Page 97 of The City of Stardust

It wouldn’t be like Penelope, though, to leave a stone unturned.

They pass more bodies on the way, then a heap of them, slumped against a door. Aleksander’s hands are crushed into fists, his face white as chalk.

“She wouldn’t have come here,” he says numbly. “She wouldn’t have… All those children.”

“Aleksander, don’t,” Violet says, but he’s already pushing past the bodies, to the room on the other side of the door.

She follows, dread curling in her gut.

It’s almost pitch-black in the room, and at first she thinks there’s no one there. But then she sees the huddle in the corner. Too small to be adults, swathed in their oversized robes. They could be sleeping, but for the unbearable stillness.

“Violet—oh gods—”

Aleksander collapses to his knees and retches, heaving until there’s nothing left. His shoulders shake as he sobs in silence.

“They were children,” he says, over and over. “They were just children.”

Just children. But they were in Penelope’s way.

Violet manages to lead Aleksander out of the room, back down the staircase. Past the bodies she can’t bear to look at, even though they’re strangers to her. But instead of stopping at the entrance to leave—to warn someone else—Aleksander continues down the stairs, following the ribbon of blood. He doesn’t stop at the first open gate, which brackets the staircase, or the second.

The trail of blood is still thick and slippery in some places, as though Penelope dragged body after body down the staircase. Every gate has been flung wide open. And what’s worse than the open gates—no one comes to stop them. Some of the gates are ten feet high, slick and unscalable. Aleksander touches one of them with an expression of disbelief.

He only stops when they reach the end of the lit staircase. The fanciful portraits and velvet-curtained windows have long disappeared, leaving a stark façade that reminds her of a fortress, or prison.

“No one is allowed down here,” he says in a whisper. “I’ve never—except—”

Then his mouth snaps shut and he takes a deep breath, as though steadying himself.

“We have to keep going,” she says.

Even though every single sense is telling her to turn around, walk back up the stairs, and get as far away from this place as possible. Penelope is most likely down there, in whatever form she’s taken. Gathering her strength. Readying herself to exact biblical vengeance on the Everlys. Violet can’t let that happen.

Aleksander’s face drains of colour. “Violet…”

“We have to,” she says. “I’m sorry.”

“You don’t understand. Ican’t.”

He looks the same way he did on that staircase in Prague. Terrified, beyond all rationality.

What happened to you? is what she really wants to ask, but can’t.

And she recalls the way Aleksander had hesitated with the sword. There are the scars she knows about, and the ones she doesn’t. Maybe it’s best she goes alone. No interference.

No one to save her either, a smaller part of her whispers.

“I’ll go,” she says. “You stay here.”

Aleksander’s shoulders dip with relief, but he still seems uncertain. “She might still be down there.”

Violet doesn’t need to ask who he’s talking about.

She shakes her head. “It’s fine.”

She gives him what she hopes is a reassuring smile, but feels like more of a grimace. Then, avoiding the blood underfoot, she slips through the gate, leaving Aleksander behind. The staircase turns a corner, and he disappears from view.

The walls shine with condensation, and as Violet descends, the light vanishes. The chill deepens, and she flexes her fingers to try andregain some warmth. The sword is slippery in her grip, but she tightens her hold on it. There’s no voice compelling her downwards, but she still feels the same pull as she had in Tamriel’s basement. The crawl across the back of her neck in anticipated horror.

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