Page 125 of Cursed Shadows 5

But I am Narcissa Elmfield, and in this life I stand alone. No mother, no father, no sister, no friend, no lover.

It is just me… and Hedda.

So why is it that, while I unpack the boxes in the dwelling above the tavern, Forranach is downstairs interviewing new barkeeps—because I will need at least one for our opening, and maybe more going forward.

Eamon was meant to take care of the bar.

Forranach is better employed in the kitchen, with his wheeled chair having enough space to move around.

And while he sorts out the business of extra help downstairs, I tackle the boxes up here.

There aren’t many boxes, but each of them are disorganised and chaotic. I didn’t so much as pack, more like I grabbed anything that belonged to me or Eamon and chucked it into boxes.

Now I pay for those errors.

The cartilage of my knee aches, I have been on these floorboards too long. Surrounded by shredded boxes that I tore into with impatience, I have made small piles to at least start organising.

I eye up the pile of folded clothes with dread when I am hit in the face with cardboard shrapnel.

I flinch against the sudden assault, then throw a glare at the culprit.

Hedda doesn’t care. She is buried in box rubble, tearing and ripping and shredding every bit she can get her teeth onto.

I brush the cardboard blade off my lap, then dig my hands into the bloated box, too full, too heavy.

My hands clasp around the smooth wood of the chest filled with gold pieces. I lift it out and set it down on the pile of clothes.

This will need another hiding spot when I have a moment to look around—and I wonder if I should perhaps invest in a safe.

Another problem for another phase.

Phase. There is an oddity in that. My whole life, I knew time by day and night. Sun and moon. Light and dark.

Now, I am not so certain I’ll be welcome back into the light if I chose to return. I wouldn’t, but the journey to attend Eamon’s funeral two months ago, it came with the crushing reality that I couldn’t attend.

Pandora wrote me. She attended the funeral, but without Ronan who was not welcome by Morticia.

In the time since I sent Pandora the details of the summit and Mother’s whispers, Ronan was promoted in his ranks for it.

Maybe Morticia believes Ronan had something to do with the assassins who took Eamon’s life.

But if she does, then her blame is misplaced.

Those assassins were not on behalf of the Queen’s Court, but rather they were killers waiting for the perfect moment to strike and claim the bounty on our heads—and they found that moment with Daxeel and Eamon in a dark lane in the middle of a loud festival, enough background noise to muffle their advance.

To them, it was the perfect opportunity.

And it cost them their lives, because they made the same mistake as so many others have done before them.

They underestimated me.

The silly halfling left behind in the parade.

Stupid bounty hunters.

I hope their souls are rotting in the afterlife, writhing in eternal agony.

I hope Eamon’s soul is at peace, with Aleana’s, and that they both stir awake at moments, content, and see what I do, see that I keep on with Eamon’s dream.

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