icy, yet claustrophobic. It’s windowless, full of stone, and coated in soil and damp. It also coughs up a foreign chill and a pleasant cocktail of mildew and centuries-old dust.

The sight elicits no triumphant grin from me.

This could be a trap.

Senses on alert, my expression remains an impassive mask as I bring take my phone from my pocket and turn on the flashlight.

I move further into the belly of the beast until a room at the end of the corridor emerges from the semi-darkness. My other hand tightens on my pocketed switchblade as my gaze penetrates the darkness, searching for any sign of movement. I advance into the room, muscles taut, every sense heightened. My attention flicks over potential hiding places quickly and systematically.

My secret admirer said I would find a room. This isn’t that. This is a fucking cathedral of books.

After ensuring I’m alone, I take in the room’s expanse. It’s a library, the vaulted stone ceiling lost in the shadows above. Shelves reach up as if trying to touch the heavens, though they are blind to it, laden with countless tomes and manuscripts.

I tread softly. This chamber, though forgotten, throbs with the lifeblood of those who have shaped our dark society from within these very walls.

Except, at least three people know of its existence.

Me, my penpal, and a nameless initiate.

“Secrets upon secrets,” I mutter to myself, fingertips grazing a curious-looking globe with continents that no longer exist—or perhaps never did.

It’s here, amidst the relics of power and occult, that I find them: documents marked with the seal of the Sovereign.

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