Page 125 of Ashborne Forged

Place the cup down—once, just to the left. The next time, closer to the chair. And a third, crossing the two.

Were those shadowy fingers gathering the velvet drape away from the glass panes, or merely the blood-red, silk rope my mother was so fond of? The memory sucked me back across years…

A white, feminine hand grabbing the curtain tie, yanking it loose from its hook so the heavy fabric fell to cover half the sunlight, and cast me in shadow where I knelt on the parquet floor.

“Please. Don’t, I’ll—”

The blow glanced off my temple and I cried out—leaving space for the cord to be shoved between my teeth, looped over my tongue, and tied.

I despised the taste of silk and dust and dried blood—

Flinching from the memory, my heart racing, I slipped across the slick floor to the desk and reached for the first of the drawers with shaking hands.

People are often stupid and forgetful. Locks were often forgotten, or poorly secured. I had hope.

But, of course, while Mother was many things, stupid was not one of them.

The tiniest thunk sounded as I tugged each drawer handle to test whether it would open. None did.

Sink to my knees below the level of the desk.

Draw the two pins out of my pocket, praying I had enough light.

Use them swiftly, effectively without scratching the brass surfaces on the long, thin, central drawer.

Snick.

Snick.

Snick…

The bare whisper of something deeper in the mechanism of the drawer falling into place, then a click, and the drawer eased open a hair on well-oiled rollers.

Heart pounding, I slipped the tools back into my pocket and reached for the handle again—just as my instincts prickled.

Moments later, slumped on the settee, legs crossed, one elbow bent to rest on the arm, I sipped at the wine. My head screamed alarm as my mother entered, wrapped in a midnight-blue robe that looked black in the moonlight, which was the only light in this office, until her candle cast a sickening, flickering glow across the walls and turned my shadow into a cackling nightmare as I held the goblet to my lips.

Neither of us spoke as she crossed the room slowly, no doubt scanning it for any sign of disruption or search, before taking a seat in the thick chair my father always favored, a few feet across from me.

“Trouble sleeping?”

“This house screams of its dead,” I muttered without meeting her eyes, uncertain I’d yet regained control of the fear in mine.

“I told you not to carry that. You were a child.”

Rage crackled through me and I shot her a dark glare. “It screams of your dead.”

She shrugged. “Why the office?” she flapped an elegant hand at the air, indicating the room.

“Because it’s the only place I can be certain your simpering servants won’t follow.”

She huffed, then pushed out of her chair and walked to the side table to pour herself wine, before settling again.

I ignored her, keeping my eyes fixed on the window to my left and sipping at the wine as if it had offended me.

“Have you considered returning in truth?” she asked quietly. Almost uncertainly. The hackles on my neck rose.

“Not even once.”