Page 94 of Ocean of Ink
She had memorized each turn as she rounded the first initial corners, but then started to second-guess herself. When she found a door, elation at the discovery disturbed any semblance of a pattern in her mind. She listened for voices, then crept inside and investigated. There was little in the room besides bookshelves and a loveseat. The most curious thing was that there was not a speck of dust. Which meant the room saw use. Unlike her map, which she had tucked back into her garter when she realized how indiscernible it was belowground.
Wren wasn’t certain of how long she had been exploring, but knew it was too long. Her hands shook as she tugged on more books on the shelves. She had resorted to the task, hoping it would lead to a different door opening. So far, she’d pulled on half the books in the room, and none of them triggered anything. A metallic taste filled her mouth as she bit her cheek too hard. Tears stung her eyes.
She was going to die here. Someone was going to find her and kill her for trespassing. No one would know either. The only people who cared a semblance about her existence thought she was sound asleep in bed. Her breath came short and quick. She willed her mind to stop spinning.
“Focus,” she scolded under her breath. “You aren’t dead yet.”
After her less-than-encouraging pep talk, she decided to leave the room. Perhaps she would see something familiar in the passageways that would jog her memory. A scuff on the stone walls or a tilted torch. She stepped back into the hall and closed the door with a shiver. She should have worn warmer clothes. Another mistake on her part, but she hadn’t wanted to delay her investigation any longer.
The soft scuff of her satin dancing shoes shouldn’t have made any noise, but Wren felt as if each of her steps was as noisy as the Tides crashing against the cliffside. Even her breathing seemed loud in the echoey caverns. She wrapped her arms around herself as she came to a fork in the path. She couldn’t remember which way she had come from, so she flipped a coin in her mind and chose left, hoping it would lead her out of this maze.
As she walked, she wondered how often her brother had walked these same paths. He would have never gotten lost. He wouldn’t have come unarmed and poorly dressed, either. And yet, he was killed. If her brother, Gifted swordsman, brilliant in his own right, had been murdered, how did Wren ever think she stood a chance? The longer she walked, the colder she became in mind and body. Hope drained from her with each step.
The paces between torches seemed to grow farther and farther apart. Her breathing grew ragged again. Shadows reached for her. She looked over her shoulder again and again. She felt certain each time she turned her head that someone was following her. Her only comfort was that her Gift would alert her to the emotion of any incoming assailant. Not that it woulddo any good beyond giving her a chance to run. To prolong her death.
Another fork in the path. She chose the left again, for if she considered her options too long, she’d panic. Chill bumps peppered her skin as she rubbed up and down her arms. Perhaps a killer wouldn’t have to bother with her after all. She’d die from the cold, blue and alone. A soft, visible huff escaped her. She was being foolish, but it was the only thing keeping her from the reality of her situation sinking in.
Her shadow crept behind her as she passed under another torch. She glanced up and considered reaching for it so she would have light always with her, but decided against it. It would be more difficult to hide with one if the need arose. When she turned back forward, a shocked gasp was torn from her lips. The sound echoed off the walls. Wren’s pulse hammered in her ears.
There, at the end of the hall, was a person. They sat against a wall, just out of the torch’s radius. All Wren could make out was a gold dancing shoe on one of the feet and the hem of a purple gown. Certain that he person heard her, she froze in fear. There was no way they couldn’t see her, standing beneath the torch as she was, but they didn’t move.
Wren glanced over her shoulder, considering running the other way, but her dreadful curiosity stopped her. She had come so far, only to end up lost, cold, and alone. If this woman wasn’t running to attack her, perhaps she would help her.
“Hello, I’m afraid I’ve found myself down here by accident,” Wren announced as she slowly crept closer. “And well, you see, I-I am lost.” She let out a nervous laugh.
No response came. Wren stopped one torch away from the woman. The gold shoe hadn’t so much as twitched.
“Are you all right?” she asked carefully. “If you tell me how to get out of here, I can find help.”
Wren kept her eyes on the figure, but reached up and grabbed hold of the torch she was under. She no longer worried about hiding after having been seen. The light would help her see the woman better, but also could be used as a weapon in case of the worst. It took her a few tries to get the torch off its mount since she wasn’t willing to look up for more than a few seconds at a time, but it finally dropped into her hand.
The fire warmed her face. She didn’t take the time to relish in the small comfort, but set off toward the woman. Her heart beat against her ribs like a caged animal. The torch tipped left and right in her quavering hand. Still, she walked. Slowly, the light chased away the darkness that blanketed the woman. First, uncovering her other shoe, then her sparkling skirts, a large diamond necklace–
Wren screamed.Alysia. Alysia, with a blank stare and blood matted in her hair. The torch fell from Wren’s hand. She broke out in a run, not caring which direction her feet took her. Tears streamed down her face, drying against her neck as her slippers pounded against the dirt floor. She looked over her shoulder–certain any second she’d see someone chasing her–then ran straight into something hard. No. She felt fabric beneath her splayed hands. Not something,someone.
Another blood-curdling shriek ripped through her. She pushed against the hands that reached for her.
“No! Please, no!” she sobbed as she clawed at her attacker’s coat.
“Wren!” A familiar voice broke through her panic. The hands let go of her arms and grasped her face. She thrashed, her vision blurred. “Wren, Wren, it’s me! It’s Castien. Look at me.”
She stilled. Gentle thumbs wiped away her tears. Staring down at her with dark, wide eyes was her pompous prince, Castien.
“What’s happened?” He asked her, panic threading through his voice, though the volume was low. “Are you hurt?”
He let go of her face and trailed light fingertips down her arms, examining her. She drew in a shaky breath. Shook her head in a delayed answer to his question. His hands framed her face again. The most gentle touch she had ever known.
“Tell me what’s happened. Are you sure you’re not hurt? What are you doing down here?”
That’s when she felt it. Concern.Hisconcern. And–she could hardly believe it–affection. It wrapped around her like a warm blanket in the ice-cold hallway.
“Wren, please, you must speak to me.” His eyes searched her expression frantically. She felt his worry climbing higher and higher, spreading like ivy.
“Alysia,” she choked out. “Alysia is dead.”
Shock swept over his features. He dropped his hands.
“She is down here?”
