Page 42 of Ink Blood Sister Scribe

Trev ran a hand through his hair, face pale. “Yeah, I mean, she definitely blacked out for a minute, which was like, pretty scary, honestly, but she knew the date and her name and everything. I was too freaked out to try and move her myself, so I radioed for help and a group of people came and took her back to the infirmary. That’s where she’s at now.”

“Well,” said Esther, still torn between conflicting emotions, “it’s lucky you were with her.”

“I know, right? Anyway, she keeps asking for you. And she’s like... pretty agitated about it? Kinda freaky. So I told the medic I’d come find you, bring you back to calm her down.”

Esther hesitated. This had to be another one of Pearl’s tricks, but if so, she couldn’t parse it. “Did youseeher fall?”

“No, she was behind me. I definitelyheardit, though.”

Maybe she was faking, Esther thought, but why? “What about her wrist? Did the medic say it was broken, or did Pearl—”

“They already set it and everything,” Trev said. He half turned, moving toward the doorway, clearly expecting her to follow, and Esther did not know how to refuse without looking like a grade-A asshole. And her nerves had calmed as soon as she’d gotten something in her stomach, which meant her curiosity was once again more powerful than her self-preservation. So, shaking her head at herself, she went after him.

Esther had been to the infirmary a couple times for work-relatedinjuries and had always found it bright and bustling. Today, though, it was dimmer and quieter than normal—the overhead lights had been shut off and the desk lamps were reflected in the full-length mirror fixed to the opposite wall. There was no one at those lit desks and Pearl seemed to be the only patient, curled up on one of the cots with her mop of blond hair spread out over a pillow, the sound of her heavy breathing suggesting sleep. The other four beds were empty.

Esther moved toward Pearl’s still form. Her eyes were closed, her face slack. Asleep, or pretending. Her still face made Esther’s traitorous heart thump painfully.

“She seems to have calmed down all right without me,” she said, but Trev didn’t answer. She turned to find his back to her, his head bowed over the doorknob. He was locking it. From the inside. “What—” she said, and he turned. His anxious expression had fallen away, and he was grinning at her, completely at ease.

“Let’s get this over with,” he said, jingling the ring of keys in his left hand.

In his right hand, he held a gun.

13

“Why does everything around here have to be so fucking creepy?” Collins asked, his voice echoing oddly in the dark stairway. He’d gone first up the steps, maybe out of force of protective habit, though both he and Nicholas had experienced a spike of panicked doubt when the bookshelf began to solidify again behind them. In order to come back through that same door Collins would need to read the spell aloud again. There was a small shelf set into the wall of the staircase that fit the book perfectly, so they left it behind and started up the wooden stairs, guided by the beam of Collins’s keychain penlight.

Despite the light it was very dark, and Nicholas did not like the dark. He’d been in the dark for days when he’d been kidnapped and in the half dark ever since, always aware that he was one eye infection away from darkness of a more permanent nature. This, coupled with the steep climb and the general intrigue, meant his heart was beating rabbit-fast by the time they reached what seemed to be a long, dark landing that took them to the left. The stairs had zigzagged three times, leading them up the house’s stories.

“Are we in the attic or something?” Collins said, gazing down the black hall.

“Thereabouts,” Nicholas said, trying not to let Collins hear how out of breath he was. He reached out to touch the wood on either side of him, gauging the width of the passage, which was narrow. “To be specific,” he said, “I think we’re in the attic walls.”

Collins made a noise of displeasure. “Is Richard hiding a crazy wife up here, or what?”

“Why, Collins, I didn’t have you down as a Brontë fan.”

“I had a thing for Jane. Hot little weirdo. So, what’s up here?”

“Nothing, as far as I know,” Nicholas said. “Bare boards, mouse turds.”

Collins started walking. Behind him, Nicholas was mapping out their steps—they’d climbed through the south wall and turned left, which meant they were headed east, walking in stacked parallel to the corridor that led to Richard’s rooms on the third floor and Maram’s on the second. After a few minutes Collins stopped abruptly, and Nicholas saw that the passageway had ended. There was no doorway at this end, nor any opening, and Nicholas assumed it was a dead end. But then Collins said “Oh,” and crouched to shine his light downward. Beneath his feet, the metal handle of a trapdoor flashed into view, and when he pulled it up with a grunt, there was another steep staircase going down.

“Curiouser and curiouser,” said Nicholas.

“Creepier and creepier,” corrected Collins, and Nicholas couldn’t argue. He was less prone than Collins to being spooked, but the darkness and inexplicability of the staircases and passages were eerie even to him. Collins had already started down the steps, however, despite his own clear hesitance, and Nicholas followed. This staircase wasn’t quite as dark as the hall above it—there was a faint line of light beneath the door at the bottom, which seemed promising.

“Where do you think we are in the building?” Collins asked over his shoulder, footsteps dull in the close wooden space.

“West Wing,” Nicholas said.

“That’s where your uncle lives.”

“Yes.”

“Shit,” said Collins, “maybe he really does have a secret wife. Or maybe he and Maram use these passages for a late-night rendezvous and—”

He stopped talking because he’d pulled open the door, found a light switch, and was now squinting in the sudden brightness. He stood still, peering out at whatever lay beyond the door, and right as Nicholas was about to push him forward, he went of his own accord. He said, as Nicholas joined him, “Mirrors.”

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