If she didn’t escape tonight, she never would.
7
The day faded as fast as they all had, except this time, Lyra waited for the night. He’d brought her dinner in the same room with the hearth, and again, the meal of roast pork and fried potatoes left a saccharine taste that now twisted her stomach with the knowledge he’d enchanted the food to make sure she stayed asleep. Lyra didn’t let her breath escape until he closed the door and his soft footsteps sounded down the hall.
She rushed over to the bathroom, repeating the same process as yesterday. With the nausea mixing with her resolve for what she’d be attempting tonight, she easily heaved the meal she’d eaten. After the displeasure crossing his face and the terseness in his tone earlier, she couldn’t have avoided the dinner tonight. Besides, she wanted him to believe without a shadow of a doubt that she slept soundly in her room. Otherwise she’d never be able to roam on her own. Wiping her mouth with a damp cloth, she maneuvered around the mirror on the far wall and sat back on her bed.
Out past her window, the blizzard raged, a hurdle she hadn’t figured out how to overcome. Even in the dark of night those thick flakes clouded everything, forming a maelstrom that promised trouble. She’d barely made it to the castle after fighting her way through the blizzard—Moro had helped. But if he couldn’t leave the castle, then how had he retrieved her?
Her hands curled into the cold frame as she stood by the window, scanning the grounds. When she’d first arrived, she’d gotten close—passed out right near the doors. All around the castle grounds, the blizzard had lightened to faint flurries, as if some force kept it at bay. She must’ve fallen within the perimeter.
The castle protects its own.
Her eyes widened with the realization. That’s what the girl had been trying to tell her. She glanced over at the thick blanket on the bed, dark blue and long enough to wrap around her shoulders. Maybe an item from the castle might shield her from the storm out there. Even though the magic of this place didn’t follow the logic from home, it had certain patterns. Not like she’d be able to move with any grace while using the blanket as a cloak, but if the fabric kept the blizzard from burying her, the risk would be worth it.
With the way time worked in this place, she couldn’t afford to waste a minute. She slipped her peacoat from the chair it’d hung on since she’d arrived, the starchy fabric settling on her skin. Her pack weighed heavy on her shoulders once she slipped it on, as if she’d passed the point of no return. She tied her boots and pulled the blanket off the bed, folding the fabric into a manageable square for now. After all, she still needed to deal with the mirrors.
Using the same caution as yesterday, Lyra pulled the long rectangular mirror off the wall and positioned it in front of her. With the armor of her peacoat and the shield of the mirror she wielded, Lyra approached the door. Her adrenaline stepped into overdrive. Nothing she wielded or wore would save her if Moro happened to be prowling around tonight, and as she fumbled for the doorknob, she froze.
Even though this was her best chance of escape—maybe her only one—Moro could be waiting right outside her door. The malevolent monster could have seen through every faked smile of hers, every attempt at distraction, and once he caught her trying to escape, she’d join the frozen prisoners below.
Lyra sucked in a deep breath to summon her resolve. She had to try.
She gripped the knob and turned, entering a corridor filled with the breadth of night’s shadows, the slip of illumination coming from the silver moonlight streaming through the arched windows. These hallways, which had once filled her with a sense of wonder and awe, now weighted her bones with dread. Every corner contained a potential nightmare, and each of the mirrors glinting along the path carried the danger of discovery.
After a couple of steps, she paused and glanced behind her, unable to shake the phantom sensation that someone watched her. Moro would be roaming these halls. And when he wanted to, he could sneak up on her so quietly she’d never see him coming. Those windows offered a view that beckoned her, even if she couldn’t survive the drop to the ground. That sprawling distance out there offered the hope that she’d find a way to slip between until the snow faded away and those familiar pines of her home returned to view. However, she had to escape the castle first.
She maneuvered around the first mirror, her fingers slippery with sweat as she swiveled to tackle the next. One step, two steps—she prepared to bypass the next one.
A distant noise echoed through the corridor.
Lyra froze, her fingernails digging into the wooden frame of the mirror. Slow, sonorous steps with the regularity of pacing resounded through the hall, heading in her direction.
No, no, no.
She had barely passed her room, and it lay close enough to sprint toward. Lyra could be inside, tucked under her blanket before Moro was any bit the wiser.
The chill from the end of the corridor flooded her veins with the finality of her destination the longer she stayed. If she wanted to reach the front doors undetected, the secret passage down in the dungeon was her only hope.
With one final glance to her room, she bypassed the second mirror and turned again to face the next. Desperation called for bold action, not indecision. She threw caution out the window and passed the third mirror, pivoting to face the fourth. Those footsteps grew louder, echoing in her ears with the pulse of an alarm. A droplet of sweat trickled through her hair, winding down her cheek.
She lifted her mirror to deflect the fourth one on the opposite side of her and darted through the corridor leading to the secret room. The two remaining mirrors along the way took minimal time. Choosing her path delivered the necessary determination to see this through. When she reached the door, the knob imprinted her palms with the cold. She slipped inside with ease and edged in from behind, careful to not make a sound.
Backing up to the wall, Lyra shifted the mirror to rest on the ground, and leaned it beside her. Out of the mirror’s line-of-sight, she crept to the center of the room and rolled up the carpeting like the night before. She found the latch for the iron door, and paused. The sound of footsteps, though faint, still echoed through the corridor. Moro roamed out there, and any second her window of escape could be shut for good.
No more hesitation. She yanked open the door and closed it over behind her as she descended. Even though the rumpled rug would give a clear indicator of where she’d gone, the creak of the iron door would give her an alert.
Hesitation tossed to the wind, Lyra raced down the steps. At the bottom, she turned in the direction of the dimly-lit dungeon, the cold blue globes casting faint illumination over the freezing prisoners. Those intense shadows deepened the pain in their features. Even with her peacoat on, the cold burned her skin and pinched her cheeks, part of the unnatural magic that turned people to ice. In spending her waking hours accompanying Moro, Lyra hadn’t been able to figure out a way to save them. The spell he’d cast was beyond her comprehension, and she had passed the point of investigation.
Lyra approached the girl she’d spoken to the previous night. However, over the span of a day, the ice traveled faster than expected.
The girl’s skin had been a pale blue yesterday, but now the gloss of ice marred her cheeks, skated across her lips, and even individual eyelashes had taken on the glaze. She stared at Lyra with milky, unseeing eyes as the spell took further hold.
Liquid coursed past the girl’s cheek—a tear. Lyra sucked in a sharp breath, and her heart splintered at the sight. The girl had suffered for who knew how long, and Lyra had never even learned her name. Apart from the monster patrolling the halls and the silent statues beside her, she had been alone, and now she would be another of the countless victims of this ice prince. Lyra’s throat squeezed tight. This future awaited her if caught.
“What can I do?” Lyra’s words came out hushed. The sight of the frozen girl filled her with agony that scored her insides, the sort to make her mind buzz until it reached a deafening roar. Beyo
nd everything lay terror because this fate—this was a worse fate than she could’ve ever imagined.
“Kill…me.”
Lyra blinked, not registering the sound at first. The girl struggled to move her lips, and though Lyra watched the words form, her mind refused to process the request. Another tear slipped down the girl’s cheek and froze in place.
She stepped back, the sound echoing through the hushed room. The crisp cold burned her nose, enhancing the sharp scents of the metal chains here, of the tools used to chip and carve into the icy features of statues who’d once been alive and breathing.
How could she kill someone who’d been through horror at the hands of the ice prince? Her lip trembled, and she backed into the railing of the steps leading to the room. The already frozen statues stared at her with lifeless eyes. They could be watching her back, trapped for an eternity in ice.
Lyra didn’t have the ability to melt the ice—she barely had the chance to escape and might not survive in the blizzard outside. If she was turning into a permanent fixture in this place, she’d want to die too. Lyra swallowed, hard, and a shudder rolled through her, as fierce and final as a wave crashing to shore. With the downturn of the girl’s lips and the tilt of her brows, pleading gripped her features even as the ice began to steal her voice away.
A worktable on the opposite side of the room held the line of iron carving tools on display, some lying scattered about the surface. Once these people froze, Moro probably altered the features to his liking and filed away the pain and terror etched into their faces. After all, the expressions in the ballroom had been empty, vacant.
The soles of Lyra’s boots gummed to the ground with her reluctance, but she forced herself forward to the bench where a long chisel glinted under the dim blue lighting of the globes. She plucked the tool off the table and gripped the handle tight. With each step she took toward the girl, she chipped away another ounce of her composure.
“What’s your name?” she asked, her lips trembling so hard she could barely form the words. Her fingers numbed around the handle of the chisel, and she was grateful for that, as if the limb prepared to work separate from the rest of her body.
“Je-n-na.” the faint response came, scraping above silence.
She met Jenna’s gaze, but her eyes had turned opaque and hardened. Lyra’s hands shook as she lifted the chisel, aiming the point near the girl’s stomach. Patches had turned glossy with thick ice, but a few spots of cloth remained starched but pliable. Lyra angled the chisel there, and her throat tightened. Tears pricked her eyes. She didn’t want to do this. She didn’t want to end this girl’s existence. But no one else could put Jenna out of her misery, and the alternative was far, far worse.
Lyra pushed the chisel in.
The tip sunk through too fast, and a choked gasp emerged from Jenna’s freezing lips. A sob cut through the silence, reverberating through this too-quiet room. It took her a minute to realize she had made the sound. Lyra’s shoulders trembled, and tears trickled down her cheeks as the chisel slipped from her shaking hands. Blood didn’t blossom from the spot she’d shoved the chisel in, but the girl stopped responding. In mere moments, Jenna grew as empty and hollow as the other statues lining the room.
Bile rose in Lyra’s throat, and she slid to the ground, her shins pressing against the freezing floor.
Though her fingers trembled, she wiped away the tears from her cheeks and forced the deep breaths that didn’t want to come. What she’d done left her shattered like broken glass, and the cold sliced into her further. Whatever magic permeated the castle seeped in through the floor until she couldn’t feel her shins. Even though she wanted to curl in the corner of the room and hide from the world, she didn’t have the option. If she were to escape, she needed to leave now.
Jenna had told her about the secret passage, and now she would put the knowledge to use. Unwrapping the thick blanket she’d tucked away in her backpack, she tugged it around her shoulders and knotted it like a cloak. On one side of the dungeon, the dozens of ice statues were shackled to the walls, but she wanted to head to the other end, the black-as-pitch section that would lead to the side tunnel.
Lyra rose to her feet and sucked in a deep breath to steel her resolve. The weight of what she’d done settled over her with an overwhelming finality. She forced one foot in front of the other. Time would betray her, and if she allowed herself to dwell on what she’d done, she would never leave this place.
With each shaky step, Lyra persevered. She bypassed the stairs leading to where she’d come from and plunged into the dark, unlit section of the room. Her shins met a couple of sharp edges, causing her to wince as she fumbled around half-blind. Lyra groped in front of her to follow the wall as best she could. Her palms slid from the cold, smooth surfaces of the walls or furniture, but a second later, she’d hit bumps and edges. If he’d left mirrors lying around this section, she was screwed.
Lyra moved her hand forward, only for it to sink past the wall. A cold breeze swept by her, and she stumbled, pausing to wave her hands around the space.
The passageway.
Lyra dipped her toe into the darkness before stepping through the open doorway. Although she couldn’t distinguish much more than gray blobs without any light, she slid her palms along the wall to follow the pathway. She’d have to proceed in the dark—couldn’t risk any light giving her away once she reached the end of the tunnel. Lyra stretched her arms out in both directions until her fingertips brushed the walls. This had to be the tunnel she searched for. A subtle shiver raced down her spine as she took step after careful step along the sloping passageway, the blanket trailing behind her. Lyra hoped beyond hope this led to the main door.
The stale air clung to her, but not as fiercely as the film of guilt across her skin. The image of Jenna’s frozen tears would stick with her for a lifetime, and her own tears pinched the skin of her cheeks as they dried. Each breath shuddered from her, and the murky shadows shifted, causing her to halt and assess every few steps. When nothing jumped out, Lyra continued onward through the tunnel.
Deafening silence filtered through the narrow passage, making her ears tingle. Adrenaline coursed through her veins at the slightest sound, even her own footsteps. At any moment, Moro could appear.
The slope upward grew steeper—she could tell by the slight tug of resistance at her calves and the way her breaths came more ragged and sharper as she continued. Lyra bit her lip to quell her nerves and tasted metal as blood welled up. Still, she forged ahead. The longer she took, the slimmer her chances of escape grew, and with the way time lapsed in this place, morning could arrive at any moment.
The toe of her boot thudded against something solid. She crouched and ran her hands along the ground in front of her—steps. The staircase leading to the front foyer.
After stumbling up the first couple, Lyra found her footing. As she ascended with more and more steadiness, she pulled her palms from the walls to ball into fists by her side. The blanket trailed behind her along the floor, tangling around her ankles. Even as she tried to quiet her breaths, she couldn’t help the ragged edge to them. Sharpness threaded through the stagnant air the further she climbed. Her heart thumped in her ears, but as the air grew clearer, she forced away the throb of guilt. Time to focus on the task at hand.
Lyra bumped into the door before groping for the handle. Her throat tightened as prickles of adrenaline buzzed through her. She waited in silence, listening for the tolling sound of footsteps as he patrolled the halls. If Moro swung by her room and found her bed empty, he could be searching the castle for her any moment.
With a deep breath, she forced herself to turn the knob and pushed the door open a crack.
Moonlight cut lavender patterns onto the icy floor, mingling with the shadows that clung to the corners of the foyer. Yards away lay the massive iron door, the looming exit. The cool light of the moon clung to the iron carvings, turning them to molten silver. To reach the door, she’d have to cross yards of open flo
or across the foyer, which provided clear views down two different main corridors. If Moro happened to be strolling through either, she’d have nowhere to hide.
Lyra’s mind buzzed too loud to listen, and as she peered through the crack in the door, she could swear the shadows shifted. Her chest lanced at the several mirrors in line of sight from the door. Once she made the dash, he’d know she tried to escape. She closed her eyes and cycled her breaths, trying to concentrate. Lyra shut out her senses until she focused on the pregnant hush through the castle. If only she’d remembered the mirror from her room. At least if he were in the opposite part, she might be able to get past the doors.
Once she did this though, she could no longer hide behind a pretense. No going back.
However, she’d crossed the line the moment she found Jenna and the others freezing into statues below, when the ugliness hidden behind the veneer of glittering ice revealed itself. And if she didn’t take the chance tonight, she might never get another one. Eyes closed, she listened with all her might, but even with the extra focus, she couldn’t hear his footsteps through the halls. Not like she would. The man approached silently when he chose to.
She clutched the blanket around her like a cape and sucked in a shaky breath. Now or never. Lyra opened the door and took the first two steps out into the foyer. Dead silence greeted her along with no sign of Moro.
She broke into a flat run.
Her footsteps boomed through the place, echoing a thousand times over. If the mirrors didn’t alert Moro first, this racket would as it reverberated to a deafening sound. Her heartbeat pulsed in her ears, but her focus never left the door. She sprinted toward the exit, trying to close the gap faster and faster. Pins and needles coursed down her arms and her legs, and panic threatened to push past her defenses. She needed to reach the door.
Closer.
Closer.
The door loomed within grasp, and she lunged forward. No time to listen, no time to look behind her, she had to focus on getting out. She’d break into the arctic blast and never look back. Lyra gripped those cold handles and tugged.
A Reflection of Ice Page 8