May 2, 1668.
Agnes’s third year.
Twelve now. The manor bends around her like a knee to a queen. Her magic is not only learned, it’s instinct. I watched her change a man’s thread without meeting him. He lives on, never knowing that death was waiting in his pocket for him.
April 15, 1673.
Agnes’s first love.
She’s seventeen now, and says she’s in love. It’s a foolish thing, tender, bright, doomed. She wants to leave. See the world with this man she barely knows… I warned her, in my way, but she doesn’t listen. I can see her fate flicker. I don’t like it.
I took a sip of the wild berry tea on my nightstand, the sweetness coating my throat.
May 17, 1673.
The boy had died. It was a necessity that needed to be done. Her hands are empty now, but her mind can focus again on what’s important. And love, it will find its way again when the time is right.
Today, she spared a woman’s death with a whisper. Rewrote the thread, gently, like combing snarls from hair. She didn’t smile once, but she had done it. She’s smart like that.
I turned the page, but found nothing besides emptiness. My fingers lingered at the edge of the last sheet, as though something might still bleed through the parchment if I waited long enough. But it didn’t. The quiet in the room settled like dust on old lace. The candle’s flame painted the walls in trembling gold.
The rest of the book was hollow, like a story abandoned mid-breath.
I pulled theTales of Thornhillinto my lap and leafed through it, searching for a story that rang familiar. When I found it, my fingers stilled.The Tale of The Great Monster and The Girl Inked with Magic.I laid both books side by side on the mattress.
Could Agnes have been that little girl?
She weaves fate in her sleep.
My thumb traced a faint wrinkle in theTome of Fates’page.
Who had written this? The Great Monster, the books had said. But there was no real name, no signature, no explanation.Only that voice, measured and strange, like a god watching from behind glass.
And Agnes.
I couldn’t tell if I admired her or pitied her.
She was powerful. And power was dangerous. Especially for girls like us.
I closed the books, pressing the covers flat with my palms. The air felt thicker now, like the walls had narrowed, listening closely. My eyes drifted shut for a moment, and I stretched my neck, my muscles easing. I consumed the rest of the brew when I heard a loud thump.
I looked around, my chest heaving. Was I being paranoid again? This was an old house, and old houses had noises. Yet my hand slid under the pillow where my penknife rested. It was only the pipes, or the twins playing around, I told myself to calm my nerves.
But then it echoed again, a sound that wasn’t conjured by my taunting imaginations, as I tiredly drifted between sleep and waking. Screeching, like claws sliding over the wall of the room next to mine. I slid into my slippers and took hold of my knife, creeping closer to the bedroom wall in the dangling candlelight. I moved past a painting of a black swan covered with moths, when something thumped next to my head.
I froze, before turning slowly to face the painting. The swan stared down at me with its small piercing eyes, and the hairs stood on the back of my neck. I skimmed over the ornate frame. Could this painting be one of the secret doors into the servant corridors?
I leaned closer, pressing my ear against the obsidian-coloured feathers. A low screeching sound came from the other side of the canvas and I drew back, my stomach twisting, adrenaline surging through my veins. But the pull of curiosity proved stronger than the fear clawing at my chest.
I remembered how Declan opened the painting when he showed me the secret corridor, and I decided it was best if I tried the same. If someone was lurking on the other side of my wall, I wanted to know. Lightly pushing the frame towards the wall, I held my breath and waited for the clicking sound of release. Except, it never came.
I took a step back, studying the frame. What was different? I moved along the wall, my eyes skimming every edge, floor to ceiling. If it wasn’t the painting then?—
I stumbled over the clawed foot of the fireplace, landing on the rug. I blew out a long breath, and pushed myself up, catching a glimpse of silver in the very back of the ornate hearth. A small panel was set into the wall. I crawled in, sweeping the wood ash out of the way with my hands, then pressed it lightly. It gave way with a soft click, falling back to reveal a black-mouthed hole.
I slowly rose and crossed the room, lifting the candle from the nightstand. Its flame wavered as I dropped to my knees and held it into the opening. The passage swallowed the light. I paused, listening.
A soft rustle stirred behind me, and I straightened, twisting around. The window had blown open, the curtains dancing like ghosts on strings.
