In the hallway, I bent and pressed my fingers to the carpet. It was damp there too. Not visibly so, but to the touch. The puddles were definitely from someone walking through from the outside and into the rest of the house.
“You can’t help it, can you?” Andrew stood over me, a smirk on his face.
“Help what?”
“Investigating. It’s just water, Tessa.”
“I know that. But it’s odd given the circumstances.” I climbed to my feet and walked with Andrew down the hallway.
He showed me the way to the main staircase, taking three more turns before we made it to the great hall. We parted ways on the third floor, and I kept going until I reached my guest room.
Opening the door, I winced as my hand wrapped around the knob. “Damn,” I cursed, shaking off the sting.
There was a two-inch gash on my palm, and dried blood had smeared down to my wrist. Funny how it hadn’t hurt, but now I was aware of it, the wound stung like the devil. It must have happened when I was closing the French doors. There was so much glass, and my adrenaline had been pumping so hard I hadn’t realized I’d injured myself.
I glanced down and discovered blood on my skirt too, remembering how I’d wiped my hands off, thinking they were damp from the snow. It wasn’t snow. A streak of blood stained the fabric.
Great!But I supposed a cut on my hand was the lesser of the traumas I’d experienced over the past few days. It wasn’t even worth complaining about, and I was sure I had some salve tucked away in my bags. A witch never traveled without some of her supplies.
Making a mental note to see if Mae could do something about the stain on my gown in the morning, I stepped inside the room.
Instantly, I noticed the crystal apple hadn’t reappeared.Thank spell books for small miracles.I might actually get some sleep tonight. Throwing it out the window was the right idea; I should have done that the first night. Now, if only I could find Vivian’s medallion, maybe my luck would start to change…
I applied some salve and wrapped a thin piece of cloth around my wounded hand, biting my lip at the twinge of pain. Then I changed out of my blood-stained gown and into a more comfortable linen tunic.
Padding toward the bed, I paused and glanced at the balcony doors. I should probably make sure they were shut tight since the last thing I wanted was for them to crash open in the middle of the night. Barefoot, I hurried across the room, but my foot slid in something slick. I caught my balance and tried to locate the slippery spot on the floor.
My mind flashed to the wet puddles in the conservatory, and unease tightened my muscles. Had the same person caused them? But no—when I glanced down, it wasn’t water that had pooled on the floorboards; this was much darker and thick.
Blood.
The air seized in my chest as my gaze landed on one of the handle’s to the balcony doors. It was covered in a red smear, and droplets dotted the floorboards beneath it.
I hadn’t touched that door. The blood wasn’t mine.
So whose was it?
Liquid fear solidified in my body, and I froze, reluctant to open the door and see what was on the other side. The thud of my heart echoed in my ears as I steeled my nerves and reached for the handle that wasn’t soaked in blood.
A click of the latch, and the wind helped me open the door the rest of the way. It swung inward, and the light spilling from the doorway revealed the body.
Mae was lying on her back. The ruffles of her maid’s uniform fluttered in the wind, and the white fabric was flecked with blood. Snow blanketed her lifeless form as it continued to fall, and it collected in the thin layer of blood near her head.
Something glistened in the light, and I spotted the crystal apple on the balcony floor. Mae had been bludgeoned with it, and a bloody crack had split the apple down the middle.
No. This can’t be happening!
Bile climbed up my throat, and my hands shook. I leaned over her body, checking for a pulse I knew wasn’t there.
She was dead.
Rocking back on my heels, I inhaled a deep, shuddering breath. In and out. Repeat. My heart slowed, and I took it all in, my mind snapping into investigative mode.
There was the murder weapon I’d tossed out the window this morning, the pool of blood on the floor that told me her attacker had killed her inside then dragged her body onto the balcony, and, finally, the strange object she clutched tightly in her hands. I bent to loosen her grip, and a silver haircomb slipped from her fingers.
A silver haircomb she claimed had gone missing.
Snowflakes pelted my cheeks, and the wind picked up, shrieking across the balcony. Behind me, the light faded as someone stepped into the doorway.
