Elara remained by the cart, desperate to find a solution that wouldn't end in her death. But the longer she stared at the open book, the more obvious the changing light in the corridor became.
The candle flames had already deepened into an amber hue. Once they turned bright yellow, dawn would be closing in. She had to make a decision before the last warm tones were replaced by stark white.
By this time, she should be heading back down to the servants' quarters on the fourth floor. None of the rules she had been given made exceptions for blood that couldn't be safely mopped up.
She looked at the motionless puddle, then down at her own hands, still gripping the cart handle. She couldn't use magic. She knew nothing about dealing with supernatural phenomena. And the only object that could potentially help her was currently limiting itself to describing the lethal consequences of making the wrong choice.
If I can’t clean this up myself, I need someone who can…
But why would anyone bother helping me?
The girls from her shared dorm were out of the question. They already treated the previous Elara with a hostility whose cause she hadn't quite pieced together from her fragmented memories.
Even if one of them agreed to come, she would still just be an ordinary child, just as helpless against the puddle as Elara was. Bringing company would likely just increase the number of people standing helplessly in the hallway.
The head maid didn't seem like a viable option either. She never appeared at night, and Elara had no idea where her room was. Maids were only allowed on the fourth floor and the levels they were assigned to clean. Searching for someone outside her designated area could end just as badly as leaving the floor dirty.
She stared at the door across the hall for a moment, then lowered her gaze to her mop. It was as if it had finally dawned on her that holding onto it wasn't getting her any closer to a solution.
She laid the tool back on the cart, smoothed the front of her uniform, and adjusted her collar, trying to at least look like a maid arriving on official business.
If I have to choose between two guaranteed deaths or waking up someone who might kill me, I guess I have to test out that third option.
Her fingers steadied a little as she approached the door opposite the one bleeding out onto the stone. But her three short knocks echoed so loudly in the dead silence that she instantly felt the urge to pull her hand back and run away.
Instead, she glanced at the hovering book, checking for new text. The pages remained blank. No new warning appeared.
She waited for a few breaths and was just about to knock again when something shifted quietly on the other side. The door began to slide open with a drawn-out creak.
A tall, slender figure stood in the doorway. She wore a black nightgown, her pale skin standing out starkly against the dark fabric.
Elara looked up, noting a delicately defined jaw, red lips, and a straight nose. But as she raised her gaze higher, the breath hitched in her throat. Because where she expected to see eyes and a forehead, there was no human face.
The upper half of her head had been replaced by a hemispherical glass dome, seated on a pale, uneven rim of tissue. A murky, whitish fluid swirled inside. When the stranger tilted her head, something round drifted up to the glass, gently bumping against it to briefly reveal the shape of a single eyeball.
Elara clamped her lips shut, fighting to keep her teeth from chattering, and forced herself to lower her gaze to the level of the woman's chin. She knew she ought to speak, but all her prepared words vanished - as if the door opening had completely erased the reason she had dared to knock in the first place.
“What is it?” the stranger asked. Her voice was surprisingly pleasant, completely at odds with the sloshing sounds coming from the glass dome.
“Madam…” Elara started, taking a breath as she heard the tremor in her own tone. “Blood is seeping from under the door across the hall, and I don't know how to deal with it. Could you help me, please?”
The stranger tilted her head up. The eye floating in the fluid pressed against the front of the dome, as if trying to inspect the corridor over the girl’s shoulder. She stood still for a moment, then lowered her face again and let out a soft laugh as the eyeball disappeared back into the murky white depths.
“Why should I help you?” she asked, resting her slender fingers against her chin.
Elara bowed her head, feeling her earlier terror give way to a tense focus. At least she had been asked a question she could try to answer.
She never expected that knocking on a random door would instantly reveal a kindhearted savior, but as long as the woman hadn't told her to leave, there was still a chance.
“What would I have to do in exchange?” she asked cautiously, keeping her eyes averted.
“I need a living subject for an experiment, but I'm a bit short on points at the moment,” the stranger replied, tracing a finger along her jawline. “If you volunteer, I’ll take care of your little problem.”
Elara glanced at the book, its motionless pages offering no hints, and then looked back at the open door.
The artifact's silence didn't necessarily guarantee safety, especially since she still didn't understand how it worked. But compared to its previous two warnings, it was the only thing she could cling to right now.
I don’t even know what she plans to do to me, but at least the book isn’t describing my corpse yet… That will have to be enough for now.
“I accept,” she said, speaking up before her imagination could conjure too many possible meanings for the word ‘experiment.’
The red lips curved into a pleased smile, and the stranger stepped back, allowing her to enter.
Elara crossed the threshold and stopped a few steps inside, while her host turned back toward the corridor, busying herself with something the girl couldn't see from her angle.
The room was larger than the dormitory Elara shared with over a dozen maids, and deep inside, an archway led to a separate chamber.
An oil lamp illuminated the interior with a steady, bright glow, much stronger than the candlelight out in the hall. For a brief moment, the girl wondered if magic was at work in that, too.
In the center of the room stood a long table cluttered with tools, vessels, and ingredients whose purposes she couldn't guess. However, her attention was almost instantly drawn to a black cauldron set over a small stove.
A thick, dark liquid bubbled inside. Bursting blisters on the surface left brief craters in the brew before the mixture sluggishly filled them back in.
“This is what you'll be testing,” the host said from right behind her, making Elara snap her head around.
The door was already shut. The stranger walked past her as calmly as if the problem out in the hallway didn't warrant another thought. Elara had no idea if the blood had been dealt with, but before she could figure out how to ask, the woman pointed at the pot.
“Put your hand inside, then tell me what you feel.”
She pulled out a bench, sat on the opposite side of the table, and crossed her legs, turning her faceless dome toward the cauldron with obvious interest.
Elara stared at the bubbling surface, then down at her left hand, trying not to think about how hard it would be to clean the floors if she could no longer make a fist.
She saw no room to bargain. Rolling up her sleeve, she stepped closer, repeating to herself that the book was still silent. Rather than dipping a single finger and dragging out the ordeal, she plunged her entire hand into the mixture, figuring that hesitation might only annoy the person who now held sway over far more than just the cleanliness of a corridor.
She gasped sharply. Despite the sight of the stove and popping bubbles, the liquid was freezing. A biting chill pierced her fingers, engulfed her wrist, and began creeping up her forearm until her teeth started to chatter again, this time so hard she couldn't stop them.
“You can take it out,” she finally heard. She instantly yanked her arm back, relieved to pull away from the cauldron.
Only when she looked down at her own hand did she realize that neither skin nor muscle remained. Pale finger bones moved through the air, bare and pristine, like components of an anatomical skeleton prepared for a study hall.
Her breath caught in her throat before she could exhale. Her right hand reflexively clamped over her left wrist, as if the grip alone could stop the rest of her flesh from disappearing.
She felt no pain. At first, that terrified her almost as much as the sight itself, because her eyes were showing her something the rest of her senses flat-out refused to confirm.
Both of her hands were shaking. When the bare phalanges bumped against each other, they let out a soft, dry click.
What the fuck is going on?!
This is still my hand… A second ago it was whole, so where did the rest of it go, and why do I only feel cold?
The stranger stood up from the bench, eyeing the result thoughtfully, then tapped a finger against her chin.
“I think I added too much python stomach acid,” she mused, as if discussing off-balance ratios in an ordinary baking recipe. “What do you feel right now?”
“Cold… but it doesn't hurt,” Elara replied, fighting to get the words past her chattering teeth. “I think I can still move it.”
She focused on her fingers and tried to bend them. As the bones slowly curled, a tiny wave of relief washed over her, even though the sight of her own skeleton performing a familiar motion still felt impossible. She gripped her wrist tighter, trying to demonstrate the results without revealing how desperately she wanted to look away.
“Not bad,” the host evaluated, shifting her attention to the ingredients scattered on the table.
She picked out a few components and tossed them into the cauldron so casually that Elara couldn't get a good look at them. Two plumes of white steam rose from the surface with a brief hiss, and then the liquid went back to bubbling, looking almost exactly as it had a moment ago.
The stranger returned to the bench, lifted her chin, and gestured to the pot before the girl could even ask what was going to happen to her left hand.
“Now put the other one in.”
Elara let out a breath through gritted teeth and stared at her right hand, which was still clutching her wrist. She had expected another test, given that the host had clearly adjusted the mixture, but only now did she actually have to let go and willingly repeat an action that might leave her with two bare, skeletal hands.
If I refuse halfway through, I won't get my skin back… And she doesn't look like someone who would just let me walk out of here anyway.
She lowered her left arm, rolled up her right sleeve, and plunged her right hand into the dark brew, stifling a noise that threatened to tear from her throat. This time, the freezing chill shot up her entire arm. Her fingers went numb so fast that for a second, she wasn't sure if they were still outstretched.
When she finally heard the permission to withdraw, she yanked her arm back and instantly looked down, bracing herself for more bones. But the skin remained intact. Instead of a rough, calloused surface, she saw a smooth, pale hand that looked completely alien jutting out from a servant’s sleeve.
Relief allowed her to speak up before her host could ask the next question.
“Cold… even more than before, but it still doesn't hurt,” she said, trying to steady her trembling jaw. “I can move my fingers.”
She slowly extended them, then raised her hand so the stranger could inspect the result.
Every movement she managed brought a fraction of comfort, though a single glance at her other hand was all it took to remind her that the experiment had left behind something far worse than temporary numbness.
The host smiled wider, revealing a set of sharp, white teeth. She stood up and clapped twice, visibly pleased.
“You truly are full of surprises,” she declared, then turned toward a cabinet standing against the wall.
Elara followed her with her eyes, unsure if she should be glad for the praise or terrified of what such interest might mean for the next trial. She carefully pulled both arms closer to her body, but before she could find an angle where she wouldn't have to look at the exposed bones, the stranger returned holding a crystal vial.
“Drink this,” she ordered, handing over the small flask.
The girl looked at the vial, then back at the cauldron. Her hesitation must have been incredibly obvious, because the host laughed, sending the whitish fluid inside her glass dome into gentle ripples.
The solitary eye shifted behind the glass as she tilted her head toward Elara, extending the potion again.
“Relax, the experiment is over… This is a healing potion.”