“How did you do that?” I leaned closer to the paper, watching the ink settle on it.
“The power is in the words,” she answered, her voice distant with her attention on the words.
Which I couldn’t read. They were written in Latin. I sighed.
“Why didn’t you teach me?” I asked, gulping down the rest of my cold Belladonna tea.
“It’s not Latin,” she said, and my brows knit. “It’s similar, but it’s older.”
I eyed the page crammed with drawings and letters I couldn’t grasp. “Do you understand it?”
“Some, yes,” she paused. I waited for her to continue, and studied the small fringes on her rainbow-coloured sweater. If I tried really hard, I could almost remember her scent. The soft, earthy-herbal blend of geranium and clary sage.
“But half of the words are a blur for me too… It talks about a girl. She’s inked with magic.This book contains something good and something bad along with everything in between,” she translated, her fingers skimming above the page.
“The girl inked with magic?” I asked, and she turned to look at me, her eyes glinting with interest.
“Have you heard of her?”
I nodded. “She’s a recurring character inTales of Thornhill. I think her real name might have been Agnes. That’s who the first half of this book is about.”
My mum hummed. “Can you turn the page?”
“Does it say anything about the Monster?” I asked, taking in the new drawing.
She didn’t answer, her attention on the book only.
“Because I think it might be back.” I thought of the woman whose sheep went missing. Then at the one we found in that old nursery.
“Oh, it’s back, Bug,” my mum said. “There’s no question in that.”
I stiffened. Her voice was so casual. Wasn’t she afraid at all?
“Was that why you left? Should I leave too?”
She finally looked at me, her grey eyes hard and soft at the same time.
“You have nothing to fear,” she said, her lips tugging into a slow smile. “It would never hurt you.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
ELODIE
The day of the party arrived faster than I wanted it to. The manor’s halls buzzed with glittering decorations and even more glittering people. Staff in crisp crimson uniforms scurried about, polishing chandeliers with crystal leaves, dusting cabinets, and scrubbing carpets.
But the dining hall sat in the same stillness it always did. The faded green wallpaper peeling at the edges was a comforting familiarity for my eyes. I tipped my head, the fork halfway to my mouth. Lilian’s wealth was bottomless, with more digits than I had ever seen beside each other. So why on Earth did she let the manor fade away? Why let the moths chew up the drapes, the dust blanket the rugs, and time itself consume what once was magnificent?
“Elodie.” Myra’s voice wrenched me out of my wonder. I blinked to find her standing beside my chair. I put my fork down with the piece of fig cake on it. Lilian had ordered it be made, and it made the air stir with a mix of sweet fruit and earth.
“Happy Birthday,” Myra said, holding out a small package wrapped in brown paper. My heart jumped into my throat. I looked up at her, her eyes warm even in the cold light that swamthrough the windows. “Nothing fancy, but I hope you like it,” she added with a small smile as I took hold of the gift.
I loosened the cord releasing the dry leaves tucked under it as I carefully unwrapped the paper. It was the black material I noticed first. Unmistakably leather.
“Horseback riding gloves,” she explained as I lifted them out one by one. They were soft on the inside and—something red caught my eye.
Elodie was sewn into the inside of the gloves with crimson thread.
“For good luck.”
