To Bleed a Crystal Bloom

by Sarah A. Parker

  “I did. And she’s a tubby one, unlike you.” She looks me up and down, clicking her tongue and shaking her head. “One of these days, I’ll find a way to put some meat on those bones. Mark my word!”

  We both say the last three words in unison, and I laugh, hooking my bag over my shoulder.

  “Now, off you go,” she says, shooing me. “The soup ain’t gonna prepare itself. Bring those lemons down later and we can have a cuppa. I’ll tell you all about my wee babe.”

  “Looking forward to it.” I lift onto my tippy toes and plant a kiss on her freckle-dusted cheek, then pick up the plate and dart off, setting it in the sink before I head out the door.

  The mouse squeaks his displeasure at being jostled about as I sprint down the cold, barren hallway lit by flaming wall sconces. I come to a T and bank left, slowing my steps when I reach a cobbled archway on my right—one that looks like every other archway in this giant castle.

  But it’s not.

  It’s one of the thirty-seven entrances to The Tangle—the unutilized labyrinth of corridors lumped in the center of the palace that twists and turns and splits and crosses and feeds into areas otherwise difficult to access.

  My secret weapon.

  These corridors lead anywhere and everywhere, if you know how to use them. Some pop out in doors that are invisible to the untrained eye, others lead to sensible places regardless of the insensible track it takes to get there.

  Take the trapdoor entrance on the fifth floor for example; a tunnel that spits you out in an underground storage room despite not seeming to rise or fall a smidge.

  In short, they’re easy to get lost in if you don’t have a clear grasp on things, something I learned the hard way too many times.

  I’m surprised I’m not a dehydrated corpse decorating a tunnel somewhere.

  These days, Castle Noir is my own personal city, just like the ones I’ve read about in the many books stacked in Spines—the giant library.

  The passageways are streets; the kitchen, a bakery that exchanges the best buns and cinnamon-nut butter for my mouse-ridding services; and the bedrooms are houses rich with people’s lingering scents.

  Like The Den—Rhordyn’s personal suite.

  The thought that these halls may soon be swarming with strangers over the course of an entire weekend sits like a rock in my gut.

  Coming to a fork in the tunnel, I veer left, spotting a young girl bunched on the ground at the base of the wall.

  My feet root in place.

  Something bitter clogs my throat as I peer over my shoulder, then back again.

  She’s perhaps no older than seven or eight, shivering, her inky hair a messy shroud around her shoulders.

  I don’t think she’s seen or heard me yet, likely because I move through the castle like a wraith, my bare footfalls softer than a gentle pull of breath.

  Always.

  Over the years, I’ve taught myself to move with the air and blend against walls. To meld with shadows despite the brassy veneer of my long, golden hair doing everything in its power to make me stand out.

  I clear my throat and the girl jolts—her wild, fearful eyes darting to me.

  Suspending my hands between us, I try to show I’m no threat regardless of the impromptu squeak that emanates from my knapsack.

  “Are you lost?” I ask, crouching.

  She nods, her heart-shaped face pale like the moon. “Wh-what’s wrong with your voice?”

  My hand flies to my throat like a pitiful shield.

  “I hurt it when I was little,” I whisper. “So, I sound ... different.”

  Raspy. Perpetually broken and harsh, like I haven’t had a drink all day. Not the smooth, honeyed voice some of the servants have. Never the lilting chime of my handmaid.

  “Oh ...” she replies, still wound in a lump on the ground.

  Watching me.

  I’m thankful she doesn’t ask more, unsure of what I’d say if she did. The only memories I have of the night that broke my throat are the fragmented ones that come to me in my sleep.

  The screams, the smoldering flames, the strident scratching that scored so deep it left irreparable scars on my soul. Damage that prevents me from living a normal life lest a sharp sound trigger an impromptu attack.

  I forge a smile and drop to a kneel. “Let’s go find your parents, shall we?”

  “I don’t have any ...”

  My smile falters, heart sinks.

  I can suddenly see the darkness hiding in those emerald eyes; a haunting darkness I recognize.

  “Well,” I answer, trying to sound bright and cheery. “Where did you come from?”

  She sniffs, wiping her cheeks with the back of puffed sleeves that cinch her wrists. “From the big shiny doors.”

  The Keep.

  Doors I’ve never been allowed through. One of the dark zones I’ve yet to explore.

  I think of the skeleton I once found resting against a wall not too far from here ...

  Fair to say, I’m obliged to return this child to her rightful place.

  “Lucky for you, I know exactly where that is.”

  I bridge the space between us with an outstretched hand.

  She studies it, gaze dropping to my bag. “Do you have any treats in there? Or just the mouse?”

  I lift a brow.

  She gives me a shy smile. “I heard it squeak.”

  “Clever girl,” I say, digging around for my jar of toffees. I unscrew the lid and offer the sweets. “One for each hand. For guessing the contents of my bag.”

  Her eyes light up, and she pops two straight in her mouth, then lets me pull her up.

  We walk in silence, hand in hand, her grip tightening as we journey down crooked stairwells and silent stretches of tunnel. By the time I help her through a trapdoor that spits us out in a lofty, fourth-floor corridor, my fingers feel bruised.

  I roll the rug back into place and brush the cobwebs off her dress, then turn to The Keep looming over us like an entrance to the underworld.

  There are no windows in this corridor that seems unnaturally long. Certainly no other entrances nearly half as interesting as this.

  Large sconces light the twin, handleless doors from either side, casting them in a golden sheen, the polished stone offering perfect reflections of ourselves. I ignore mine, stepping forward to knock four times, each echoing back at me.

  A taunting heartbeat.

  The child shuffles behind me as the mechanics grind into gear, and the door cracks open like the mouth of a monster, though just enough to spit out a burly beast of a man I recognize all too well.

  Jasken. The keeper of The Keep. Or at least that’s what I call him.

  He’s dressed in the classic garb of a Western guard—black pants, knee-high boots, and a swarthy coat that kicks out at the shoulders. Armor reminiscent of flowing ink protects the left side of his chest and spills down one arm, but leaves the other bare.

  If I were to crawl inside the man, it would require three of me to fill him up. Even then, there would be space for each of us to shift around and get more comfortable.

  He looks down at me with small, wary eyes, and I offer him a dazzling smile.

  “Orlaith,” he rumbles, voice surprisingly warm. From that sound alone, you’d think the man’s a pushover.

  Wrong.

  “Jasken,” I say, tipping my head in greeting. “Lovely day for a stroll.”

  One bushy brow reaches for his ruddy hairline. “I’m sure. Back so soon?”

  Rude.

  “I don’t appreciate your judgemental tone. It’s been two whole days since I was last here.” I shrug. “Anyway, I have”—a ticket—”someone. I found her in The Tangle.”

  I swear the corner of his mouth kicks up. Difficult to tell with all that rust-colored scruff covering half his face. “The what?”

  I roll my eyes, reach behind, and nudge the child forward. She’s staring at the ground, twining her fingers together.

  Jasken’s honey eyes drop bef
ore his head dips behind the door. “Vestele!”

  I cringe.

  He has quite the pair of lungs.

  A woman with wiry hair and a wiggly spine hobbles through the opening—face pinched, cheeks red, hair pulled into such a tight upsweep that it almost smooths the years etched around her pale blue eyes.

  “Anika! Kvath be damned, where the hell have you been?”

  Her voice boxes my ears, but it’s her stare that really stings—two icy pins stabbing at me and the child.

  She yanks Anika through the doors, and the poor thing barely has a chance to peep over her shoulder at me before she disappears.

  When I try to follow, Jasken slides sideways, blocking my line of sight—a mammoth, impenetrable wall. By the way his cheeks have rounded out, I can tell he’s smiling somewhere beneath all those wiry bristles.

  I’d smack that smirk right off his gruff face if he weren’t so damn tall.

  I frown, stamping my fists on my hips. “You take your job far too seriously.”

  “So you keep telling me,” he says, tipping his head. “Orlaith.”

  I sigh, mimicking the action, hands falling heavy at my sides. “Jasken.”

  Thus ensues the walk of shame.

  Not my first, and I doubt it will be my last.

  Castle Noir is brimming with secrets, but most of them are not my own. They’re Rhordyn’s or his ancient predecessors who are never talked about.

  This one, however, belongs to me.

  The door is old, the worn wood and rusted lock a testament to its age. A lock that was a terrible match for my hairpin and teeth-gritting determination when I first stumbled upon this place ten years ago.

  I lift a flaming torch from one of the sconces and pry the door open. The darkness that pours out seems to howl at me, making my flame flicker as I peer into the throat of a gloomy passageway.

  Whispers.

  Though this entire castle is ancient, this place somehow feels more so. Like the floor felt the wear of decades of feet before the door was locked, the passage forgotten.

  At least until I came along.

  I step into the hallway and use the flaming beacon to light the first sconce, illuminating a section of my masterpiece.

  This place curls into the moody guts of the castle, but I’m not sure how far down. The further you go, the more oppressive the darkness gets.

  The colder it gets.

  I’ve yet to make it to the end.

  I walk fifteen steps into the sweeping hallway that digs into the earth before igniting the second sconce, illuminating the wall to my left and giving lustrous life to another section of my mosaic.

  It’s taken me the better part of ten years to paint this mural, stone by stone, each a separate work of art. Small, whispered stories I’ve brushed on the rocks that piece together and form bigger, overriding pictures I often try to ignore.

  I keep going, igniting more sconces, the air temperature dropping so much the fifth barely gifts me enough glow to work with. I walk until I’m standing on the precipice between shadow and light, staring into an ocean of black that looks like it could swallow me whole.

  Dropping to my knees, I lay the torch next to me and open my bag, digging past the squeaking mouse to a stone wrapped in cheesecloth to protect the whisper from getting damaged during transport.

  I unwrap the layers and trace the delicate brushstrokes that make up a young boy sitting cross-legged on the ground, surrounded by a bed of black blooms. White sparkles decorate his eyes, and his hair is a twisted mess.

  He’s reaching, fingers forever stretched, and though I have no idea what he’s extending toward, he looks happy. Like a bubble of laughter waiting to pop.

  A sad sort of smile flirts with the corner of my lips.

  I retrieve my jar of homemade mortar, untwist the lid, and bore a pallet knife into the muck. The gap in the wall is right in front of me, and I sweep the substance around the hole before pressing the whisper into place.

  Leaning back, I study what I can see of the whole picture from down here at the edge of the light.

  That’s the thing about this place: no matter where you’re positioned, you’ll never see the full story at once. Just segments of it you have to piece together in your mind.

  Given the bigger, overriding images I’ve immortalized on the wall, I’ve always thought that more a blessing than a curse.

  Nodding, I rummage through my bag and retrieve a diamond pickaxe, eyeing up my next target half-sheathed in shadow ...

  The only rock not entirely eaten up by the hungry darkness.

  Whatever I paint on it will only ever be half visible, and although there’s something poetic about that, it also signifies the end of an era. Unless I somehow manage to light the next sconce, I’ll have to start on the opposite wall or give up altogether, and I’m not sure how I feel about any of those options.

  I rise onto my knees and start tapping at the mortar, cleaving the rock from its shell. It loosens a little, and one more knock sends it falling into my awaiting hand like a lump of shadow.

  The entire castle is made from the same ebony stone; some rooms hewn straight from the side of the mountain. Other areas, like this passageway, have been built with bits of it—none larger than two of my fists pressed together.

  I bag the rock and stand, spearing my gaze into the gloom ...

  Maybe it’s time to try again.

  I pluck the torch off the ground, draw a deep breath, then slide my foot over the flickering line.

  It only takes two beats of my heart before the fire starts to sputter, but I carry on ... pushing further.

  Deeper.

  With each echoing step, my dancing bulb of light shrinks a little more, yielding to the plummeting temperature that’s turning my breath white.

  I time my steps with every exhale, sweat breaking out across the back of my neck despite the biting chill ...

  Surely the next sconce is only a few steps away ...

  Step, breathe.

  Step, breathe.

  Step, breathe.

  My flame sputters, lungs falter, and I pause ... letting my next breath leak out of me in a milky haze that somehow still snuffs the torch entirely, plunging me into a sea of darkness.

  I forget how to move. How to breathe or think or blink.

  The torch clatters to the ground and seems to bounce and bounce and bounce, like it’s descending a flight of stairs. The echoing assault shoves me into action, and I pivot, racing toward the promise of light, every hair on the back of my neck standing on end as if something is watching me flee.

  When I finally merge with the light, I spin, collapsing against the unpainted wall—chest tight, lungs battling for space, heart catapulting little bolts of fire through my veins.

  “You win again,” I rasp, throwing the darkness a side-eye.

  I descend the grisly, obsidian steps cut into the vertical cliff that leads to Bitten Bay, soft squeaks protesting from my bag every time it bumps against my thigh. Stony Stem stands sentry in the sky, casting a long, slender shadow across the pale ocean.

  When I’m almost at the bottom I leap, landing ankle-deep in black sand that seems to gobble up the light. The gentle breeze salts my skin as my eyes sweep shut, and I’m lulled by the soft lap of waves, picturing myself as a plant delving its roots into the silky sand ...

  Why anyone wears shoes, I’ll never understand. They cut you off from this.

  When I open my eyes again, they’re instantly drawn to a perfectly round rock nesting on the shoreline, as if the ocean just offered me a gift.

  Smiling wide, I dash forward and pick it up, imagining all the things I can paint on its smooth surface while tucking it in my knapsack for safe keeping.

  I jog toward the cove’s right hook without even looking at the long, wooden pier across the bay that’ll finally see some use when Rhordyn hosts the ball; something I’m trying not to think about since I’m currently evading a dress fitting.

  The rocks are the same
color as the sand, though less forgiving on the naked soles of my feet. Luckily, I know where to step so they can’t sink their teeth in too far.

  I’m nearing the water’s edge when a familiar head pushes above the froth, white hair slicked back from the sharp angles of his face.

  “Treasure? You never come down here at this time,” Kai says by way of greeting, voice deep and silky.

  The constant, invisible pulse that echoes off him gently taps my skin like little bursts of air. I call it his beat, and I can always tell exactly how Kai feels by the way it interacts with me.

  I swing my bag off my shoulder and lower it to the rocks, pulling the length of my hair forward and playing with the end. “Don’t I?”

  His eyes narrow and his long, silver tail slithers beneath the surface as he slides forward. “What are you avoiding?”

  “A gown fitting.” I dust off my pants and shrug. “Don’t look at me like that, I hate dresses.”

  “Oh, I’m aware. I clearly remember you ordering me to stuff a poofy number at the bottom of a chasm so you’d never have to look at it again. What ... ten years ago? Seven? Five? I lose track.”

  Last time I attended a Tribunal.

  I’m all for outfits that smudge my shape, but I could barely fit through the door in that thing. There wasn’t a single pair of eyes it didn’t draw.

  Dropping to a crouch, I pick a piece of seaweed from his hair and flick it away. “You look good in frills. Me ... not so much.”

  “I don’t believe you. And I saw you pluck something off the beach. What was it?”

  “I did!” I pull the perfectly round rock from my knapsack and brush off the sand. “Look at this glorious sight. Have you ever seen a rock so smooth?”

  He takes it from my hand, examines it from all angles, then scrunches up his nose. “Not my favorite.”

  I gasp. “Take that back!”

  His liquid laugh ripples over the water, and I roll my eyes, snatching the stone. I retrieve the fat, red apple and wave it through the air, causing Kai’s laughter to stop.

  Instantly.

  He follows the movement like a charmed serpent, eyes dazzling emeralds caught in the sun ...

  Hypnotized.

  “I’m sorry,” he pleads. “I love you, and your treasure hunting skills are just as glorious as your perfectly smooth rock.”