Page 4 of A Vow of Shadows

Every head in the foyer had swiveled to look my way, varying degrees of concern or confusion etched across their faces. My hand lifted in a stilted wave as I crossed to the main door.

The butler stood with one hand still gripping the handle. In the other, he held a small envelope not unlike the invitation I’d received earlier.

“Is that for my father?” Thankfully, my voice betrayed none of the emotional turmoil I felt at being the center of attention. I strode as confidently as I could with my limbs still trembling and plucked the message from his hand. “I’d be happy to deliver it for you.”

The butler bowed, and the room resumed motion.

No one gave me a second glance as I slipped into my father’s study.

I closed the door behind me with a sigh, glad to escape the bustle of the foyer. My ears buzzed with the absence of sound. No hint of those damned bells remained, but even in their absence, the memory of them lingered. A ghost whose silent screams echoed in the corners of my mind.

Father never permitted the windows to be open in this room. Though the heat in the summer made it nearly unbearable, it wasn’t worth risking his precious books to the elements. And so, this room had become my refuge of late.

A large oak desk and matching chair dominated the space. Book shelves lined the far wall from floor to ceiling, each volume carefully organized by subject, then author, then title. The fireplace to my right sat unused for the season. Even the ashes sat undisturbed.

Small mementos of his travels adorned the mantel like a visual timeline of his life: a miniature ship in a glass bottle, a jewel encrusted dagger, a long-dead rose. Sometimes, I would walk the length of it and wonder what might occupy a shelf of my life.

The only things I could think to represent my memories were shadows.

The small area before the fireplace and a slim walkway toward the desk remained the only bare surfaces. The rest of the room was a monument to eight years of fruitless research. Towering piles of medical journals, religious scrolls, scientific texts, and, atop them all, ancient tomes of myth and lore. Each layerchronicled my father’s obsessive search for answers. Most were completely useless.

After all the research, the countless visits to doctors, witches, mystics, and priestesses, the tinctures, bloodletting, and exorcisms, we were no closer to curing me. The only explanation that rang true was the one he refused to believe: I was doomed.

Stepping around the precarious stacks, I crossed to the desk where my father sat, a dragon amongst his hoard.

Hunched over yet another book, he had his head propped on one hand and marked his progress with the other, sliding a finger along each line of text.

His hair had grayed in recent years; I once joked that he was losing pigment while I was gaining it.

He hadn’t laughed.

I cleared my throat, and he jerked upright. Ice blue eyes scanned the room and quickly found me amidst the chaos. I shrunk under the weight of that gaze, though it was not unkind.

“Katrin.” His voice was the hoarse croak of one recently awoken, and I wondered how long he’d been in here.

“This just arrived for you,” I said, placing the envelope on his desk. “Would you like me to ring for some water?”

He waved away my question and reached for the message. With sure fingers, he ripped it open, pulling free a small, folded paper. His eyes moved slower over the note than they had the book, a deep crease forming between his brows.

When he finished reading, he crumpled the paper into a ball and tossed it over my shoulder. I watched as it sailed into the cold ashes of the fireplace, kindling for the winter fire. Turning back, I saw not my father but the Duke—a man whose personal desires could not keep away the duties of the title.

“Lord Rencourt has died,” he said without preamble.

His face betrayed no emotion, leaving me lost for how to respond.

I didn’t know the man, though I’d heard his name a time or two. Had he passed peacefully, or had he fought until his final breath?

As unfortunate as the news was, the relief I felt was instant. I had a plan, and, for once, it seemed fate was on my side. Thoughts flew through my mind. There was so much I needed to do before nightfall. I needed to pack. I needed to prepare.

I whipped my head to my father as the realization settled.

I needed to say goodbye.

Father, misreading the look of horror that transformed my features, sighed and placed his hands on his hips. Then he turned, surveying the room as though truly seeing it for the first time. “It’s here, Kat. It has to be. We’re missing something, but we’ll figure it out. Don’t you worry.”

I nodded but couldn’t force my lips into their usual placating grin. His empty promises had grown tiresome. I finally knew the truth, but how did you tell your father you were dying?

If everything went to plan, hopefully I could save us both the heartache.

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