Take the trapdoor entrance on the fifth floor for example; a tunnel that spits you out in an underground storage room despite not seeming to rise or fall a smidge.
In short, they’re easy to get lost in if you don’t have a clear grasp on things, something I learned the hard way too many times.
I’m surprised I’m not a dehydrated corpse decorating a tunnel somewhere.
These days, Castle Noir is my own personal city, just like the ones I’ve read about in the many books stacked in Spines—the giant library.
The passageways are streets; the kitchen, a bakery that exchanges the best buns and cinnamon-nut butter for my mouse-ridding services; and the bedrooms are houses rich with people’s lingering scents.
Like The Den—Rhordyn’s personal suite.
The thought that these halls may soon be swarming with strangers over the course of an entireweekendsits like a rock in my gut.
Coming to a fork in the tunnel, I veer left, spotting a young girl bunched on the ground at the base of the wall.
My feet root in place.
Something bitter clogs my throat as I peer over my shoulder, then back again.
She’s perhaps no older than seven or eight, shivering, her inky hair a messy shroud around her shoulders.
I don’t think she’s seen or heard me yet, likely because I move through the castle like a wraith, my bare footfalls softer than a gentle pull of breath.
Always.
Over the years, I’ve taught myself to move with the air and blend against walls. To meld with shadows despite the brassy veneer of my long, golden hair doing everything in its power to make me stand out.
I clear my throat and the girl jolts—her wild, fearful eyes darting to me.
Suspending my hands between us, I try to show I’m no threat regardless of the impromptu squeak that emanates from my knapsack.
“Are you lost?” I ask, crouching.
She nods, her heart-shaped face pale like the moon. “Wh-what’s wrong with your voice?”
My hand flies to my throat like a pitiful shield.
“I hurt it when I was little,” I whisper. “So, I sound ...different.”
Raspy. Perpetually broken and harsh, like I haven’t had a drink all day. Not the smooth, honeyed voice some of the servants have. Never the lilting chime of my handmaid.
“Oh ...” she replies, still wound in a lump on the ground.
Watching me.
I’m thankful she doesn’t ask more, unsure of what I’d say if she did. The only memories I have of the night that broke my throat are the fragmented ones that come to me in my sleep.
The screams, the smoldering flames, the strident scratching that scored so deep it left irreparable scars on my soul. Damage that prevents me from living a normal life lest a sharp sound trigger an impromptu attack.
I forge a smile and drop to a kneel. “Let’s go find your parents, shall we?”
“I don’t have any ...”
My smile falters, heart sinks.
I can suddenly see the darkness hiding in those emerald eyes; a haunting darkness I recognize.
“Well,” I answer, trying to sound bright and cheery. “Where did you come from?”
