2. Katrin

Chapter 2

Katrin

T he light tinkling sounds followed me down the hall, their gentle chiming at odds with the ominous fate they foretold.

Death was coming for me.

I'd told no one, though most of the town had long suspected my ill fate. I doubted anyone would believe that the clock counting down toward my expiration was nearing its final hour.

Almost eight years had passed since the dusky shadows first tainted my fingertips, and I still had more questions than answers. Though now they covered most of the left side of my body, I hadn't believed the townsfolks' rumors and ramblings until the ringing had started a few weeks earlier.

It had begun as innocuous sounds that could be written off as the clink of silverware or the jingle of coins in a purse. Over time, the bells had grown louder, increasing in frequency and fervor until it had become the clamor it was now. For days, the bluebell's melodic notes had crawled so deep into my ears, they clawed at my sanity.

I clapped my hands over my ears and hummed the first tune that came to mind. Bustling servants gave me a wide berth which wasn't altogether unusual. However, the quizzical glances thrown my way were quite a change from being ignored.

Tucking my elbows in close, I scurried into the grand foyer with no particular destination in mind. I would stop when the ringing did.

Rather than silence, however, the sound of someone pounding brought me to a halt. I froze, torn between my curiosity and the urge to run.

The butler appeared from a connecting hallway and crossed the space, paying me no mind. I watched, still rooted in place, as the slim older man opened the front door.

A fierce onslaught of bells swarmed me, every peal landing like a physical blow. With the view barred, and the cacophony effectively overpowering any words spoken by our visitor, I retreated to the farthest reaches of the foyer.

My head throbbed in rhythm to the chimes. They assaulted me from every angle. I doubled over, clutching my ears, but the ringing had infiltrated my mind. When my eyes snapped shut, the tempting darkness was there. I wrenched them open and gasped as time slowed, and my nightmares became reality.

The sky darkened as shadows poured into the house like fog rolling over a hill. They seeped through the windows and pooled on the floor, a churning river of storm clouds.

I wanted to scream, but a quick glance around confirmed no one else was seeing what I saw. Even as it snaked around the servants, weaving between their legs and billowing before their faces, they did not react.

With each person the darkness passed, my stomach sunk lower and lower until I could no longer deny that the shadows were heading straight for me.

I scrambled back, slippered-feet struggling for purchase on the marble floors. The darkness advanced, and I slammed into something hard and unyielding. My breath escaped in a puff of fog—a contrast to the raging shadows licking at my toes.

Was my mind projecting the icy chill in the air too?

Tremors wracked my body. The shadows were upon me. They'd overtaken my legs. I pressed into the wall like I could disappear through it, but its solid wood and plaster refused to grant me passage.

I closed my eyes, seeking the comforting dark within. These shadows seemed benign now compared to those engulfing me.

It's not real , I told myself. It's not real.

But if it wasn't real, why had my skin turned to gooseflesh wherever the shadows touched? Why did I feel like I was being pulled under, on the verge of drowning?

I gasped as the icy tendrils reached my neck, feeling like any breath might be my last.

A door clicked shut and warmth flooded me. I opened my eyes and blinked at the sudden return of sunlight.

Life resumed its usual pace. The bluebells had quieted to a gentle murmur. There were no shadows beyond those naturally cast by objects in the sun. Nothing crawled or seeped or threatened.

The only thing out of place was me.

I dusted myself off from where I lay sprawled on the marble floor, grateful for the trousers that offered me some dignity as I rose. My lungs heaved, still convinced I was dying. I bared my teeth, unable to manage the tight-lipped smile I wished to adopt.

Every head in the foyer had swiveled to look my way, varying degrees of concern or confusion etched across their faces. My hand lifted in a stilted wave as I crossed to the main door.

The butler stood with one hand still gripping the handle. In the other, he held a small envelope not unlike the invitation I'd received earlier.

"Is that for my father?" Thankfully, my voice betrayed none of the emotional turmoil I felt at being the center of attention. I strode as confidently as I could with my limbs still trembling and plucked the message from his hand. "I'd be happy to deliver it for you."

The butler bowed, and the room resumed motion.

No one gave me a second glance as I slipped into my father's study.

I closed the door behind me with a sigh, glad to escape the bustle of the foyer. My ears buzzed with the absence of sound. No hint of those damned bells remained, but even in their absence, the memory of them lingered. A ghost whose silent screams echoed in the corners of my mind.

Father never permitted the windows to be open in this room. Though the heat in the summer made it nearly unbearable, it wasn't worth risking his precious books to the elements. And so, this room had become my refuge of late.

A large oak desk and matching chair dominated the space. Book shelves lined the far wall from floor to ceiling, each volume carefully organized by subject, then author, then title. The fireplace to my right sat unused for the season. Even the ashes sat undisturbed.

Small mementos of his travels adorned the mantel like a visual timeline of his life: a miniature ship in a glass bottle, a jewel encrusted dagger, a long-dead rose. Sometimes, I would walk the length of it and wonder what might occupy a shelf of my life.

The only things I could think to represent my memories were shadows.

The small area before the fireplace and a slim walkway toward the desk remained the only bare surfaces. The rest of the room was a monument to eight years of fruitless research. Towering piles of medical journals, religious scrolls, scientific texts, and, atop them all, ancient tomes of myth and lore. Each layer chronicled my father's obsessive search for answers. Most were completely useless.

After all the research, the countless visits to doctors, witches, mystics, and priestesses, the tinctures, bloodletting, and exorcisms, we were no closer to curing me. The only explanation that rang true was the one he refused to believe: I was doomed.

Stepping around the precarious stacks, I crossed to the desk where my father sat, a dragon amongst his hoard.

Hunched over yet another book, he had his head propped on one hand and marked his progress with the other, sliding a finger along each line of text.

His hair had grayed in recent years; I once joked that he was losing pigment while I was gaining it.

He hadn't laughed.

I cleared my throat, and he jerked upright. Ice blue eyes scanned the room and quickly found me amidst the chaos. I shrunk under the weight of that gaze, though it was not unkind.

"Katrin." His voice was the hoarse croak of one recently awoken, and I wondered how long he'd been in here.

"This just arrived for you," I said, placing the envelope on his desk. "Would you like me to ring for some water?"

He waved away my question and reached for the message. With sure fingers, he ripped it open, pulling free a small, folded paper. His eyes moved slower over the note than they had the book, a deep crease forming between his brows.

When he finished reading, he crumpled the paper into a ball and tossed it over my shoulder. I watched as it sailed into the cold ashes of the fireplace, kindling for the winter fire. Turning back, I saw not my father but the Duke—a man whose personal desires could not keep away the duties of the title.

"Lord Rencourt has died," he said without preamble.

His face betrayed no emotion, leaving me lost for how to respond.

I didn't know the man, though I'd heard his name a time or two. Had he passed peacefully, or had he fought until his final breath?

As unfortunate as the news was, the relief I felt was instant. I had a plan, and, for once, it seemed fate was on my side. Thoughts flew through my mind. There was so much I needed to do before nightfall. I needed to pack. I needed to prepare.

I whipped my head to my father as the realization settled.

I needed to say goodbye.

Father, misreading the look of horror that transformed my features, sighed and placed his hands on his hips. Then he turned, surveying the room as though truly seeing it for the first time. "It's here, Kat. It has to be. We're missing something, but we'll figure it out. Don't you worry."

I nodded but couldn't force my lips into their usual placating grin. His empty promises had grown tiresome. I finally knew the truth, but how did you tell your father you were dying?

If everything went to plan, hopefully I could save us both the heartache.

"Do you remember the old woman, the medium we saw in Wynhallow?" I asked.

My father changed in an instant. "You mean the quack?" he spat. "What a complete waste of time and assets. I should have pressed charges. That fool belongs in a cell."

I twined my fingers together, watching as light and dark wove together, the shadowed half of me a constant reminder of my burden. "What if it wasn't a scam?"

"Don't be absurd, Kat. You're not dying."

"But nothing else has been able to explain my mark. None of the doctors or scientists. None of the books or journals. And lately, I've been hearing these bells." My hands clutched the sides of my head, tugging my unbound hair. "What if I really was marked by Death, and there's nothing I can do to stop him coming?"

"You're not dying!"

The window rattled in the aftermath of his outburst. I looked away, hurt that the man I trusted to protect me refused to believe that this inexplicable ailment could have an unbelievable cause. I didn't need to see the broken man desperately clinging to false hopes.

"You're not dying," he said again, as though repeating it could make it true. "Not if I have anything to say about it."

He offered his arm, and I wove mine through, allowing him to escort me from the room without another word from either of us. He likely thought he'd convinced me, but I knew arguing further would be pointless. I wouldn't change his mind, and he couldn't alter my plans. Tonight, I would leave, and if all went well, I would save us both the pain of my death.