4. Katrin

Chapter 4

Katrin

N othing I did for the rest of the evening managed to drive away the ringing. Every time I tried to focus, the cook's hateful face would appear.

That night at dinner, I gripped the scraps of my sanity in one hand and my fork in the other. Again, no one made mention of the invasive song that nearly sent me to my knees. My parents conversed in quiet tones I strained to hear over the din. Even those serving appeared unaffected.

Perhaps Death wasn't coming for me after all. Perhaps I was to be driven mad by botanical bells.

I glared at the open window and winced as an onslaught of sound accompanied the refreshing breeze.

The news of Rencourt's death had sparked an ember of hope I'd thought long extinguished, but that fire waned the longer I waited. The sooner I could make my excuses and retire to my room, the better.

I'd changed into more socially acceptable attire for dinner. Though my stays had been loosely laced, I struggled to draw breath. Between the fabric crawling up my neck and the dark depths of my skirts, I was reminded too much of my earlier encounter with the drowning shadows.

If I was more distracted than usual, my parents took no notice, too busy going over their plans for my birthday celebration the next day. The small feast was a far cry from the elegant soiree a person of my status could expect on such an occasion, but I'd insisted we keep the event informal and the guest list small. It was one thing for me to decline their pity invites. I couldn't expect the same courtesy from everyone in town.

I was to be one and twenty, but I still felt like the thirteen year old girl who'd woken one morning to find her fingers dusky with shadow. Though years had passed since I'd removed myself from society, I constantly worked to conceal my mark. Even now, I sat with my body angled away from the candlelight, my hair swept in front of the left side of my face. I flexed my hand, certain I could see the blemished skin beneath the gloves I'd donned. Though I regretted the high neckline and long sleeves in this heat, without them, I was too exposed.

When the next breeze blew through, I leaned forward and blew out the candle in front of me, plunging me further into shadow. Mother's gaze flitted my way and I stared back, daring her to comment. Her lips pursed, but she turned her attention back to Father without a word.

And so, we continued in a manner that perfectly encapsulated the past eight years of my life with my parents eagerly planning for my future, and me struggling to endure the simplest of day-to-day tasks.

When the plates were finally cleared, I pushed back my chair, drawing the eyes of both my parents.

"I think I'll retire so I'm well rested for tomorrow's excitement." Judging by the confused glance that passed between them, I may have shouted.

My father's response was lost to the bells. When he nodded, I gave a quick curtsy and ran from the room. Only after I'd fled the room did I realize I'd wasted my one chance to say goodbye.

I almost turned back. My footsteps faltered in their hasty retreat, but I clung to the hope that I would see them again.

One day.

Three hours later, I regretted my choice to forgo farewells.

The sun had set, and the manor was quiet. My parents had presumably retired for the evening, and most of the servants had settled in for the night. Meanwhile, I trembled with unspent energy.

I'd spent some time gathering what I thought I'd need into a small satchel then paced the length of my room until I'd scored a path in the hardwood. My mind raced with all that could go wrong, but when I weighed each potential outcome, I came to the same conclusion. If I stayed, I'd only prolong the inevitable. This was my last chance to alter the course of my destiny.

Death was coming for me. The recent onslaught of bluebells had confirmed it. It might not be tomorrow, but it would be soon, and I refused to go willingly.

It was a fool's hope, but I'd rather be a fool than a pawn. At least the fool had a choice, though my plan tonight was more of a last resort. Hard decisions came easier when the alternative was death.

I slipped through the house unnoticed, accustomed to wandering the dark corridors. Without a candle, I was just another shadow evading the dappled moonlight.

My fingers skimmed over familiar surfaces, the textured walls, the oiled banister. I'd committed every inch of this house to memory but had the inexplicable desire to leave pieces of myself embedded within it. I feared all evidence of my existence would be erased with my departure and I desperately needed a tether to this world.

Time was not on my side.

I itched to trace the entire manor, but my plan required urgency. Though I'd planned to exit through the kitchen, my feet carried me away from the servant passages, finally stopping when I reached the grand foyer.

Hours earlier, I'd stood in the same spot and watched as sunlight turned to black. I shivered in memory, checking every corner for a hint of anything unnatural, but the darkness of night was tame in comparison to those creeping shadows.

As before, I retreated into the safety of my father's study. This time, I crossed to the other side of the desk, careful not to topple any of his towering piles of books.

I sat in my father's chair and gazed over the organized chaos. All this work and we'd had the answer years ago. All that time wasted because he refused to accept the hard truth. We all had.

Reaching into my satchel, I removed a page I'd torn from one of his texts. My father had quickly discarded the book of ancient myths, but a particular bit of lore had caught my eye.

The legend told of a wicked creature that followed in Death's shadow, a dark figure that collected the souls of the recently departed and ushered them to the next world. No one had ever met the Ferrier of Souls and lived to tell about it, but that was precisely what I intended to do.

I flipped the page over and reached for a quill and inkpot, scrawling three words above a chilling illustration of the Ferrier.

She was right.

No matter how hard I tried, I couldn't muster the energy to write something more soothing. It would be hours before my parents learned of my parting, longer still for my father to retreat to his study and see my note. It wouldn't ease his suffering, but at least he would know I left of my own volition.

My eyes roamed over the ink sketch. It showed a hooded figure with no discernable face, only darkness. In one hand, it bore a scythe. The other hand curled into claws encircled with wispy shadows eerily similar to those that marked my skin.

A sense of foreboding tingled the back of my neck.

Like it or not—and I very much did not—the Ferrier was perhaps the only creature who could keep me safe. I only needed to convince him I was worthy of his protection.

I yanked the glove off my unmarked hand, placing it beside my note. One day, I'd reunite the pair.

I didn't look back as I walked out the room and through the front door. Though I nearly stumbled at the silence that greeted me. The bluebells had finally ceased.

Perhaps this was a good plan after all.