Page 12 of Deliria

I need to move, to act, to do something that will bring me closer to the truth. I need to jumpstart my memory. I need to make myself better because let’s face it, Alex certainly has no intention of doing that.

Silently, I slip out of bed, pulling on a thick velvet robe to ward off the chill. The house is quiet, the staff have long since retired and are seemingly lost in dreams that I envy.

At the door I pause, listening for any sign of movement, any indication that I’m not alone.

Mercifully, the coast seems clear, so I venture out into the dimly lit hallway. The portraits of Forster ancestors gaze down at me with stern expressions, their eyes following my progress as I make my way toward the staircase that leads to the lower levels of the mansion.

I’ve never explored the house at night. I don’t know how I know that with such certainty, but I do.

The darkness lends an air of menace to the grandeur. The shadows seem to pulse with a life of their own, and I find myself jumping at every creak and groan of the old wood beneath my feet.

I reach the ground floor, the marble tiles cold against my bare feet. The library calls to me, its promise of freedom too tempting to ignore. I push open the door, the familiar scent of leather and ink enveloping me like a comforting blanket that I suddenly need so desperately.

The moonlight filters in through the ridiculously oversized windows, casting a silvery glow over the rows of books. I run my fingers over the spines, the titles a jumble of forgotten storiesand classical literature. At random I pull out a volume, its pages yellowed with age. The book falls open to a marked passage, the words leaping out at me as if begging to be heard.

“And so, the lady fair was locked away in the tower, her cries for help unheard by the world outside.”

A shiver runs down my spine as I read the line, the parallels to my own situation too damn clear.

With horror, I slam the book shut, my heart pounding in my chest.

Stop it Scarlett. Just stop.

I can’t afford to get lost in fairy tales and fanciful thoughts. Ineedto stay grounded, to focus on the reality of my situation, no matter how bleak it is right now.

Once the book is safely stuffed back onto the shelf, my gaze wanders to the far corner of the library where a heavy curtain hangs. I know what’s there, what I found weeks ago and somehow, thankfully still remember. With a tug I pull the fabric back, revealing a door that is smaller than the others, almost as if it’s meant to be overlooked.

Fear, excitement, every emotion in between rushes over me as I reach for the doorknob.

I’ve never dared go down this, though I have a hunch where it leads.

It turns with a soft click, the door swinging open to reveal a narrow staircase leading down into more darkness, while a musty scent wafts up from the depths. But musty is good. Musty means this is not a well-trodden path. Musty means the staff don’t clean here, don’t use it as a private route away from the family’s ever watchful eyes.

And yet, I hesitate at the top of the stairs, the beat of my heart echoing so damned loudly in my ears.

I should turn back.

Return to the relative safety of my room.

If I am found here, if I am discovered… I shake my head, forcing those pathetic thoughts down. You don’t win by being a coward. You don’t win by playing meek. Knowledge is power, and this here, this could be the difference between victory and defeat when the truth does come out.

With tentative steps, I descend into the shadows, the darkness wrapping around me like a cloak. The air grows colder with each step, the chill seeping into my bones and making me shiver from more than just fear. By the time I reach the bottom my feet are frozen, and it takes a good minute for my eyes to adjust to the gloom.

It’s a cellar.

Thick, stone walls dotted with cobwebs are what greet me, and I’ll admit I feel a pang of disappointment. Had I hoped for more? Yes. Had I hoped for some big reveal, some big answer to all the secrets? I guess I won’t find it here. And certainly not tonight.

Old furniture and forgotten trinkets are scattered haphazardly around the space, all of them a testament to the Forster family’s long history and changing tastes.

There’s a maze of discarded relics, and I brush my fingers against the dust-covered surfaces as I walk before I come to stop in front of a cobweb covered mirror. It’s my reflection that makes me pause, and it’s hard not to feel like I’m more of a ghostly apparition than a real person.

For a moment, I barely recognize the woman before me. Her blue eyes are too wide, the haunted look in their depths is a stark contrast to the spark that once dwelled there. Her skin is pale, the shadows beneath her eyes a map of sleepless nights and unspoken fears.

I turn away from the image, my gaze falling on a stack of old paintings leaning against the wall. I sift through them,the images a montage of landscapes and portraits that span generations.

And then I see it—a canvas that looks suspiciously like the one from my studio, the one with my distorted face twisted in a silent scream.

My heart skips a beat as I pull the painting from the pile, the shock of recognition making me stagger backward.

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