Page 58 of Castle of the Cursed
“Let me try,” says Felipe, and I move back while he runs his hand across the dark screen, then attempts to twist it like a door handle. But nothing happens.
“Maybe it’s dead and needs to be charged,” I say.
He inspects the tablet’s sides. “I don’t see anywhere to plug in.”
I look up at the top of the wheeled ladder, to the window that wraps around the ceiling. I can’t shake Felipe’s notion that there could be a secret room up there. “I have an idea. When I get to the top, roll me around.”
I climb to the topmost rung, so that my head and shoulders are facing the stained glass. This must be how the service staff used to reach the windows to clean them—but judging by the dust, no one has been up here in a while.
“Okay, move me!” I call down.
Felipe starts to roll the ladder slowly, and I survey the glass as I revolve round the room, looking for hinges or any kind of opening mechanism. I’ve nearly traveled full circle when I find it.
“Stop!” I say, and once the ladder is stationary, I reach for the latch on the side of the window. When I unhook it, I swing open the sooty stained glass and reveal an outdoor balcony.
“Come!” I wave Felipe up. “And bring the food!”
He climbs the steps with the basket, which he hands to me, and I pass it through the open window, then I hold on to the frame to pull myself up. Felipe joins me outside.
The balcony is barely big enough for the both of us, and I could probably slip between the wide-gapped iron bars that enclose it. But it’s got the best view I’ve ever seen.
The green countryside, the thicket of woods, the tiny town of Oscuro, the mountains on the horizon… The world looks so vast from up here, the sky so infinite—and yet, la Sombra looms larger than everything.
Somehow, it’s not hard to believe this castle could be a black hole powerful enough to swallow us all.
We sit down, and Felipe sets out a row of crackers and small plastic containers. He spoons some olive tapenade on a cracker and hands it to me, then he makes one for himself. The crunchy seediness against the bitter saltiness of the spread makes for a tasty combination, and I finish it in two bites.
“Your aunt doesn’t like me very much,” he admits as he hands me a cracker layered with a different spread.
“What makes you say so?” I ask, curious to hear what he thinks about that.
“I used to hang around the castle a lot, hoping she would need help carrying something so that I could have an excuse to come inside. I only stopped because she called my parents and told them I was stalking her.” He chuckles and crunches on a cracker.
My laugh turns into a mmm of appreciation as I taste a delicious whipped spread that smells like truffles.
“What do you remember about your childhood?” Felipe asks as he plucks a loaf of bread from the basket and rips off a piece. He tears the chunk in half and lathers the creamy spread onto both sides, then cracks some pepper and hands me one of the halves.
“My first memories are of snow,” I say, staring at the bread’s whipped white surface with its dusting of black stars. “I remember a wooden cabin and a red sled and a puffy purple jacket. When I was young, we moved through Montana and Wyoming and Colorado. I was around ten when I asked my parents if we could try a warmer climate, so I spent most of my teens in Arizona and Texas and Florida.”
I take a bite of bread and think about how diametrically opposed Felipe’s and my upbringings have been. He’s lived in the same home his whole life and plans to remain there, forever—while I’ve spent my life everywhere but my own home. Until now.
“What were they like?” asks Felipe between bites of his own bread. “Your parents?”
My gut hardens, threatening to cut off my appetite. I don’t want to talk about them… but if I stop, they’ll be gone for good. “We used to say Mom had wings.”
“¿Alas?” asks Felipe, miming flying with his arms.
“I don’t mean it literally. It’s just how Dad and I used to describe her. She was always soaring ahead of us. She’d wake up first and set the coordinates for the day.”
“Were you closer to her or your dad?”
“The three of us were our own world,” I say after a moment. “We were all we had. I think Mom was more of a loner at heart. She liked to venture out on her own a lot, so I probably spent more time with Dad.”
My voice catches, and I clear my throat. I want to stop talking, but to speak of Mom and leave out Dad feels like too deep a betrayal.
“I wanted to be just like him,” I say, the admission dislodging something in my throat, and even if I wanted to stop now, I couldn’t. “Ever since I was a kid, he would let me help with his work. He taught me how to read, how to drive, how to play poker.”
That’s why I have to find out who killed him and Mom. Because this time, he’s not here to close the case himself.
