House of Salt and Sorrows

by Erin A. Craig

  First that macabre statue and now this music—no one but me noticed anything wrong with it. I whirled around, searching for Cassius. Why couldn’t he see how much I needed him?

  A young man in a sparkling gold vest stepped into my path, interrupting my train of thought. “May I have this dance?”

  I shook my head, turning in the other direction. “I’m through with dancing.”

  “But the party has only just begun.” He darted in front of me, surprisingly agile.

  “I’m tired. Perhaps another time.”

  “One dance.” He linked our elbows, twirling us in a circle.

  “I’d really rather—”

  “Come.”

  He navigated us farther into the crowd with a series of steps I struggled to keep up with. The orchestra played a lively mazurka, and the couples around us moved too quickly for me to break free.

  The opening note of another song rang out, hitting the wrong pitch. I felt as if my ears were about to bleed.

  “Oh, I do love this song. Pretty, pretty lady, might I tempt you into another round with me? It would be my honor.”

  “I’m afraid she’s spoken for,” a voice said from the side of the room.

  I turned, hoping to see Cassius, but it was a short, stalky man smoking a cigar. He exhaled a strange cloud of lavender-colored smoke into my face, making my eyes water. After one last drag, he stomped it out and whisked me away.

  I wiped my eyes, trying to clear them and gather my thoughts. There was something I’d needed to do, but I couldn’t seem to remember what it was. I swept my gaze over the room to jog my memory. The ballroom was so lovely. So sparkly, and sumptuous, and…exquisite.

  The short man and I danced past Camille, and her partner said we ought to switch after the waltz. I readily agreed. I danced two numbers with him before a little boy all in saffron, looking very much like the son of the house, asked if he could cut in.

  Charmed by his impeccable manners, I ended up dancing three times with him. He told such funny jokes, the time flew by. Then a blond man tapped my shoulder and asked so nicely, I accepted his offer for a quadrille.

  “Do you know where the refreshment tables are?” I asked mid-dance. “I’m not accustomed to such warm weather.”

  He pointed to the far end of the room.

  A beautiful spread of tables boasted rows of crystal cups and three different kinds of punch. There was a miniature castle of stacked petits fours and trays of exotic meats, smoked, roasted, and pickled. At the center of it all, in the place of honor, was a magnificent tiered cake. Thirteen layers tall and surrounded by hand-painted edible flowers, it was stunning.

  Before I could partake of this feast, I felt someone behind me. It was the dragon man again. He looked utterly resplendent in his tails. The velvet was thick and luscious and tailored to his form with precision. “May I have this dance?”

  I was about to consent—I’d had such a marvelous time with him before—when something shifted inside me.

  Had I?

  I blinked and he seemed to lose a shade of his splendor. I noticed a patch of stubble he’d missed shaving, and his eyes seemed far more sunken than they had only a moment before.

  Odd.

  “Thank you, but I believe I’m going to sit this one out.”

  “Nonsense! It’s the last dance before the fireworks. Dance with me, Annaleigh.”

  I held out my hand, ready to accept, but then noticed the buffet again. I’d been thirsty before. I’d come to the table for something to drink. Such a silly thing to forget.

  “I’m going to get a glass of punch, but thank you.”

  “Wouldn’t you rather something stronger?” He pushed back his jacket, revealing a slim flask. He took a long swig from it before offering it to me. I waved it aside. “Get your punch, then,” he sneered. “But then we dance.”

  That sneer. The tone of his voice, husky but holding back such a rank, entitled anger. It sounded so familiar. I suddenly remembered his thumb brushing my mouth, full of dark desire, and snapped to my senses.

  Why had I forgotten that? Why had I forgotten everything? I wasn’t here to socialize and dance the night away. I was meant to be searching for information on who would want to harm my sisters.

  “I’m not dancing with you.” I kept my voice strong and decisive and turned on my heel, looking over the buffet, steeling my mind for the task at hand.

  Find a cup.

  Pick a punch.

  But even as I coached myself through such a simple process, my feet worked in open rebellion, itching to dance.

  “Which punch, Annaleigh?” I muttered, grounding myself in the moment.

  I finally chose the pink one. Dozens of iced strawberries floated on top. We hadn’t had any in months, since the cold weather set in, and this looked simply enchanting.

  No. Not enchanting. Just punch.

  Taking a large sip, I immediately spat it out. Something wasn’t right. There was a strong metallic taste, as if a dozen copper florettes were mixed in.

  A strawberry seed stuck between my teeth, wedged deep enough that no amount of ladylike prodding with my tongue could dislodge it. I worked it free with a surreptitious swish of my fingernail.

  I intended to flick it aside without a second thought, but it was much larger than a strawberry seed should have been. I brought it up for a closer inspection.

  It was a fish scale.

  I rubbed the silver speck between my fingers, puzzled. How on earth did a fish scale end up in a bowl of party punch? I turned to let a servant know about the contamination, then froze. The festive red floats I’d taken for strawberries weren’t fruit at all. Hacked-up bits of seafood bobbed in the punch, a veritable chum stew.

  The punch was made of blood.

  My stomach rolled over, threatening to toss up every bite of dinner I’d eaten. The cakes and the trays were gone, replaced with butchered carcasses of fish. A fluke here, a dorsal fin there. The yellow satin of the tablecloth was soaked red around these cuts of meat. Tentacles, long and ropy, flailed off the table, spiraling to the floor below.

  My nostrils flared against the stench. This seafood had not been freshly caught. It was weeks old and had turned. So many people milled around, clearly unaffected. How did they keep dancing before such a massacre?

  Then it hit me. Only I saw this. Only I smelled this. I was the only one who noticed any of this night’s horrors. Hundreds of people were here, but I was the only one to see this world for what it was.

  How was that possible? How was any of this possible?

  There is one way, a tiny, dark voice whispered in my mind.

  I shook my head, as if warding off a buzzing mosquito.

  None of this is real, it persisted. No one else sees it because it’s not really here to see. You’ve gone mad, my girl.

  No. That wasn’t it. That wasn’t possible.

  I wasn’t mad.

  There had to be another explanation.

  Does there?

  Shaking my head, I scanned the room again, searching for Camille and the Graces. We were going. We were leaving this awful, evil place and then—

  I let out a shriek only I could hear.

  Where the cake had once been rested a large platter. A sea turtle—the biggest one I’d ever seen—was showcased on a bed of dead eels. His great shell had been hacked, slashed, and sliced. He had not died an easy death. Tears welled in my eyes.

  I dared to creep closer to the proud beast. He was enormous and obviously quite old. Barnacles dotted his back, and his flippers were scored with battle scars. I reached out to trace one of the long lines, but my hand stopped as the turtle’s head shifted.

  Was he alive? Surely nothing could have withstood the wounds racked across his body, but there it was again, the slightest spasm of his head. I rubbed his
flipper, letting him know he was not alone. Even though he was in pain and scared and probably about to die, I wanted him to know someone loved him and was sorry.

  The head flopped toward my touch, and I dared to dream I might save him. My sisters and I could snatch up the platter and race it back to Highmoor. I’d fill the solarium’s pond with salt water. He could live there until he recovered enough to return to the sea.

  His head jerked again, and I leaned in. If he was about to open his eyes, I wanted to be the first thing he saw. The beak moved, and my heart jumped in anticipation.

  The turtle’s eyelids burst open as a string of fat white maggots fell from the hole. They poured out of the poor loggerhead’s skull onto the platter. His body was full of them, ready to explode.

  I turned away, certain I was about to be horribly sick, and ran into the leering dragon man. He caught hold of my elbows, keeping me from falling.

  “Are you enjoying the refreshments?” he asked.

  There was such a lightness in his voice, so completely at odds with what I’d just seen, it gave me hope the bloody mess was an illusion, just like the fountain. Turning back, I expected to see the cake and pretty punch bowls, but the gore was still there, spread across the tables in a sadistic buffet.

  “I feel faint,” I confessed, my head swooning with the smoke. “Can you find my sisters or Fisher? Can you find Camille?”

  My knees gave way, and he lowered me to the floor, his hand at the back of my neck. The room faded in and out of darkness. As the dragon man leaned over me, streaks of sweat ran down his face.

  I wiped my fingers across his cheek. They came back black and oily.

  The Weeping Woman.

  “Dance with me,” she whispered into my ear.

  My stomach heaved, threatening to lose control, and I forced myself away from the wicked wraith. The floor felt sticky as I crawled forward. Sticky and moving.

  Maggots spilled off the turtle’s platter onto the dance floor, writhing in time to the orchestra’s cheery tune. The floor was thick with their repugnant bodies. There were thousands of them. They crawled on me, into my shoes, under my skirts, and I finally opened my mouth and screamed.

  “Annaleigh!”

  From somewhere far away, in the depths of my swoon, I heard shouting. I just wanted to stay where I was, in the deep and silent dark, but the voice kept yelling my name, louder and louder. My shoulder jerked back as if shoved.

  “Annaleigh, you have to wake up!” Another shove. “Now.”

  I came to with a gasp, fuzzy with confusion. My mouth was dry, and a sour, metallic funk coated my tongue. I squinted against the glare of my bedroom’s sconces.

  “What time is it?” I muttered to Hanna, sitting up, ready to push myself off the bed.

  But I wasn’t in bed.

  And Hanna had not woken me.

  “Cassius! What are you doing in my room? Papa will have your head if he finds you here.” I blinked hard and used my hands to shield the light away. Why did the room feel so bright?

  He knelt beside me, grabbing my shoulders, his fingers sinking in deep.

  “Look at me,” he demanded, pushing back my hands. He took hold of my chin, forcing me to meet his eyes. His face was deathly pale; a sheen of sweat beaded his brow. He looked terrified.

  “Let go of me. That hurts.” I wrenched free from his death grip.

  Instantly, he jerked his hands away from me. “You’re awake?”

  “Obviously. Why are you in here?”

  I pushed myself up, wincing. Had I rolled out of bed while I slept? Or somehow fallen asleep on the floor after the ball? My body ached, and as I took a step toward my vanity, a stab of pain shot up my foot.

  Lifting the hem of my dress—why hadn’t I changed into a nightgown?—I winced. My feet were raw with bruises and blisters. We really did need to get new shoes before going dancing again.

  I froze as the memories came slamming back, hitting me with the force of a storm-swept wave.

  The ball.

  The bloody massacre at the banquet tables.

  The Weeping Woman.

  I sank down on the chair as a cry escaped me. The Weeping Woman had been at the ball. Not in my dreams, but actually there, beside me, her long fingers clasped over my wrists. I closed my eyes, struggling to remember what had happened after I saw her.

  I’d fainted. But then what?

  “Did you help bring me back after I fainted—did you carry me back?” Cassius’s blue eyes were dark with incomprehension. “Did you see me faint at the ball?”

  He pressed his lips together, forming his words with care. “Annaleigh, there was no ball.”

  It suddenly felt as if the temperature had dropped several degrees, and I pushed back a flurry of shivers. “You didn’t come? I could never find you there. Was the door closed once you caught up?”

  Cassius knelt beside my chair, taking my hands in his. “There was no door to go through. You’ve been in your room all night long.”

  I pushed back the tickle of a laugh threatening to escape. “That’s absurd. I was in Lambent. I can tell you anything you want to know about the castle. I was there, and so were Camille and the Graces, and—I was dancing. Look at my feet!”

  He glanced at my tattered hemline and blistered heels and nodded slowly.

  His silence was infuriating. “How do you explain that if there was no ball? If you didn’t go—you fell asleep or forgot or whatever—just come out and say it, Cassius. I know I was there. We all were. Except you!”

  He stood up, jaw tightening, and held out his hand. “I think you need to come with me.”

  “Why?”

  “Annaleigh, please. You need to see this for yourself.”

  With wary hesitation, I followed him out into the hallway. The sconces were at their lowest setting, giving just enough glow to highlight the portraits hanging along the walls. I’d never noticed how my sisters’ eyes seemed to flicker with life, as they did now, following our passage with knowing stares. With a shiver, I hurried after Cassius.

  He stopped outside Camille’s room. Her door was ajar.

  “What am I meant to see?”

  He nodded at the bedroom. “Go on.”

  The room was dark, and I was about to turn around, not wanting to disturb Camille’s sleep, when I spotted her. My mouth fell open, as though icy water had been thrown over me, snapping me to my senses.

  She was dancing.

  In the middle of the room.

  Not with anyone but also not entirely by herself.

  Her arms were out, positioned as if resting on a phantom partner. The silk of her gown trailed after her like a ghost as she spun around the room. Her eyes were shut tight, a beatific smile on her lips. Was she sleeping?

  “Camille! What are you doing? What are—”

  I turned back to Cassius to see if he could make sense of the scene. His mouth was set in a grim line.

  “What is she doing?” I whispered.

  “Dancing.”

  “But with whom? Camille—”

  He reached out, stopping me. “Don’t. If she’s in a fugue, jarring her awake could hurt both of you.” He rubbed at a reddened patch across his cheek. Had I struck him? “Have you ever known her to sleepwalk before?”

  I shook my head. “Never.”

  As we watched, Camille maneuvered through a series of intricate steps. This was not the make-believe dancing we’d played at in our youths, with our skirts twirling around us until we were breathless with laughter.

  She flung herself backward, dipped by a partner who was not there. Her back arched far enough for her feathered hair clip to brush the floor. Impossibly, her right leg kicked up, and she was balanced in this painful contortion on the ball of her left foot. Had she been in the arms of a handsome consort, the pose would have
been stunning. But with no one supporting her weight, she looked abnormal.

  Unnatural.

  Possessed.

  Cassius tugged at my sleeve, pulling me down the hallway. I followed after him reluctantly, not wanting to leave Camille alone in such a state.

  He raked his fingers through his hair. “Where are the little girls’ rooms?”

  I frowned. “Down the hall.”

  “Show me, please.”

  “That’s Mercy’s room,” I said, indicating the closed door to our left. I kept a watchful eye over my shoulder, certain Camille would come gliding after us in her eerie solo pas de deux.

  “Perhaps you ought to be the one to go in.”

  I palmed the doorknob, a painful knot of worry digging under my ribs. What was I about to find?

  Mercy’s curtains were drawn, and it was too dark to see anything at first. Then a white figure flashed through the shaft of light spilling in from the hall. I jumped back, bumping into Cassius.

  Mercy was dancing in her sleep, just like Camille.

  I watched her for a minute before racing across the hall to Honor’s room. She was performing a pretty pirouette, eyes closed, mouth slack in sleep.

  I crept to Verity’s room, my eyes on fire with unshed tears. With trembling hands, I opened the door and waited for my eyes to adjust.

  Verity was scared of the dark and always kept the curtains partially open, allowing moonlight to spill in. Her room was still, and I tiptoed in, praying I’d find her snug and secure in bed. Cassius remained at the doorway, his figure silhouetted against the hallway gaslights.

  Pushing back the bed curtains, I wanted to cry. The bed was empty; the sheets were undisturbed.

  “Annaleigh,” Cassius murmured as a small figure glided by me.

  Verity was waltzing, her steps graceful and far surer than I’d ever seen them in real life. I fell back on the bed to keep her from running into me. As she passed through a beam of moonlight, she turned and smiled at me.

  Her eyes were open. Wide open and pitch-black, weeping dark, oily tears.

  “Care to cut in?” she asked, but it wasn’t Verity’s voice. It was the thing from my nightmares, somehow inhabiting my sister.