Page 71 of The Scarlet Veil

I lift the candelabra higher, casting light farther up the passage. This place—it looks familiar too. I recognize that turbulent tapestry, this sprawling family tree. I move past them quickly, darting down another flight of stairs. Still no vampires spring out to stop me. The ash continues to settle, however, and the temperature continues to drop. Gooseflesh rises on my arms at each creak in the walls. “You’re being ridiculous,” I mutter to myself, gripping the candelabra with two hands now. A groan echoes overhead in response, and I tense, remembering Odessa’s warning:This castle is very old, and it has many bad memories.

“Ridiculous,” I repeat.

When peculiar laughter erupts behind me, I let out a strangled squeak, swinging my candelabra around like some sort of cudgel. It sails through empty air, however, nearly slipping from my hands and colliding with familiar ebony doors. I skid to a halt and stare up at them in awe. They tower to the ceiling—spanning just as wide—ominous and impenetrable and black as night. Just liketheir owner. “Found you,” I breathe.

As if the castle itself is listening, a gust of cold air sweeps down the corridor in response.

It extinguishes each and every one of my candles.

“No—”

Before I can panic, before I can demand that it somehow—I don’t know—reignitethe flames, another head pops straight through the ebony doors, sending me sprawling backward. I wield the candelabra at it like a sword and huff, “Can youpleasegive some sort of forewarning before you leap out at me like that?”

“I do not leap.” The ghostly woman sniffs and lifts her haughty chin, pearl earrings bobbing within the perfect ringlets of her hair. Except for the odd cant of her neck, she is the portrait of civility. “You warmbloods are always so presumptuous, disparaging death in front of the dead. It isn’t the worst thing to be, you know.” She begins to withdraw.

“Wait!” I scramble to my feet, hastily smoothing my skirt and hair beneath her critical gaze. To be frank, she reminds me of my mother, albeit several years younger. Or perhaps several years older? It’s impossible to tell. “Er, please, mademoiselle, I—I apologize for the offense. You are entirely right, but if you could remain for just a moment, I would be forever in your debt.”

She wrinkles her pert nose in distaste. “Why?”

I gesture to the doorknob. Her silvery form providesjustenough light to see the keyhole there, and she must have a good reason to linger in Michal’s study—presumably a vengeful one. He doesn’t strike me as the type to treat his lovers with affection. “The master of this castle has stolen something from me, and I should like toretrieve it. I need light, however, in order to pick the lock.”

A vicious sort of glee sparks in the woman’s eyes. “You want to steal from Michal?”

I nod warily.

“Ooh, excellent. Where shall I stand?”

I exhale in relief as she glides through the door, casting proper light over its handle. Peculiar ridges line its perimeter. I examine each carefully before turning to the keyhole, feeling unexpected camaraderie with this dead woman. Those of us who loathe Michal must stick together. “Pardon my candidness, but”—I fish the lockpicks from my skirt—“did he kill you too?”

“Who? Michal?” The woman laughs as I work the picks into the lock. “Of course not. He broke my heart, not my neck, though I would’ve gladly wrung his.” She lifts a hand to her hair, twining a ringlet around her finger almost dreamily. “Such a shame. Thewickedthings he could do with his tongue.”

Choking, I nearly drop the picks.

“Oh yes,” she says impishly, “and his teeth—”

The lock opens with a click, and I straighten hastily, my cheeks hot. On second thought, she most certainlydoesn’tremind me of my mother. “Yes, well—thank you very much for your help. After I find my necklace, I promise to give Michal your love.”

She swells up like a toad. “You most certainly will notgive him love—”

Twisting the handle, I leap across the threshold into his study, tearing back through the veil and landing firmly in the realm of the living. To my relief, the ghost merely pokes her head through the rip before sticking out her tongue and vanishing back the way she came. And as this rip is smaller—almost neater—it heals tooquickly for her to change her mind.

Leaving me alone.

True darkness doesn’t descend, however, as a low fire still smolders in the hearth and a taper flickers weakly on his desk. It drips black wax upon the lacquered surface.

Right.

Summoning the last of my courage, I steal around his chair and wrench open each of his desk drawers.

Unlike the room itself, they remain unlocked, filled with neat and conventional supplies: an eagle-feather quill, pot of emerald ink, and needle-thin dagger in one; a velvet pouch of coins in another. I pour a handful into my palm. They bear not the crown on Belterra’s couronnes but the crude silhouette of a wolf in gold and bronze. No silver. I replace the pouch carefully and move on to the next items.

A box of matches and bundle of incense.

A skull-shaped seal and black wax.

An iron ring fashioned into a claw—I slip it over the tip of my thumb, examining its lethal tip in morbid fascination—and last, a charcoal sketch of Odessa and Dimitri. I recognize the thick waves of their hair, the feline shape of their eyes, though they look younger here than the vampires I’ve met. Perhaps my age. Even in pencil, their smiles transcend the page—theirhumansmiles. No fangs interrupt the straight white lines of their teeth. They look... happy.

I tuck the sketch back beneath a jade paperweight, gritting my own teeth.

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