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Melancholy. Uncertainty. Jealousy. Shame.
Who did I think I was, coming in here to discover secrets that have remained undisturbed for a century?
“You’re the only one who can set things to right,” Rona says, and I wonder—not for the first time—if she can read my mind. “Or at least as good as it can be.”
I step farther inside, noting the crisp sheets tucked at the corners as if someone’s expected tonight rather than the place sitting untouched for a hundred years. “You’ve cleaned every inch of this room so what is it you think I can find that you haven’t?”
“Don’t ask me.” She gestures toward my bracelets. “The stones speak to you, so ask them.”
Ridiculous. I don’t want to point out how absurd her suggestion is, but I also would rather not disappoint her. Using my most practiced, nonjudgmental don’t insult the irrational patient or delusional doctor tone, I say, “Rocks don’t actually talk to me. Nor do I talk to them. These crystals? They were presents from my Lala, and I wear them more for the sentimental value than any magical purposes. I mean, other than my runes glowing and the Bridge humming to me…” I trail off because the Bridge—it’s made of stone. Sure, it’s imbued with the powers of a goddess, but I can understand it on a very basic level like when it was sad last night.
Rona gives me an annoyed look. “The Bridge is sacred. Just as the entire keep is. The stones that make up this tower were part of the original structure that surrounded the Bridge. Want to explain how magic works to me? When I have centuries more experience with it than you do?”
I’m thoroughly chastised. Even Huey flies a little lower. “No, ma’am,” I whisper and duck my head to hide my smirk. I like efficient, tidy Rona, but I absolutely love filthy-minded or smug Rona. Walking around the room, I close my eyes.
In here, there’s nothing but my own footsteps, the steady flap of Huey’s wings, the sound of my breathing. I focus. Distant noises from the Borderlands come from my left, and to my right, a faint symphony of voices humming in harmony sings. The Bridge. It’s subdued, softer than the first time I heard it. Yet it’s not as sad as when the wyvern attacked, destroying pieces of it.
“Don’t get distracted,” Rona tells me.
“Okay.” I take a deep breath. I need to talk to the right rocks. Or listen to them at least. Isolating the Bridge, I edge around the walls, running my fingers over the rough stonework.
Huey perches on the polished empty desktop, watching me work. Round and round, I walk until my feet ache from wearing the flimsy sandals Rona had brought. How I long for a pair of squishy sneakers or the ugly clogs I’d worn for hours on the hospice floor without a single blister. I flop onto the bed, wishing for some inspiration. Nothing looks out of place. Even the ceiling stretches smooth and seamless above me, not a spot or shadow in sight.
“Giving up so soon?” Rona asks.
I roll to my side, sitting up and pushing to my feet as if another lap might reveal an answer. Taking a step, I freeze at a creak that echoes beneath me. Neither Rona nor Huey seem to notice so I move again over the same space. There. I want to cheer at the tiny screak and the softest thud. “Did you hear that?”
“Hear what?” Rona frowns at me.
“This stone made a noise.” I kneel to inspect it, running my fingertips along the edges.
“I didn’t hear anything.” She glances toward Huey whose adorable blinking is absolutely zero help.
“Hang on.” I take off the sturdiest of the metal charms Lala gave me and gently pry at the side of the stone where there’s a slight indentation. It gives, and that piece of the floor wobbles. “I knew I heard an echo. There’s an empty space beneath. That’s why it sounded hollow.” Reaching into the darkness, I pull out a stack of folded papers. They’re brittle and old. The satin ribbon wrapped around them is crumpled and faded. I turn the stack one way and then another, scared it’ll fall apart if I unwind the ribbon.
“Letters,” Rona says.
“How do you know?”
Her face goes sad, and I wish I hadn’t asked. She’s silent a long moment before saying, “Dyphena wrote her family almost every day. She stayed here for months and sent some home with gifts whenever a messenger traveled to her realm. Each time she brought a bundle down, they were wrapped in ribbon like that.”
“To her family?” I can’t help but imagine how much her family must’ve missed her. Or was she invisible to them like I am to mine? Huey flutters down to where I sit beside the hole in the floor with the pages stiff against my fingers. He leans his head against my hip as if it’s too heavy to hold up on his own. Much as the letters weigh me down. So many secrets, so much more sadness they might unlock if Rona’s wrong. Dyphena hid these for a reason, and I can’t decide if I should tear into the bundle to read all her secrets or put them back where I found them. “It seems wrong, reading her mail. It feels like reading her diary.”
“Anyone she addressed that to died long ago. It’s buried treasure. Much as her relatives are buried and rotted.”
I manage not to wrinkle my nose at the brownie’s casual mention of decaying people as I struggle to find a more tasteful comparison. “We can pretend it’s an exhibit in a museum.”
“A museum must be a human thing, but if that means we can read them, then we can make believe whatever you like.” Rona comes closer. “That girl didn’t jump. She didn’t kill herself. If there’s any chance of proving I’m right, it’s in those letters.”
I pull at the ribbon, and the letters crackle—a loud reprimand that has me flinching. The cursive scrawl that’d been hidden under the ribbon makes my eyes cross trying to read it. What language is this in? The paper buzzes as if an electrical tingle zips through it. I take a deep breath, and the words crawl across the paper. Is it my dyslexia, or are the runes working magic on the unfamiliar swoops and spirals?
Rona shakes her head. “You’ll need more courage than it’ll take to read those letters if you’re planning to win the trials. Dyphena had it.”
My hands shake. I don’t want to talk about my problems with the brownie. Not while I’m holding a dead woman’s letters. I offer the stack to Rona. My guilt, my embarrassment, and my growing anxiety could all be absolved if she reads them instead.
She holds up her four-fingered hands. “Dyphena’s letters didn’t find me. Not in all the years I cleaned this room. They waited for you. It’ll be up to you what you decide to do with them now you’ve discovered them.”
“What if I find out she was miserable?” My stomach twists. “Or worse, don’t find out anything at all. How do I sit with that knowledge?”
