I’m sure of it then. Together, the Moon and the witch are helping me and my sisters flee.
“Go. Go fetch Alina,” I whisper to Rafa. “Go and get my sisters.”
My companion stares in turn at the misty garden and me. Then she slips through the narrow crack of the door. I want to wish her good luck, but I won’t. Better not to make too much noise.
The magpie hops twice along the railing, then takes off. It glides over the wet lawn, wings beating slowly. I hurry after the bird with Mufu. Rafa will lead my sisters to me.
I stride the stone steps two at a time, toward the iron gate that bars the way to the lake. The garden wall casts thick shadows, but my path keeps me out of their reach. As I leave behind the house the color of a bruised peach, no one calls after me. The guards and soldiers are still in the library, too confused to care about me and my sisters. Freedom. For the first time in months, I feel something akin to proper freedom. Mufu trots beside me, fur silver under Papa’s light, and everything is at last as it should be!
Gate. And then I’m but a mere three steps away from the gate. The magpie lands on the handle. The simple iron rod budges under its weight.
The gate has always been locked before. But tonight, the world is different, and I dare to hope. Dream. As if I were in a dream, I drift toward the sound of the gentle waves washing against the lakeshore. I reach out for the handle. Red. My seed’s scarf is red around my wrist.
My fingertips touch the cool metal. A stink of rye liquor and sweat floods my nostrils. A mountain of a man waddles forth from the wall’s shadows, a rifle cocked against his shoulder.
“You halt right there. You halt right there, girl, or I’ll shoot you dead.”
Chapter 8: Sibilia
Hi Scribs,
I know without you reminding me that I haven’t written a single word in the last six days. Trust me, it’s for a very good reason. Everything has been horrible and getting even more so since the INCIDENT. I don’t actually want to talk or write about it. But I’m willing to detail the resulting consequences. Though be warned, Scribs, I might have to pause at a moment’s notice. The guards keep on checking on us at odd hours.
It’s tough to write in the dark, so please ignore any poorly stroked line or the more than likely smudges. Even though both of the chandeliers are lit the long days through, the corners of the drawing room remain so shadowy that I don’t want to even glance that way. My sisters and I are constantly on edge, and so are the guards and soldiers. Even that dreadful Captain Ansalov is terrified, but for a different reason.
This is of no use, Scribs. I must tell you more: why it’s dark and why my sisters and I are confined to the drawing room. Otherwise you won’t understand why I’ve come to hate this house so much more than I ever loathed the train journey. At least then we were moving and not stuck!
It’s all because of the INCIDENT. The first day after, the guards painted the windows black with tar. Once this was completed, poor Millie had to sew shut the curtains in the drawing room and in our chambers, too. Yesterday, when my sisters and I were escorted out for our daily walk in the walled garden, I saw the soldiers building ladders and piling planks next to the house. All this because Papa saw what came to pass, and no matter what Captain Ansalov said that night, he’s afraid of our celestial father. He’s properly and thoroughly frightened, though we’re less than a month away from midsummer and soon all that remains is one long summer day when his power will be at its weakest (which is not a very cheery thought either).
Scribs, you might have figured this out already, but just to be clear, it’s not only the light we lost, but also our freedom, and the confinement here feels worse than it ever did on the train. I couldn’t sleep on the first three nights after the INCIDENT, and it wasn’t because Celestia returned to sleep next to me (even if I do hate-hate-hate her, under these trying circumstances, her being closer to me does make me feel better), but because the guards kept on peeking in through the door crack. This must have tired them too, for now they sleep in turns in the drawing room, way too close for comfort.
Gone are the lazy mornings when we could crawl out of bed when we so wished. These days, after we’ve dressed, we have to wait for Captain Janlav and the guards to unlock the doors and let us into the drawing room. We never meet Millie alone anymore—the breakfast of the blandest sort awaits us on the oval table. We shift the gluey porridge around in the bowls till eleven. Then we dance, because routines are all that remain of the time that (now in hindsight) seemed so easy and carefree. Scribs, remember how I used to love the practices? They’re ruined for me now, and at times I stumble on the steps simply because I’m so focused on holding back tears!
Did I already mention that our lunches are beyond awful? Cold beetroot soup, sometimes hard rye bread with pickled white fish (not sure what sort of fish and not sure I want to even find out). But when it comes down to choosing between the porridge and the soup… Ugh. Both options are bad, but so is wasting away, and so I eat, but only enough to chase away the worst hunger pangs. There’s no desserts—Scribs, I’m so desperate for something sugary that I’d kill even for one spoonful of kissel. At times, I dream about chancing upon just a piece or two more of the Poet’s chocolates. Though they were filled with berries, they did taste delicious.
Quarter past two Captain Janlav returns to escort us to the garden. These excursions are the only time we breathe fresh air, but even then it’s under the watchful eye of the guards and Captain Ansalov’s soldiers. The latter stare at us from the porch, rifles ready, and if we as much as glance in their direction, they aim the guns toward us in the creepiest sort of greeting.
At three, Captain Janlav herds us (or that’s how it feels) back to the drawing room and locks the door behind him. My sisters and I idle away, till the guards bring in our dinner at six and take the rats out. An hour later, they fetch away the leftovers (none of us has felt like eating lately), and then we’re locked back into our chambers. At nights, I hear Captain Ansalov’s hounds howling. I think he lets them out to patrol in the garden.
To summarize, my sisters and I are now truly and really prisoners, and it’s Merile’s fault. Oh, Scribs, I hate my sister so much that I can’t bear to even look at her! How dare she lounge on the carpet, on her back with the rats snuggling against her, as if nothing at all had happened! As if she weren’t to blame for everything!
Though I can’t bear to look at Alina either. She stands once more in the darkest corner of the room, her back turned to the fireplace, facing the empty walls. Ever since the INCIDENT, she’s been staring intently at shadows, including ours, when she thinks no one is looking at her. I don’t want to ask (I really don’t even want to know) what she sees. Even if I should.
Remember what I wrote on your pages after we’d visited the Witch at the End of the Lane? About her seeing into the world beyond this one, even though she’s the youngest… I mentioned this in passing to Elise, and she said it’s the illness affecting our little sister’s mind, nothing more. I don’t know which would be better, Elise being right or the impossible being possible. At this point, I’m really not sure about anything anymore.
Because even Celestia and Elise are rattled by our desolation. They sit with their backs straight on the sofa, sipping weak tea from the chipped cups we brought with us from the train. They may be able to fool Merile and Alina with their pretended calm, but not me! Elise no longer smiles. And Celestia… as you know, Scribs, we haven’t exactly talked with each other since the truth-spell episode. I don’t think I can ever forgive her, I really can’t. I keep on imagining what might have come to pass that day she chose to abandon me.