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“Ah,” she seemed to consider the thought for a moment, but a piercing rendition of her name from the kitchens swayed her attention. “I will send word, little lamb.”
She eyed the dark cloak that sat across my shoulders—perfect for a quick camouflage against prying eyes. Her knowing gaze missed nothing.
“In the meantime, stay out of trouble.”
She toddled away in the direction of the kitchens.
As her words faded in the breeze, I tugged the hood of the cloak back over my head and walked quickly in the direction of the old passageways. The crowd had cleared, leaving behind only debris from the many deliveries throughout the day—an egg lay shattered on the stone walkway, streamers of hay strewn all around, and the scent of sweet fermented fruit wine lingered in the air.
I strode past, feeling for the brick lever that was camouflaged in the high wall. It would likely be rusty with disuse, but I remembered the smooth feel of it compared to the rough bricks that lined its side. All those years ago, I’d place my feet on Zoei’s shoulders to reach the high placement of the brick. The memory almost culled me with bittersweetness.
When the lever gave way under my fingers, the brick doorway parted slightly—just enough for me to slip my fingers through the gap and tug it open. A rush of air brushed against my skin, thick with the scent of age and earth. There was a note of damp, too, lingering in the echoes of dripping water.
An old torch lay in wait, as it had all those years ago. I placed the edge of the lighter against it, watching it cast a dim light over the stairs that rose before me. A pang echoed in my heart when I realized I’d never had to use a lighter in these passageways before. All it took was a snap of Zoei’s fingers for the torch to come alive.
I pulled the torch out of its moorings with some effort, watching as it cast eerie shadows that danced over the walls like apparitions. The passageways were narrow—scarcely wide enough for my shoulders. The uneven stone floors were a pain to navigate; one misstep would send me sprawling forward.
Moss had started to grow here. It covered the bricks like earthy fingers lying in wait to grasp the boots of anyone who dared pass. I took the stairs two at a time, eager to find myself at the entrance to the north wing. I sincerely hoped I remembered the way—otherwise, a dip in the sewer awaited.
Navigating the narrow passageway was like wading through a muggy fever dream. Walls etched with memories pressed in on all sides, whispering stories of regret.
Time became a mere suggestion, standing still as I turned one corner, then the next, following the stone’s natural twists and turns until I spotted a familiar symbol.
The crest of Agnivale was scratched into a nondescript corner, and I traced the wall with my gaze, seeking the latch that would permit me entrance into the north wing.
What did I hope to gain by sneaking around Highblade Palace without permission?
The question haunted me as I tugged a panel loose, only to find two small circles cut from the wall at eye-level. Feeling like the trespasser I was, I pressed my face into the divots, gazing out into the empty hallway of the north wing. I had no doubt that some poor ancestor’s portrait had been altered to create a peephole, although the reason was beyond me.
I felt around for a latch or lever, pressing in with my fingers until a small fragment of the wall came loose. Dirt and dust coated my fingers as I tugged on the lever and pushed the wall in, revealing the plush carpets of the north wing of Highblade Palace.
As suspected, a heavy portrait hung on the other side of the wall, its gilded frame easily outweighing me. A rotund man in Agnivale’s military uniform stared back with a menacing frown, a ferocious hunting dog at his feet. Nothing seemed amiss with his portrait, even as I peered closely at his eyes to seek the cut-outs I knew existed on the other side of the wall.
Walking into the north wing with its familiar smells… I felt as though I had stepped back in time, embracing the comfort of the past. This was a place where memories lingered in the air, where history and friendship and love intertwined. The scent of aged oakwood and plush carpeting underfoot reminded of the times Zoei and I had trodden these same steps, scampering quickly to avoid Nanny’s scolding or insistence on tuition.
The second-floor hallway sprawled before me, its high-vaulted ceilings adorned with red-and-gold chandeliers. The scent of burning citrus candles and aged wax permeated the air, mingling with the soft fragrance of freshly cut roses from the fabled gardens, along with gardenias and wildflowers—all arranged in vases that adorned ornate tables.
Solar lamps flickered orange and gold on the tapestries that depicted battles of the past. Agnivale kings and queens had always been notorious for their battle strategies and techniques, preferring to fight first then negotiate peace—a mindset that continued to bewilder me to this day.
I snuck past several intricate tapestries with small, armored men bleeding on the ground, missing limbs and heads and the Goddess knew what else. Perhaps it was the enchanter in me that found depictions of tragedy and battle distasteful, but it was beyond me to speak against it… On the account that the battle scenes remained on tapestries only.
In the north wing, with its warm lamplight and detailed tapestries with the faint smell of burning embers, Iexpectedto feel like an intruder. Like a bird that had flown into an open window, flailing around the room while servants batted at it with brooms and pillows.
The last thing I expected to feel washome.
It was a homecoming, but in a different way. Like sliding into a comfortable pair of slippers after a long walk. Or shrugging into a well-used robe at the end of a particularly awful day.
At the end of the hallway, nestled into the corner of the wing, was Zoei’s suite. I stood in front of the heavy oak door, listening for any telltale noises within. When none were forthcoming, I listened for a lifesong, and found it silent.
With only a hint of hesitation, I grasped the brass ring in my hand and turned, pushing open the door.
For a moment, all I could do was stare. A sense of nostalgia, thick and throat-clogging, washed over me.
She wasn’t in her room. That much was obvious.
Zoei’s energy was unmistakable. It preceded her—-vibrating with vitality and authority. Even as a pre-teen, I’d been able to scent her several rooms away. Now, there was nothing but the latent remnants of her skin lingering in the suite.
I slipped inside and closed the door firmly behind me.
