Page 129 of Tainted Souls
“Where is it?” I ask, remembering how I left it on the basin the day I arrived. Something tells me it’s not there anymore.
“Safely tucked away.”
“You mean Ace has it?”Took it.
Saul doesn’t respond, but I know him well enough that his refusal to acknowledge something directly only serves to confirm what I said.
My shoulders slump as I turn away, a flicker of annoyance crossing my chest. I tell myself it doesn’t matter—if Ace wants it, he can have it.
And I hope it brings him trouble in return, a curse that makes him regret ever touching it. One that devours his confidence, feasts on his fears, and makes him long for things he can never have.
We reach the winding staircase, its spiral steps forcing us to walk single-file.
“The pendant is just one piece,” Saul elaborates, his voice remaining low as if anyone might hear us. “There’s rituals older than any of us. Alliances with people who fight to honor the debts of their dead, to avenge wrongs done to ancestors long gone.”
“And Mom knew about this? She was fighting against it?”
Saul pauses at the landing, waiting for me to catch up. His head tilts in a strange mix of agreement and denial. “Mother fought him for her own reasons.”
As the silence stretches, I turn the key over in my hand, feeling its weight and the responsibility it carries. My mother’s chambers. A place untouched since she disappeared. What truths lie waiting there? And why now, after everything, has Ace decided I should see them?
“Why is he letting me see her room?” I ask, wary. “Does he want to win me over before the fighting starts? What’s his angle?”
“Don’t be ridiculous.” Saul sighs, unlocking the door to my cell and holding it open for me. “Not everything has an angle, Sister. Sometimes people do things because they are the right thing to do.”
I guess I’ll just have to believe this is one of those times.
I step inside, closing the door partway for privacy, then move to the wardrobe and search through the meager options.
My dress is swapped for simple black fitted jeans and a buckled top. There’s even a pair of soft-soled boots that lace up to mid-calf, ideal for silent movement. Everything is close to what I’d normally wear, and I feel more like myself than I have in a long while.
CHAPTER 27
WE PASS THROUGHAN ARCHWAYinto a section of the mansion that feels older, the floorboards groaning as if protesting our intrusion. Rusted candelabras cling to the walls, their pale wax long hardened. Thick motes drift in a shaft of light, settling on faded tapestries that sag with age and on the cracked surface of a long-forgotten mirror. An overturned chair leans against a timeworn piano, tarnished keys barely visible beneath the grime, and a trace of old parchment lingers, breathing its history at us.
Ahead, a single door of dark, polished wood stands closed. My heart hammers against my ribs as we approach, each step bringing me closer to answers I’ve sought for most of my life.
I lift my hand, the key trembling slightly between my fingertips as I push it into the lock. As I turn it slowly, the tumblers shift and groan with the weight of years, a reluctant mechanism waking from slumber. The sound isn’t loud, but it reverberates through my bones.
The door unlatches with a muted thud.
Nothing dramatic or ceremonial. Just inevitable.
I step inside, Saul close behind. The scent of old books, dried herbs, and something uniquely feminine that tugs at the edges of my memory hits me first.
The chamber is larger than I expected, divided into distinct parts. A sitting area with plush chairs and bookshelves occupies one corner. A massive wardrobe stands partially open in the other, revealing glimpses of extravagant dresses and practical attire alike. A large four-poster bed dominates the center, its covers undisturbed as if waiting for its owner’s return. Numerous shelves line the walls, filled with bottles, jars, candles and strange artifacts I can’t identify. But it’s the desk that draws me like a magnet, a beautiful piece of ornate craftsmanship positioned beneath the largest curtained window, offering a striking view of the grounds below. Papers are arranged in neat stacks, quills and ink bottles stand ready for use, and in the middle lies a hand-stitched journal, its edges worn smooth by frequent handling. Beyond it lie several folded letters, two taper candles, a trinket box, and a framed photograph portraying a younger version of our mother, standing beside a relatively young boy whom I weirdly recognize as Ace. Both are smiling, her arm around his shoulders in a gesture of easy familiarity.
I approach carefully, almost worshipfully, trailing my fingers along the desk’s polished surface. Everything is preserved as if she might return at any moment—take up her pen, sit in her chair, and continue whatever work had been interrupted. I open the trinket box, finding a collection of pressed flowers, a lock of charcoal hair tied with a string, and a child’s drawing signed with my clumsy handwriting.
Saul settles into a nearby armchair, his posture relaxed but watchful. “I come sometimes, when I need to think.”
I nod, unable to form words past the lump in my throat.
With trembling fingers, I reach for the journal, half-expecting it to crumble to dust at my touch. I’m relieved to find it remains solid, real, a tangible connection to the woman who gave me life.
The paper is supple beneath my fingertips as I carefully open to the first page, elegant handwriting filling the page.
1
