Page 17 of Who Owns You?

A dozen neatly wrapped parcels are waiting just inside the door when I get back to the castle. The shopkeepers did say they delivered, but I never expected the stuff to arrive back at the castle before I did. I really didn’t expect it to arrive inside either.Not going to think about that. The food stuff is separated from the art supplies in neat piles I would be way too lazy to bother with.This is too weird.

I grab the paints and canvas I got at Books, Bits, and Baubles. Then I head in search of the room with the best light.

If I had to guess, this was the armory. Ancient-looking pieces of armor still hang on the walls. From breastplates to helmets, shields, and bracers, beams of light constantly reflect off the polished pieces right into my eyes as I try to find a suitable spot for my new painting area. Toward the back of the grand space is a small alcove with windows on all sides of the semicircle-shaped nook. Heavy velvet curtains frame the windows, their gold accents glittering as they catch the light.

“If I put that weirdly cut drop cloth down right here…” I run my fingers through the air as I imagine the space filled to thebrim with my supplies, the sunlight as it is right now, and the peace to do the work I love. “It’s perfect,” I sigh.

Setting up the easel, canvases, and then all my paint sets takes enough time that the sun has started to set. The view makes me itch to pick up a pallet and mix colors to match, but I put the urge aside as my stomach audibly growls.

“Guess I’ll actually have to make use of all that food I bought,” I huff.

Cooking is an art form I’ve never mastered—nor wanted to take the time to try.

I lumber out of my beautiful new studio, dragging my feet as I shut the thick curtains and plunge the space into darkness.

The air fizzles in my lungs, and I have that feeling at the edge of my consciousness again.I’m not alone in this house. Whatever is here hasn’t made its presence known yet This was certainly the devil I didn’t know.

“Fuck, please don’t be the actual devil,” I whimper as I sprint from the room, nearly knocking a set of bracers to the ground in my rush.

The armor turns into mirrors, projecting back my terror blended with shadows. My twisted visage makes theater mask–level expressions of fright.

My feet pound on the stairs as I return to the entryway to get the packages that had seemed less important compared to the art supplies.

A startled laugh explodes out of my mouth as I take in the empty space.

“Great, the devil is stealing my food!” I snap, throwing my hands in the air as if to ward away the food-stealing jerks.

My heart is racing in my chest, but you don’t show fear to wild animals, so showing it to evil spirits should have the same rules.

I pull out my phone and scroll through the numbers I collected during the day, mostly shop owners and Eloise’s friends, until I find one for a takeout place in town. I shut my eyes to help me recall earlier in the day. The signs on the doors of the restaurants in town advertised short open hours and weird days off but were good to keep in mind if I was feeling lazy. The only place I remember seeing open on Saturday night was a pizza place.

My thumb, guided by hunger, presses call.

“McGnash’s Tasty Pies, how can I help you?” The thick brogue on the other end of the line gives me a momentary pause before my stomach howls its displeasure. “You that new cailín in town?”

“I think so. I don’t know what that means.”

“Then you are she—” The man on the line laughs heartily. “I’m Seán Walsh, co-owner of this fine establishment.”

“I met the McGnash half earlier,” I grumble, that same traitorous thumb flitting to my lips. I gnaw on my nail. “Can I have a pizza?”

“Course you can. What toppings do you want on it?”

“I don’t take it you have Canadian bacon?” My voice is thin and embarrassed around the question.

“Ah, no, we don’t really, but I think I could get some ham from Dara, and it’ll be about the same thing. How does that sound?”

“Perfect, thanks. Make that a large pizza, please.”

I’m going to need the extras until it’s socially acceptable to go out for another order of groceries now that mine have been pilfered.

“It’ll be ready for delivery in an hour. This order is on us, welcome to town.”

As the line disconnects, my shoulders sag, and every ounce of nervousness from being out and about today crashes into me all at once.

When I was prepping my supplies, nothing else mattered but the color, consistency, and range I was developing as the ideas bubbled away in my head. I wanted to paint big landscapes and show off the colors all around me, but at the same time, I was too caught up with all the little things—the flowers and stonework and people—to dive right into something so big.

I decided that my first project in this new space would have to wait until I had food in my stomach. No good ideas came from a place of hunger. At least, not mine. If I went into ideation like this, then all I would be able to paint would be pastries and cake, like the ones in the window of the grocery store.

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