The rest of it echoes, unspoken, made clear by the touch of his fingers on my wrist. I won’t hurt you, not like that.
“And what about Arien? What do you have planned for him?”
He gives me a guarded look. “That’s none of your concern.”
“I don’t care if you hurt me.” My teeth clench tight at the thought of it, but I don’t pull away. After all I’ve faced from Mother to keep Arien safe, I know I could bear it if the monster was cruel to me. I could. “Just leave him alone.”
“You’ve heard enough about Lakesedge Estate to know I can’t promise you safety.”
He lets go of me and walks back into the wayside cottage without turning to see if Arien or I will follow.
He doesn’t need to. He knows that we have nowhere else to go.
Chapter Five
Lakesedge Estate is a silhouette against the night sky. The road gives way to a graveled drive, arched by an intricate iron gateway. As we pass through the gate, Florence reaches out to collect an unlit lantern hooked on the post. She lights it with her sparklight. The colorless flame glimmers through the dark as we ride toward the house.
There are hills all around, thick with trees and studded with sharp granite outcrops. It’s like a separate world, quiet and still under the secretive moonlight. I cling to the edge of the saddle as I look around, trying to see more. But it’s too dark. Everything beyond Florence’s lantern falls away to shadows.
The drive slopes downward; the house is at the very bottom. We stop, and the monster gets quickly down from our horse. He hasn’t spoken a word to me the entire way. Now he very deliberately avoids making eye contact as he helps me dismount.
I climb inelegantly from the saddle, tripping over my feet when I step onto the ground. I’m sore from the days of riding, and I have to take a moment to breathe through the burn of my muscles, knotted into unfamiliar aches.
The monster pushes past me, leading his horse away into the darkness beyond the house.
“Wait,” Florence calls after him. “Don’t you want some light?”
She takes the reins of her horse and follows him with the lantern, leaving Arien and me alone in the quiet outside the front door.
I step closer to him, clutching my satchel against my chest. Almost my entire life is folded up inside: the itchy sweater I wear in the winter, a nightdress that’s gotten thin at the elbows, a pair of stockings with mends across the toes. And a handful of stones, my treasures from the windowsill in our cottage bedroom.
“It’s so big,” Arien says as we stare up at the house. “It looks like something from one of your stories, Leta.”
“It’s…” I reach for the word, unsure. “It’s beautiful.”
All the rumors say Lakesedge is cursed. But none of them mention the faded, neglected beauty of it all. I thought it would be a place of spikes and shadows. But Arien is right—it’s like a story.
Most of the windows are closed, and a thick tangle of ivy winds between the wooden shutters. The front door is carved with a raised pattern. I trace my fingers across it, over vines and leaves so delicate they could have been embroidered against the wood. The iron handle is carved, too. An enormous ring shaped like a wreath, furled with leaves and bellflowers. When I put my hand against it, the cold press of iron makes me shiver. But slowly, it begins to warm beneath my palm.
A strange emotion threads around me like the vines woven across the shutters. There’s something so sad about this poor, solemn house, with its windows like closed-over eyes and a ring of cold iron at the door. It’s like something kept under a spell, too long asleep. I put my hand against the stone wall. Close my eyes. There’s a stirring beneath my fingertips. Like the house is breathing, deep and slow.
Then a sharp cry echoes from the slope above the house. I snatch back my hand. A feathered shape swoops away into the night. Arien and I grab for each other. My heart begins to pound urgently, flurried as whatever bird was just disturbed.
The door opens, and a girl stands there. Small and plump, she’s my age or younger. Her white skin is sprinkled with coppery freckles, and her chestnut hair is pulled into a five-strand braid that almost reaches her waist.
“Hello.” She blinks at us from behind her large, round-framed glasses and smiles hesitantly. “I’m Clover Aensland.”
She steps back to let us pass through the door. The entrance hall is easily the biggest space I’ve ever been in. It’s overlooked by an arched window set high in the wall above the upstairs landing. Through the glass I can see handfuls of stars. It’s late, the dim space before new morning.