Chapter 4 Dour lines of Horror

Antheia's hand didn't tremble as she slid the key into the lock. But when it turned-when she realized the door would open with a mere push-her lips pressed into a tight line. She braced herself, as if expecting to confront something horrifying beyond imagination.

Her cheeks turned ghostly pale, yet her dark eyes blazed with an unnatural fire. Though her face was bloodless, her gaze seemed fevered-burning with violent intensity.

She opened the closet door halfway with one hand, then thrust her gaze into the shadows.

And then-

Holy God.

She recoiled with a sharp, silent gasp. It was as if a corpse's hand had reached from the dark to seize her.

A tremor of horror twisted her expression. Her lips were clamped together, as if sealed shut by iron.

Still, despite the jolt of revulsion, she reached into the closet, snatched something, and shoved it against her chest, refusing to look at it. Then she shut the door, turned away, and hurried back to her brother's chamber.

He was still deep in slumber.

She returned the key to his doublet and slipped out, back to her own room-barely five minutes gone.

But sleep? Rest?

Antheia didn't seek her bed. She knew no weariness. No respite.

After bolting the inner chamber door, she sat in her armchair and pulled from her bosom the object she had retrieved.

A manuscript. Slender slips of closely written paper.

She didn't hesitate. She knew that handwriting. She devoured the text.

And what she read twisted her expression into something monstrous.

Her chest rose and fell in jerky bursts. Then it stopped-still as death-her breath caught in her throat.

When she finished reading, she flung the manuscript to the floor with a snarl, her teeth grinding like a demon's.

But then-her wild eyes landed on her mother's portrait. That soft, serene face gazed back with quiet strength.

Like oil on stormy waters, the sight calmed her.

Tears sprang to her eyes.

She dropped to her knees, collecting the papers-but barely looked at them, as if the touch alone sickened her.

Then a new thought struck her. One that warred with her instinct.

Antheia was not a creature of impulse alone. She was swift to act, yes-but only after weighing her choices. To the unknowing, she might seem driven by passion. In truth, her mind was sharp and decisive.

Within minutes, she had made up her mind.

She tucked the papers back into her dress, grabbed her lamp, and returned to her brother's room. Again, she stole the key. Again, she crept to the chamber of death. Again, she opened the closet. And again-one dreadful glance was all it took to send ice through her veins.

She placed the manuscript where she had found it.

And, retracing her steps, returned the key to Theseus's pocket just as the household began to stir.

She reached her room just in time-undetected.

Only then did she slip into bed and fall into a restless sleep.

She awoke with a start around ten, jolted by some half-remembered nightmare. A glance at the clepsydra on her bedside table confirmed the hour.

She unlocked her chamber door, rang a silver bell, and turned back to bed.

Moments later, Lily entered.

Antheia lay facing the wall, unaware of what followed.

Ordinarily, what happened next might have seemed trivial.

But not this morning.

As Lily entered, her eyes caught a slip of paper beneath the armchair. It wasn't crumpled or torn. She assumed it had fallen by accident and placed it on the table.

Then she moved to tidy her mistress's vanity.

Lily Catelli, orphaned young, was the daughter of once-prosperous parents. A financial ruin destroyed their lives. Her father died of heartbreak; her mother followed soon after.

Lily and her brother Aric were taken in by their father's sister, a kind soul who denied herself comforts-sometimes even food-to care for them.

Father Edmond, a kind-hearted priest, helped the little family. He taught the children to read and write-rare skills in those days-and secured financial aid from his monastery.

The siblings adored their guardians.

At eighteen, Aric became secretary to a Lumea envoy. He sailed from Leghorn with the blessings of those he left behind.

Two years later, Father Edmond arranged for Lily to enter the service of Lady Antheia.

Despite her efforts to please, she often bore Antheia's wrath with silent grace, never complaining, always patient with her mistress's mysterious afflictions.

Having completed her tasks, she sat by the table and drifted into thought.

She thought of her aunt, who lived in a small cottage in Eryndor and whom she visited on Sundays. She thought of her brother too.

And then-unbidden-she thought of Theseus, Lord Aurel of Blackmere.

She sighed. And instantly scolded herself.

To change her thoughts, she stood to check the clepsydra.

Her movement drew her gaze to the paper she had earlier retrieved.

Theseus's image remained in her thoughts, and, without intent-without malice-her eyes skimmed the writing.

Before she realized what she was doing, she had read the first four lines.

The words turned her blood to ice:

> "...merciless scalpel hacked and hewed away at the still almost palpitating flesh of the murdered man, in whose breast the dagger remained buried-a ferocious joy-a savage hyena-like triumph..."

She froze. A silent shudder wracked her frame.

She couldn't move. Couldn't speak. The horror paralyzed her.

Then she collapsed into the chair, trembling.

The handwriting looked familiar-but she couldn't place it. One thing was certain: it wasn't Antheia's.

She was still reeling when her mistress stirred.

Antheia rose, nodded a silent greeting, slipped on a robe, and took the seat Lily had vacated.

Flora moved behind her, reaching for the brush-

But everything halted.

Antheia's eyes locked on the page.

She shot to her feet, eyes blazing, breath sharp.

One glance was all it took. She knew.

She turned on Lily, eyes searing, and pointed at the paper.

Lily nodded and gestured: I found it on the floor.

Antheia's fingers flew. You read it!

Lily refused to lie. She signed back, Only the first four lines.

A flush crept over Antheia's skin-face, throat, chest. She clenched her jaw to contain her fury, then turned back to the manuscript.

Another glance.

The same lines.

She faced Lily again. Swear you read no more.

Lily answered with trembling hands: As I hope for salvation.

Antheia studied her. Searched for deceit.

She found none.

I believe you. But speak not one word of this to any living soul.

Lily nodded solemnly.

Without another word, Antheia locked the page away in her jewel box.

And the morning resumed-silent, as if nothing had happened.