And then, she vanished. The place where she had stood darker now, as if she had left behind a shadow that swallowed all it touched.
Chapter Two
“Papa?” Isabella called as she tried the door to his study. Locked again.
She paused, one hand poised to knock, the other tightening around the tray she carried, laden with tea and toast and the soft-boiled egg he’d requested over an hour ago, now cooling in its cup. A thin trail of steam rose from the teapot, the scent earthy and smoky with a hint of sweetness.
She pressed her ear against the panel. At first, she heard nothing, then a rustle, a whisper, the flutter of pages turning.
“Papa?” she called again.
There came the scrape of feet shuffling closer, then the unmistakable groan of something being dragged across the floor. In recent days, he had taken to wedging the back of a chair under the handle of the door, determined that no one disturb his work. Was he dragging it into place again now, or away? She could not tell.
“Papa, you must not lift heavy things. You must not exert yourself. We have discussed this,” she called through the door. She waited as a moment oozed past, then another, slow as pitch. When he gave no answer, she said, “May I come in? I’ve brought?—”
“No!” The word cracked like a whip. “Not now, Isabella. Leave it there.”
“But—”
“I said leave it.” The words were impatient, cold, angry. They struck like a slap. Never in all her life had he spoken to her in such a tone. For a heartbeat, she could not breathe.
Something was wrong. Had been wrong since the visit from the stranger, a man wrapped in shadow and threat.
Each day since, Papa had increasingly withdrawn into himself. He shut himself away for hours at a time, emerging pale and trembling, his shirt damp with sweat. His hands, once steady and meticulous, now fumbled at the smallest task. He jumped at soft sounds. He whispered to himself and cast wary glances over his shoulder. Once or twice, she had caught snatches of words not meant for her to hear. “Two halves…the circle…hinge and key…not without a vow.”
Two nights ago, she had found him kneeling before the brass-bound trunk in his bedchamber, the key trembling in his grasp. But he had not opened it. He had rested his brow to the lid and whispered, “Choice. She must choose. Free will. But at what cost?”
She had remained frozen in the dark, aching to go to him, knowing she would be rebuffed.
Now, she stood at his study door, worry dragging through her, slow and suffocating.
“You haven’t eaten today,” she called through the panel. “Come now, Papa. Let me in.”
When he made no reply, she hesitated, then lowered the tray to the floor, porcelain clinking. As she turned away, she caught a flicker of movement at the far end of the hall. A pale figure stood silent and still in the shadows…the woman, her gown translucent, her face blurred as though viewed through breath-fogged glass.
“Not now,” Isabella whispered. “Please.”
The figure did not move. Habit snapped its leash and Isabella fixed her gaze on the safe middle, spine straight, hands quiet.
A torrent of fractured words and sounds slammed through her thoughts, sudden and sharp. And then the woman vanished, leaving only a dark, empty space behind. Relief came thin and weak. The quiet never lasted.
Before dawn the next morning, Isabella roused from uneasy sleep to the faint clink of metal against wood.
She rose, pulled her wrapper tight across her chest, and stepped barefoot into the corridor. The floorboards beneath her feet were cold and uneven, their surfaces warped with age, the grain darkened by time.
The door to her father’s chamber stood ajar, a flickering candle casting elongated shadows across the paneled walls.
“Papa?” she called softly.
He was hunched before the brass-bound trunk at the foot of his bed, his hands braced on either side as though to steady himself, his back bent beneath the invisible burden he bore. The room smelled of spent tallow and old paper, mingling with a sharp, metallic tang that made her nostrils sting. Something within her balked at that scent, her mouth filling with the taste of a bitten coin.
Books lay scattered across the worn rug, their spines cracked, their pages yellowed and curling at the edges. They formed no discernible pattern, yet they surrounded the trunk like a guard.
One folio had fallen open, its vellum margins marked in ink. Isabella caught an image, two semicircles nested together, like a broken ring reaching to be made whole. Before she could draw breath, Papa’s hand darted out, his palm flattening over the image. His eyes when they lifted to hers shone with a warning sharper than words.
“What are you doing? You should be sleeping. You need your rest,” she said, her voice scarcely more than breath.
He straightened abruptly, his features drawn and gray, the pouches beneath his eyes dark as bruises. Sweat clung to his brow, glinting in the candlelight. A fine tremor passed through his limbs.
