At the mention of dinner, Harlotte’s empty stomach finally began to protest—after all, he hadn’t eaten a thing since last night.
No wonder I feel like I’m dying, he thought.
As if by cruel design, the head maid had prepared for him a grilled steak—medium rare at best, almost medium—so that when you cut into it the juices still spurted like blood.
At the sight, Harlotte recalled the grisly scene he’d glimpsed in the kitchens: slabs of bleeding flesh, rotting corpses, severed limbs strewn everywhere. He couldn’t help himself—he retched, barely managing not to disgrace himself further at table.
Seeing his distress, the head maid removed all the meat without a word. She returned shortly with a bowl of oatmeal sweetened with honey and sugar and told him that for the next few days she would personally oversee all his meals—and that at eight o’clock she would bring him a supper.
Harlotte did not object. He needed every ounce of strength he could muster; should danger strike, he could not afford to be too weak to flee.
He resolved that tonight he would test the castle’s nocturnal rules—and attempt to open his mother’s chamber door. His mother was no ordinary woman; she must have left some fail-safe for her son. The odds of finding anything by chance were slim in this vast fortress, but he had to try.
Only a few days had passed since his arrival here, and already so much had happened. If he did not investigate tonight, tomorrow might come too late for him.
After dinner, Harlotte returned straight to his chamber. His mind was still fragile; to be ready for tonight’s foray, he needed rest.
Lying in bed, the dull throb in his skull still pulsed—but he felt far steadier than before his sister’s ministrations. Whatever method Eve had used to quell his madness, it had been more than a simple nap. Clearly, both his sister and Eve possessed some power to suppress his fits of frenzy.
Nothing in this castle was simple.
As the minutes ticked by, his wits returned fully. He could think clearly, untroubled by hallucinations or phantom sounds—a vital recovery, for at least five nonhuman entities lurked within these walls. If they detected him, they would surely intervene in his investigation.
He glanced at the time: half past seven. The head maid would deliver his late-night supper at eight, so he must wait until then to venture out.
As he tensely awaited, a sudden scream rent the silence—it sounded like one of the maids in the corridor. Worse, more than one voice screamed in terror. What could be attacking the castle’s servants?
Harlotte threw on his clothes and burst from his room. He had to discover whether one of the nonhumans was the culprit—or something else entirely.
He sprinted down two flights of stairs before his breath gave out. By the time he reached the lower level, night had fallen and darkness pressed in so thick he could barely see his hand.
Stumbling forward, he followed the echo of screams, accompanied by the crunch of snapping bones. Fear froze him in place.
I’m afraid—
But he only paused a moment before pressing onward; if screams still rang out, someone lived—and he might glimpse the killer, or even a “family” member!
Yet when he reached the source, the cries had ceased. Only the coppery tang of blood stained the air. The floor was unnaturally spotless, as if someone had scrubbed the scene clean—minus the lack of air freshener, which earned one minor complaint.
Then another scream echoed—
Harlotte pressed a hand to his forehead. What monstrous thing had struck? Who had died, and why? He had no answers, no way to guess—he was utterly helpless.