Page 67 of Lost in the Dark

Careful not to look at the blood on her floor, she set to work. It was time consuming, brushing the dirt from her dress, cleaning the mud from her hem with a damp cloth. The result was imperfect, but better than she’d feared.

Her skin tensed and she knew time was running out.

In a rush, she brushed her hair, tied it back into a simple braid.

Nervous but determined to make a good impression, she opened the door and braced herself. How was the hallway so dark, even in the light of morning? Because there were no windows, she realized. Just a long row of doors and flickering scones. The darkness seemed to pulse as she left her room, the hall stretching before her for a moment.

Her necklace burned.

Stop it.

No foolish imaginings or child’s fears. She had a new husband to impress, and a dining area to find somewhere in this castle of a home. Worse, she had to be on time. The clock’s tick carried down the hall.

The first chime sounded, heralding the breakfast hour.

Six to go.

Who’d have thought she’d live in a home with a real, mechanical clock. Or that she’d hate it after only a single day. Thank the Gods the mayor of her village had insisted on showing off the clock in his home every Harvest Tyne—he’d wanted all the children to understand the chimes they heard.

Be on time.

Picking up her skirts, Anna hurried toward the stairs, careful to keep her steps light so her husband wouldn’t know she’d run. The heart-shaped necklace beat against her chest, tugged at her throat. At least the exercise would brighten her cheeks—she’d failed to do much with pinches and she owned no paints.

Five.

She hurtled down the spiraling stone staircase, arms wide to brace herself on the wall and central post. Her skirts caught at her legs, as if mocking her efforts.Dress my best. Shreds of a red runner, long turned to moldering, tangled around her ankles. She kicked the fabric off her slippers and wished her farmyard finery looked as opulent as it weighed.

Once she’d reached the central hall, she paused.

It was hard to tell where the kitchen was located—or to smell the scent of baking over the decomposing grass. Still, the kitchen wasn’t where she’d entered. It had to be further inside the manor.

She searched for the most worn path—there.

Doing her best to keep her skirts out of the muck, she followed the path into another, shorter hallway. This time she could hear the clang of copper pots and the crackle of a cooking fire. Slowing before an arched entrance, she smoothed her hair and adjusted her collar. Ensured the ruby of her necklace shone outward. She looked inside the kitchens—nothing.

Demons take it.

There must be a breakfast room.

Almost running, she followed the sound of low voices down the hall. She winced at the amount of dust dancing in the air, the cracked plaster walls. The few tapestries stunk of neglect, dark spots creeping up from the bottom edges.

Two.

The deep baritone of her new husband confirmed she’d found the room.

As the clock chimed its final time, she stepped into a cavernous chamber and dropped into a deep curtsey.

“Welcome, Wife.”

“My Lord, I am so pleased to join you…” The smell of sour milk hit her.

Lowering her head further, she coughed quietly into her skirts. She tried to ignore the pieces of bread molding within old rush mats and evidence of where her husband’s hounds had made themselves too much at home before the hearth.

Such mess.

No wonder the mora had haunted her last night—her grandmother had taught her that the mora were spirits of women long past, seeking solace in those places they’d known best in life. A kitchen, a hearth, a child’s bedchamber. The mora did no harm and often helped the mistress of that home—unless that home was untended. Then the mora would storm and rail until the place had been set to rights.

As soon as she’d broken fast with her husband, she’d begin. Once Rathbytten was cleaned, the spirits would settle. The mora could return to living behind the stove and tending the chickens.

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