Page 120 of Cursed Shadows 5

Softly, I place it on the floor.

The rusted clasp was once a lovely brass, but time and neglect has ruined it. I pick it off the latch before lifting the once-polished lid.

There was a time that, when I opened this box, I was looking down at little treasures. The beaded bracelet left behind by my mother was the main treasure—and it is gone.

Lost to time, lost in the move from Comlar to Hemlock, then Hemlock to Cheapside, vanished somewhere along the way.

Now, I look down at a different sort of treasure.

Ten thousand gold pieces.

I don’t need to think for a moment, a second, to know who left this chest of gold pieces on my bedchamber floor.

I left it there for phases before my mind started chugging back to life, however faint, however distant, and I hid it under the bed. But this dwelling is not secure, so when my mind worked a little harder, a little clearer, I moved it to the floorboards by the hearth.

I ghost my fingers over the warped pieces, polished to the touch, before I dig out a fistful.

I release my grip over the edge of the rug and watch the gold scatter. I count out the pieces into two piles: one, just eleven pieces, and the other pile a generous amount of two hundred.

The bigger pile is stuffed into a large leather pouch.

I fasten it with the drawstrings, firm, then stuff it into my coat’s inner pocket. Parchment crinkles in there, disturbed by the intrusion. The eleven pieces are tucked into the front pocket of the woollen, hooded coat.

“Up.” The word comes out from my raw throat, gravelled by intermittent sobs.

Hedda understands as though I speak clearly. She rolls off my lap and thuds to the rug before she flips onto her paws—then starts skidding around the lounge.

One of those moods, excitement that teeters on the edge of agitation. It often makes me think of a youngling high on sugar and on the precipice of a tantrum.

I am slower to get to my feet. I stay crouched for a beat to bury the chest in the floor, then force the board back into its slot.

I draw the hood over my unwashed hair. The loss of volume has it limp in the ribbon at the back of my head, and the faint smell of mildew is undeniable. But it is raining out, a constant drizzle beyond the window, so I care nothing about it.

Hedda’s skidding glee follows me into the kitchen.

The countertops are smeared with jam and butter and breadcrumbs and spilled milk that has been left out too long. The stink crinkles my nose as I grab the satchel off the bench.

We leave for the wet streets of Kithe—and our first stop is the messenger depot by my favourite sweetshop. But I am in no mood for sweets, so I am quick to dip in and out of the depot, where I pay for the delivery of the leather pouch of two hundred gold pieces, and a letter to go with it.

A small, slight letter to Pandora.

‘It isn’t much. But it is more than you deserve.’

I don’t know how true that is.

Even the bitterness in me, it feels so distant.

Pandora is an old wound, barely a scratch anymore; and all my concern is fixated on that one gaping hole in my chest.

She is an old wound.

And still, I send her monies.

Hedda’s excitement picks up as we leave the depot—and start on the path she is now familiar with. The drizzle doesn’t stop us as we take the same path we have taken each phase for the past week.

The streets start to thin as we get closer to the edge of Cheapside before the cobblestone is vanished, replaced by the packed dirt trails leading to the farms.

The hooded coat protects me from those little falling droplets, cold enough to feel like ice on the flesh.

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