Page 27 of Wolfsbane Hall
Sickly. She was sickly. Always.
And now she was poisoned.
Celestine steadied herself against the wall and began devising a plan. The men were right; if Frances and Babette were going to live through the night, they needed Celestine’s help. Her body might be a gorgeous, useless vessel, but her mind was a sword—sharp and deadly. To her knowledge, she was the only person who could beat the Specter in chess, and she usually solved his riddles hours before the rest of the guests but remained silent to allow the show to play out. In another life, she would have been a scholar.
In another life, she would have been Sherlock Holmes.
But that life wasn’t for her. She wasn’t lucky enough to be born into the right family, nor was she lucky enough to be born a man. Modern women in 1939 had made waves in the last twenty years, gaining the vote and challenging restrictive dress codes, but men still owned the world.
And the Ashbrooks owned San Francisco, and to them, she was a lowly whore. The mere fact that she wasn’t chaste made her untouchable by the elite society.
No, the life of a scholar wasn’t for her. So, her job was to be a masterly maneuvered puppet with a pretty face and big tits. But tonight’s job was to survive, even if it was just one night.
One day at a time.
But where to start? Only one option immediately sprang to mind—one terrible option. If the game was about uncovering the Specter’s identity, then the logical location for her to search was his rooms. Under normal circumstances, Celestine wouldn’t dare enter his forbidden chambers in the North Wing, but tonight, she was tempted.
She bit the inside of her cheek. Oh, she hated everything about this night. She couldn’t violate Specter’s privacy.
The mere idea caused the hairs on her arms to rise, but her life was on the line—and more importantly, Frances’s life was on the line. The only mother figure she’d known since she was ten years old.
Celestine bit her lip and rubbed her hands down her face before stepping toward the North Wing.
Oh, this is so reckless, so, so foolish, Celine, she thought.
It didn’t matter. Frances mattered, and Celestine would ask forgiveness from the Specter tomorrow if her frail body lasted the night.
Unfortunately, nothing was ever easy in the ever-moving, ever-knowing house. She wanted to rip open its secrets like it was a body in an autopsy, crack open its ribs and poke through its darkest and most hidden parts. So, of course, the house actively worked against her. The halls to the North Wing coiled like snakes, shifting and moving so that it was nearly impossible for her to walk through.
The process of navigating the halls made her feel like she had ingested seven cocktails.
Still she tried.
Wolfsbane was in a rather obstructive mood, but it was unclear if it was the work of the Specter, the Phantom, or simply the house itself. Celestine never knew how much of the house was her immortal lord pulling the strings, or if the house had a personality of its own.
Given that she was hunting down the Specter’s secrets, it seemed more plausible that he was coaxing the house. But if that were true, it infuriated her. It would mean he was here, allowing this.
But none of that mattered right now. She had a plan tocomplete. And if the path was treacherous, so be it. The house still allowed her movement until—
Marionette dolls dropped from the ceiling, flanking the walls. Celestine froze in her tracks, her breath hitching as spiders climbed the rungs of her ribcage. The dolls hung down, floating like corpses, standing at attention like palace guards on duty. To say it was eerie would be an understatement. It didn’t bode well for what lay ahead throughout the rest of the night.
The Phantom’s disposition was sinister—nothing like the Specter’s glittering jubilance. The house never tried to scare her on a normal night. It would rather lure her into subservience with glamour and decadence.
Celestine sucked in a breath, her gaze locked on the closest doll. Its eyes sparked with excitement, staring—no, glaring—back at her. Its porcelain face was carved and painted with a delicate hand. The details nearly looked real but fell just short enough to send shivers of fear through her bones. And the thing stared at her…waiting…for something she didn’t know.
A bead of sweat clung to her temple as she picked up her foot. It might be foolish to walk into the dolls. Theoretically, they could do anything from spitting venom out of their mouths to catapulting arrows from their eye sockets to whispering sleeping spells.
But Celestine would reach her destination, and the only way forward was to go through. So foolishly, she continued, her pulse hammering in her ears.
As the soles of her shoes touched the red embroidered carpet, the dolls opened their mouths in unsettling unison. Celestine ducked, preparing for projectiles, but she was met only with song.
A children’s rhyme repeating over and over and over again. It sounded like nails on a chalkboard mixed with the tones of amezzo-soprano jazz singer. Soothing and horrifying all at the same time. It didn’t help that violins were playing under the song, mostly in key.
It took a moment to decipher the rhyme. It was well-known, written over two hundred years ago about a young woman’s suicide.
Celestine’s stomach churned, and she wanted to clasp her hands to her ears, but instead, she chose to run and not stop until reaching the Specter’s chamber doors.
As her fingertips touched the ebony handle, the chorus of voices stopped, but the dolls, in unison, turned their heads to watch her more closely.
