Page 39 of The Scarlet Veil

I wrench myself upright before my entire body locks down, darting for the rail and following it to the spiral stairs.You are not in a casket. You are not in the tunnels.I repeat the words like a lifeline, but thesmell—it envelops me with a vengeance, as if the room itself remembers the fetid stench of her corpse. The fetid stench ofdeath. I knock into the chair, the bed, nearly break my toe on the first step of the grand staircase. Crawling up it on my knees, I tear the last pin from my hair and lunge for the door. I forget about sharp teeth and black eyes and cold hands. I forget about Odessa’s warning, about anything and everything exceptescape.

I am not in a casket.

I have to leave this place.

I am not in the tunnels.

I cannot stay here.

“Please, please—” My fingers shake violently as I shove the pin into the keyhole.Tooviolently. I cannot feel the tumblers of the lock, cannot think beyond the faint glow emanating from the keyhole. “Just let me go,” I beg the room, still stab, stab,stabbinguntil my hairpin bends. Until itbreaks. A sob tears from my throat, and the glow of light flares brighter in response. The softest strain of a violin follows.

It takes several seconds for my mind to catch up with my senses.

Light.

Confusion flares at the sight of it, at thesoundof it, but relief quickly follows, crashing through me in a hideous wave.

Sinking to my knees, I press my face against the keyhole. This light isn’t candlelight; it isn’t warm and golden but cold and silvery,like the glow of the stars, or—or the glint of a knife. I don’t care. I drink it in greedily, forcing myself to breathe as the strange music builds.

I am not in a casket. I am not in the tunnels.

One breath.

Two.

The tension in my shoulders releases slightly. The pressure in my chest eases. I must be dreaming. It’s the only explanation. My subconscious—recognizing the familiar nightmare—has turned lucid at last, creating this strange music and stranger light to comfort me. Both seem to originate from the end of the empty corridor, just around the corner. Unlike my room, however, no windows interrupt these long, gilded walls. The candles in the candelabra have blown out. I settle against the door regardless, resting my cheek against the wood.

I will remain here—kneeling on this hard floor—until Odessa returns for me. I will live here indefinitely if I must.

The silver light pulses brighter as the music grows louder, wilder, and deep voices join in. Feminine laughter. I try to ignore it. I try to count each breath of my lungs and beat of my heart, willing myself to wake.This isn’t real.

And then—as the music peaks in a bizarre crescendo—figuresappear.

My mouth falls open.

Human in shape, they waltz around the corner in pairs, their bodies translucent and glowing. Dozens of them. Silver light spills from their skin, from the lavish lace of one’s gown, the thick manacles on another’s wrists. The chains drag behind him as he lifts a woman in rags overhead. Two men dressed in tunics play violinsupon their shoulders, while behind them, a maiden with perfect curls spins a perfect pirouette.

None notice me as they promenade through the empty corridor, laughing,celebrating, before the first in their caravan whirls through the wall and vanishes. I watch the rest glide past in horror, no longer convinced my subconscious has turned lucid. No longer convinced I’m sleeping at all. Never before have I conjured spirits—actualspirits—in my dreams.

The music fades with the violinists, but the last of the ghosts—a truly lovely woman with clouds of translucent hair—continues to twirl, laughing delightedly as the train of her gown sweeps the floor. It leaves soft circles in the dust there. Just as her hand slips through the opposite wall, however, her gaze catches upon my door. Upon its keyhole.

Uponme.

Her smile vanishes as I scramble backward,away, but it’s too late—swooping low, she fills the keyhole with a single upturned eye. Black spots my vision as it meets mine. “Te voilà,” she whispers curiously, tilting her head.

Her words are the last I hear before passing out.

There you are.

Still curled in the fetal position, I wake to a strange man crouching above me. Startled, I jerk away, but something in his grin—in thetiltof his dark eyes, the cast of his amber skin—feels familiar. “Good evening, starshine,” he croons. “I trust you slept well?”

When he extends a large hand to help me rise, I stare at it in confusion. “Who—who are you?”

“A better question”—he slants his head, those feline eyes stilllearning my face—“is who areyou?”

Sighing, I roll over and stare at the ceiling in resignation. Or at least, IthinkI stare at the ceiling. It remains too dark to discern much of anything except the man’s silhouette. In the corridor behind him, someone has reignited the candelabra, and golden light diffuses his dark hair and wide shoulders. It casts his face in shadow.

Wretched thunder still rumbles outside.

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