5. Grasp of Reality

five

Grasp of Reality

Alessia

F or whatever reason, my shadow-self is delightfully quiet as I reenter my court. Instead of being frustrated at its sporadic and unpredictable involvement, I decide to take advantage of this time and explore.

Already, my arms are aching from the basket Ken gave me. It’s easily packed with a week’s worth of food. Perhaps I’ll locate the kitchen and start there.

A half dozen hallways branch off from the foyer. The largest one runs straight back, while the others appear to twist and turn as they lead away from the entrance, reminiscent of roots.

First, I follow the main hallway.

Many rooms boast open thresholds, inviting a seamless flow between spaces. I peek into each room, marveling at the grandeur of the great hall, throne room, and ballroom. They’re fairly similar in terms of layout and aesthetic, except for a few distinguishing elements differentiating them.

The throne room steals my breath. Up on a dais against the far wall, a tremendous black throne commands attention. Like many of the details down here, it’s constructed of twisted roots and fragile roses. It’s a dark, beautiful masterpiece that adds an air of mystery.

Who created such a stunning work of art ?

Who sat there last?

The questions mount as I back away, readjusting my grip on the basket. Perhaps I should set the food down and come back to it later.

At the thought, a tremor runs through me, settling in my palms. The basket slips just as a dark wisp explodes from my hands, wrapping around the basket’s handle.

“No!” I yell on instinct at the sight of my shadow. “Don’t touch that!”

No sassy remark comes like I expect. Huffing, I try to tug the basket back out of its grasp, but the tendril only tightens.

“Get back inside of me,” I command, yanking harder.

A dark chuckle lights me up from the inside, and the shadow tears the basket from my hands entirely, raising it overhead where I can’t reach it.

“Fine.” Reluctantly, I throw my hands up. “If you’re thinking of messing with my food, we’re going to have problems.”

As if we already don’t.

See? You don’t need anyone else , it finally says. You have all you need .

“I didn’t ask for your help.”

I grit my teeth, storming down a side hallway. The shadow follows behind like an obedient dog, carrying the basket. I’m too irritated with its blatant disregard for my wishes to be grateful.

While it may prove useful in the present, it reinforces that my fears are warranted.

The stone flooring amplifies my angry footsteps as I walk toward a set of closed doors further down. I shove them open, and a wave of relief washes over me, dissipating much of my irritation .

The kitchen.

My chest ignites with a comforting warmth, like a gentle flame. With care, the shadow sets the basket down on the stone counter. A swirl of dust rises into the air. I cough, and the dark tendril silently absorbs back into my skin.

“Now stay there,” I mutter.

Instead of letting my annoyance win out, I roam the kitchen, taking it all in.

When was the last time someone cooked down here?

Running my finger over the rough wooden shelf, I caress the grooves and imperfections. The shelves seem to be constructed entirely from tree bark, giving it a rustic and gothic charm. The shelves, tables, and cupboards match, all birthed from nature.

Various kitchen gadgets are strewn about the shelves and hanging from hooks. The space has everything I’d need: vintage hand-cranked mixers, cast iron pans, wooden rollers, glass jars, and more—so long as it’s all still usable and not ruined by time. I squint as I approach the hanging pans, inspecting them closely. Nothing looks rusted, which is a good sign. Just dusty.

At the back of the kitchen, towering stone ovens command attention. Their sheer size makes me gape. A smaller, more modest hearth sits between them, waiting to be used.

I squeal, clapping my hands with joy.

Even with all of my hopeful daydreaming back at Edvin’s estate, I never imagined I’d be in a place like this one day. After serving others in their kitchen for so long, I finally have one of my own.

And it’s incredible .

A hysterical laugh bubbles out of me. The irony of the entire situation isn’t lost on me. It was killing the lord and lady that brought me here. Fate certainly has a sense of humor.

Does Char know I’m here? She must—she’s the one who guided me here. There’s a Char-shaped hole in my heart, and deep down, I hope she’ll come visit one day.

Cleaning up the kitchen took longer than expected. By the time I finish and eat, I’m exhausted by the sheer depth of emotions I’ve experienced in a short time.

Tomorrow, I’ll take inventory of the space and decide what needs to be cleaned first. Tonight, I’ll choose a room and rest.

After getting lost several times, I go down a hallway I haven’t been in yet. It’s more intimate and less grand, with various portraits lining the walls between closed doors.

Their eyes seem to follow me as I move, and I shudder.

What were they like?

Were they all my family?

I open the first door, noticing sheet-covered furniture and another door opposite me. This must be the residential wing. Instead of exploring the room’s contents, I sweep through the hallway, checking each room.

Outside the final door at the end of the hall, I pause. I glance up at the nearest portrait. My breath catches in my throat as I take in the face staring back. She looks just like me—like my mother even—with a wilder mane of ashy curls and a fierce look in her grey eyes. The artist somehow caught her feminine strength, portraying it in each meticulous brush stroke. There’s a distinguishing beauty mark on the side of her chin—a small black dot.

The plaque beneath reads Enid Liadain Lírshadow.

“Enid,” I say softly, gently touching the painting’s cheek. “Who were you?”

The rest of the portraits lining the hallway boast various faces and names, but none caught my attention like hers . The portrait emanates a palpable sense of connection.

Before opening the door, I know instinctually these are the chambers I’ll claim. Once I open the door, that feeling intensifies. I stride through the sitting room, not bothering with the sheets concealing the furniture. Instead, I head straight through to the bedroom.

Soft candlelight flickers from a lamp on the nightstand. Three other doors shoot off from the room, and I investigate each, finding a bathroom and dressing room in the first two.

But when I open the third, I gasp.

An enormous desk sits in the middle of the room, surrounded by floor-to-ceiling bookshelves.

An old, leather-worn journal rests beside an oil lamp on the desk. My pulse doubles as I rush over to it. The scent of musty old paper fills my nose, but it draws me in rather than repels me.

I open the first page and take in the name written there: Property of Enid Lírshadow.

Suddenly, I’m reinvigorated with a second wind. Instead of climbing into bed like I had planned, I grab the oil lamp and plant myself on the floor, sifting through Enid’s journal.

Sleep can wait. This is way more important.

This is one of the reasons I’m here, after all. What better way to learn about my magic and find answers than to read my ancestor's journal?

Glancing around the room, I wonder how many more are stowed away within these shelves.

And though I stumble at first, struggling to read the handwriting, I slowly find a groove.

“Thank you, Char.” I laugh to myself. “For teaching me to read.”

I scan the pages until my vision grows hazy with exhaustion. The words on the pages blur together, forming an indecipherable mess. Unable to resist the fatigue any longer, my head lolls to the side.

As sleep takes hold of me, I drift further away from the grasp of reality.