Page 74 of Castle of the Cursed
The leaves shake, and a girl steps out from the plant. She looks exactly like me, except her front tooth is broken.
“But without rules, it’s not a game,” I say.
“Breaking the rules doesn’t matter, as long as you win.”
“That’s not fair,” I argue.
We step back inside the castle, and a crimson-tinged light in the entryway blinks over our heads. We both look up as a second light begins to blink in the entrance hall, then a third farther down, and a fourth in the distance.
“What is that?” asks my twin.
The lights continue to flicker, almost insistently. “I don’t know,” I say, and we sprint in their direction.
Until a shadow falls across us, blocking our path.
“What’s going on? What’s with the running?” asks one of the women from the kitchen.
“Nela thought that—” I start.
“Tela needs to exercise—” my sister cuts in.
“But I prefer to be inside—”
“So I’m training her.”
My sister and I trade grins.
“Well walk then. You know the rules: No running.”
When she leaves, we look up at the lights, but they’ve stopped flashing.
Nela turns to me. “See? Rules ruined the magic.”
CHAPTER 17
I CAN’T PROCESS. OR THINK. Or breathe.
I need to get out of here. I try to bring the letter with me, but every time I leave the room, the paper vanishes from my grip and reappears on the table. Like it’s spellbound to this location.
Just like Sebastián is spellbound to the castle.
Leaving the letter behind, I race downstairs to the library, then down more stairs, until I’ve left the tower. Running alongside my reflection in the mirror room, I can’t help imagining it’s my sister.
The girl in the glass starts to slow down, my reflection lagging behind me. I blink, and the illusion melts away.
My pulse is pounding in my head, sure to set off a migraine—but I freeze by the gargoyle staircase when I see someone coming down the steps.
Beatríz.
If I look half-dead, she’s half-decomposed. Her skin has a grayish cast, and the whites of her eyes are streaked with red. Smudged black liner raccoons her gaze and stray curls break free of her bun. She looks like she’s aged five decades in five days.
She stares at me like she’s seen a ghost. Then I realize I’m wearing Mom’s hot-pink sweater.
“Are you all right?” she asks at last.
I shake my head. I have never felt further from all right. “I have a sister.”
My voice breaks on the word, and I suck in a ragged inhale. I refuse to cry when I need to speak.
