A Curse So Dark and Lonely

by Brigid Kemmerer

  He spots me immediately and stands. There is no guilt or chagrin in his expression, but then, there shouldn’t be.

  That said, I can’t identify the feeling that swells inside me, hot and sudden. Not quite anger, and not quite bitterness. Those are familiar.

  This is not.

  “What are you doing?” I say.

  “Playing cards,” says Harper. “Keep your voice down.”

  “I was not talking to you.”

  “I don’t care. People are sleeping.”

  Grey steps away from the fire and moves halfway across the room. “Forgive me, my lord. How may I serve?”

  His voice is even, formal, and practiced. The way he speaks when he’s unsure of my temper.

  “Is the inn secure?” I say to him. “Or have you been too busy to check?”

  His expression does not flicker. “The inn is secure.”

  “And the horses?”

  “I did not want to leave while you slept.”

  “I’m awake. Go. Check.”

  He nods, turns on his heel, and heads for the door without question. He barely pauses to pull his cloak from the hook by the door, and then he’s gone, disappearing into the darkness and swirling snow. Bitter wind whips through the doorway, making the fire flicker. The chill reaches me from across the room.

  I ease down the remaining stairs and take Grey’s seat on the hearth. His six cards are abandoned in a small pile on the table.

  “We were in the middle of a game,” Harper says.

  “I see that.” I survey the arrangement of the cards and pick up Grey’s hand. “King’s Ransom?”

  “Grey taught me.” She slides her cards together and tosses them on the discard pile, then sits back to draw the blanket up over her body.

  I gather the cards and begin to shuffle. I feel like arguing, and I’m not entirely sure why. “You no longer care to play?”

  “You sent my opponent out into the snowstorm.”

  “Grey has duties to attend to.”

  “Sure he does.”

  My hands go still on the cards. The room is thick with warmth from the fire, and the light plays across her features, making her eyes gleam when she looks at me. She has an uncanny talent of pricking every nerve ending I have.

  I hold her gaze. “If you mean to say something to me, I insist that you say it.”

  “I don’t think I need to.”

  We sit there silently glaring at each other until Grey returns, shaking snow from his cloak and brushing it from his hair.

  If he notices the tension, he chooses to ignore it. “The horses fare well. I saw no tracks.”

  “Good.” But I don’t look over. I don’t want to be the one to break this standoff.

  As soon as I have the thought, I feel childish. Petty, the way I felt when I ordered Grey out into the snow.

  Harper looks away anyway, but not like she’s giving in. More like she doesn’t care. “Are you done in the bedroom, Prince Rhen?”

  As before, she makes my name sound like an insult, but now it makes me surly. “Why?”

  “Because I’d like to get a few hours of sleep somewhere other than a chair.” She folds the blanket over her arm and limps toward the staircase.

  Her gait takes me by surprise every time. She’s so strong-willed, so certain of herself, that I expect her to move with a grace and assurance that matches her temperament. I can understand why Evalyn would immediately think of an engagement to align distant nations. Harper speaks in a manner that leaves no room for disrespect. Like a ruler, not a subject.

  She must be stiff and sore, because her limp is more pronounced now than it was earlier, and she moves slowly, grasping the railing to climb the stairs. Once she’s closed herself into the bedroom, I become very aware of Grey standing to my left.

  I look down at the cards and shuffle them between my hands. “Sit, Commander. Play.”

  He sits. I deal. We play in silence.

  I like cards. I like games in general, especially games like this: simple on the surface, where the real strategy lies in figuring out the player. This was one of the few things I enjoyed doing with my father. When I was very young, he told me that playing games is less about the cards in my hand or the dice on a board, and more of an opportunity to understand an opponent and the way he thinks.

  Grey always plays like he fights: direct, without hesitation. A man trained to make a judgment and act immediately. He plays well, but his moves are never calculated in advance, and are always in response to mine.

  I wonder how Harper plays.

  A part of me hates that Grey already knows.

  “How did you get her to play with you?” I finally ask.

  He lays a card on the pile. “I did nothing.”

  I scowl, thinking of the carefully weighed words that led to her shifting an inch closer to me on horseback. “This will never work. She does not trust me. Worse, she regards me with contempt.”

  Grey inhales like he wants to say something, but he must think better of it, because he does nothing more than toss another card on the pile.

  “Say it,” I tell him. “Whatever it is, Grey. Say it.”

  “With all due respect, my lord, I believe you regard yourself with contempt.”

  I make a disgusted noise. “We battle uphill with this girl. She will present a challenge at every turn. Can you not feel it? If we cannot make progress now, there is no hope in the future.”

  Grey says nothing at all and simply waits for me to play a card.

  I sigh and place one on the stack. “I know you have thoughts, Commander.”

  “Yes. Many.”

  “Out with them.”

  He looks up at me then. “You are good at discovering my moves well in advance. I sometimes think you know what cards I will play before I myself do. Even without knowing my hand.”

  Silver hell. “Not cards.” I fling them down, done. “I want your thoughts on the girl.”

  “I’m giving them to you.” He pauses. “You speak of progress. You speak of challenges in the future. Your thoughts, as always, are twenty moves ahead.”

  I stare at him.

  Grey sighs and gathers up the cards. “You asked how I got her to play with me. As if there were some trick to it.” He wraps up the stack. “My lord, I did nothing. I sat down and asked.”

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  HARPER

  We return to Ironrose by mid-morning. A part of me wants to resist, but I can’t stay at the inn with everyone thinking I’m part of a royal engagement—and the events of the past twenty-four hours have convinced me that I’m a long way from finding a telephone.

  Once we’re back in the castle, Rhen leads me past the spread of food and music in the entrance hall—slow and somber today—to the same bedroom.

  I refuse to go in. “If you think I’m letting you lock me in there again, you’ve got another think coming.”

  His eyes are tired, but he pulls the key from the lock and holds it out. “The midday meal will be served in a few hours. Can I trust that you will not climb down the trellis in that time?”

  My joints are already stiffening to a point where walking hurts. I won’t be climbing down the trellis anytime soon. I take the key from his hand. “I won’t need to.”

  His expression is not amused. “I will send Grey to guard this door.”

  “I think Grey needs a chance to sleep.”

  “Indeed. Should I guard your room?”

  His eyes are dark and intense, lending weight to the words. I think of his breath on my neck at the inn, when he spoke a warning against my skin. He has this uncanny ability to make his words a veiled threat and a whispered promise at the same time.

  I tuck a loose lock of hair behind my ear and glance away. “You don’t need to guard my room.” I turn to move through the door.

  Then I stop short.

  The bed is freshly made, with the pillows fluffed. A fire roars in the fireplace. The marks of dirt and dust I left on the bed coverings yest
erday are gone without a trace. A new vase sits on the side table, spilling over with white flowers. The scents of jasmine and honeysuckle hang heavy in the air.

  Rhen speaks behind me. “As with the music and the food, the castle follows a predetermined order of events. You will find your room set to order daily.”

  I turn and look at him. “What if I trash it?” My voice is dark with sarcasm—but I’m also genuinely curious.

  He doesn’t play. “Try it and see.”

  I approach the flowers, leaning in to inhale. Each petal is perfect. There’s not even a dead leaf. “These are beautiful.”

  He nods. “Arabella loved flowers. You’ll find a new arrangement often.” His voice is even, without a hint of emotion.

  “Arabella?”

  “My elder sister.”

  I freeze. I don’t want to feel sympathy—but standing in this room, surrounded by his dead sister’s things, I can’t ignore it. For the first time, I wonder what it must be like to live in a place that resets over and over again—minus his family.

  Rhen hasn’t moved. I don’t know what to say. It’s one thing to feel sympathy—quite another to extend it.

  He spares me the uncomfortable silence. “I will leave you to your rest,” he says.

  “Thank you.”

  He hesitates before the door closes, and for a breath of time, I expect him to trick me and lock it somehow, or to wrestle the key away from me. But maybe this is his version of extending a measure of trust. The door clicks closed, unlocked. And then he’s gone.

  I’m relieved. I need a break. Prisoner or not, I don’t need to be filthy. I get in the bathtub.

  The water is the perfect temperature, soaking the pain out of my muscles and slicking the blood and dirt from my hands. Various jars and bottles sit on a mirrored tray near the window. I have no idea what’s what, but it all smells good, so I pick one and dump it into the water. Once I have suds, I go under and scrub at my hair. Twice, because it just feels so gross. Then I lie there in the warmth and stare at the ceiling.

  When I was young and I’d wake with nightmares, my mother always used to say, All you have to do is think of me, and I’ll appear in your dreams. I’ll help you chase the nightmares away.

  That story always worked. Too well, really. I used to think I could summon my mother by thought until I was way too old to keep believing such things.

  Right now, I would give anything to be able to summon her.

  I get out of the tub before emotion chokes out of me.

  I don’t want to borrow more clothes from a dead girl, especially Rhen’s sister, but practicality takes over. I can’t walk around naked. Today’s doeskin breeches are black, and pair comfortably with a looser red top with leather laces up the sides. Without any product, my curly hair is wild, so I let it air-dry and weave it into a thick, loose braid that hangs over my shoulder. A dozen different pairs of boots line the floor under the dresses, and they fit better than the pair I swiped from the stable, so I choose a black pair that go all the way up to my knees. When I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror, I look like a roughed-up warrior princess, right down to the faint mottled blue-and-yellow skin along the left side of my face. No swelling or pain, though. I owe Evalyn for that.

  I flop down on the bed and stare at the ceiling. Thoughts of Jake and my mother flicker in my brain, spinning with worry until I can’t take it.

  I need to do something. I need action.

  Rhen didn’t say I had to stay in the room. I open the door, fully expecting him to have posted Grey outside, but I’m pleased to find the hallway empty. The violin melody from below makes it impossible to hear anything at all, and I ease into the hallway.

  I peek into the open rooms as I pass. Each is more lavish than the last, with velvet wall hangings, fur rugs, silver trays with crystal glasses. Wine sits out in some of the rooms, along with small trays of food.

  The end of the hallway offers a wide staircase—and a choice. I can travel down into darkness, or upward into light.

  Up I go.

  The rooms on the third floor are larger than the ones I just left, each more of an apartment than a room. Every door stands open, leading to a sitting room first, then a set of double doors, with lushly adorned beds and magnificent wall hangings. Along this hall, a wide opening is set into the wall opposite each doorway, though no furniture occupies these spaces. Weird.

  Then I figure it out. It’s a space for a guard. If there were guards to stand. If there were people who needed guarding.

  By the fourth room, I’m beginning to tire of all the rich elegance. It’s like exploring a museum without placards.

  I look in the fifth door.

  All I see is blood.

  It takes my brain a second to catch up—and it’s a second longer than it takes my nose to inhale the scent of copper. Blood streaks the walls everywhere, in every shade of red: dark slashes on the white walls, rust streaks on the bedclothes, large viscous pools of crimson on the marble floor.

  Blood isn’t all there is. There are thicker things lying in the pools. Darker things. Visceral things.

  I stagger and grab the door frame. I can’t breathe. My vision spins.

  No one could lose that much blood and live. No one could lose that much … tissue.

  I’m screaming. I don’t know how long I’ve been doing it, but my throat suddenly feels raw.

  The scent keeps hitting me, wet copper with an undercurrent of something more bitter. An old penny on my tongue. I gag. My vision swims again. I’m going to pitch forward and pass out in a pool of blood.

  Arms close around me from behind, dragging me back. “Harper.”

  Rhen’s voice. His arms, tight around mine. A solid chest at my back.

  Blood still fills my vision. My screams have dissolved into a thin keening.

  “Harper, look at me.” Rhen jerks me around, the movement forceful. He gives me a little shake. “Look at me.”

  I look at him.

  Rhen. Alone.

  My chest feels like it wants to collapse. If he weren’t holding me up, I don’t think I’d be on my feet. “Grey?” My voice cracks. “Is that Grey?”

  “No. Commander Grey is unharmed.” His voice is urgent, yet not without compassion. “Calm yourself.”

  I inhale—and catch the scent of blood again. It’s so thick in the air. My throat closes up and I nearly double over.

  The world spins again. Everything turns upside down and then right-side up. I’m passing out.

  But no—I’m not. I’m moving down the hallway, wrapped in warmth. The room of horror is shrinking, becoming nothing more than a doorway.

  I force my head to swivel up to look at him. It puts my face against bare shoulder, which takes me by surprise. His jacket and shirt are gone, and he wears something snug and white and sleeveless, like a heavy undershirt. The neckline is damp, as is the lower half of his jaw. He’s warm and smells like mint, and I spot a thin white line of cream.

  He was shaving.

  It’s so normal, so disarming. I could close my eyes and pretend I’m a little girl again, before our lives turned to crap, swept up in my father’s arms, inhaling his scent just like this.

  But I’m not.

  And this is Rhen.

  I swipe a trembling hand across my face. A pleasant memory of my father is less welcome than the carnage in that room. “Put me down.”

  I expect him to refuse, but he stops and eases my legs to the ground. We’re at the top of the stairwell, and he doesn’t move away. His calmness is reassuring and terrifying at the same time.

  “Better?” he says quietly.

  I have no idea. “Is that blood real?”

  “Quite real.” His expression darkens. “Perhaps you recall saying a guard was unnecessary?”

  “Trust me, I’m totally regretting it.” I’m still worried I’m going to be sick all over the velvet carpeting. “You knew that was there?”

  “Of course.” A pause. “I usually have Grey bar the
doors, but we’ve been somewhat preoccupied since you arrived.”

  That’s a pointed comment, but my thoughts tumble along, trying to find a way to make sense of this. That blood was fresh and real and vivid. “Is someone hurt?”

  “No, my lady. Not in the way you mean.”

  I stare at him. “What other way is there?”

  There is no give to his expression. “This floor is no place for the weak of stomach. Can you walk?”

  “I can walk.” I take hold of the banister and step down. My fingers shake from leftover adrenaline, and I feel twitchy and unstable.

  Rhen walks beside me, his manner completely unconcerned.

  He’s so relaxed that it’s starting to mess with me, making me feel like I imagined it all.

  We reach the landing and I turn, ready to head to my room, but Rhen continues around the corner. “Come,” he says, gesturing with a hand. “There is nothing frightening in the kitchens.”

  I don’t have a shred of an appetite after seeing the carnage in that room, but I follow him anyway. He can eat. I want information. “Is it the monster?” I ask in a hushed voice. “Is the monster here?”

  “No. The blood in that room is unfortunate to look at, but is ultimately of no real concern.” He continues down into darkness, leaving me to follow.

  I do my best to scurry after him. At the bottom of the staircase, light flickers along the shadowed hallway and warm scents of flour and yeast reach my nose. I should have chosen this path to begin with.

  “Is the blood part of the curse?” I whisper.

  He turns and gestures around, his expression incredulous. “All you see is part of the curse.”

  I hesitate, thinking of his dead family, though I can’t make wet blood match up with people who’ve been dead for numerous seasons.

  I shouldn’t have worried, because his voice remains casual and unbothered. “Do you care for some wine? I can fetch a bottle from the cellar.”

  “No. Rhen—” I swallow, and my voice goes husky. Grey told me about the hundreds of girls—some who made it out alive, and some who didn’t. “Who died in that room?”

  “No one.”

  “That’s not possible.” I pause and wonder if I should try to run from here again. I edge toward the doorway. “Was it—was it from the last girl here? Did she die in there?”