Page 62 of Wolfsbane Hall
The poison was wreaking havoc on her fragile body.
On the bright side, now she was closer to the floor and in the perfect position to rifle through the couch. She plunged her fingers between the cushions, and they touched something sticky before they ran along a wet cotton men’s dress shirt.
Celestine pulled it further out of the cushions. It was once a cobalt-blue Gossypium spun cotton shirt, but the blood coating it had made it nearly fully crimson.
One of the twins had changed their shirt. She knew it wasn’t James, because Margot had just seen him in his dove-gray suit, and Celestine had fucked him in the same suit. So James didn’t stab Lorraine.
So it was a twin.
19
Saturday, November 11, 1939
Petite Parlor
The grandfather clock struck one. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Seven. Eight. Nine times, and dread pooled in Celestine’s stomach.
This show was formed from decaying fairytales. It was beautiful and whimsical but altogether ghastly. And Celestine only had two hours left to live. To solve the murder and the riddle and get the antidote.
“Oh, that’s rather gruesome,” Vivian said in a singsong voice. She stepped into the room, followed closely by Babette, who had a devious smile on her face, almost as if the women had been working together.
At Vivian’s entrance, the ghost inside Celestine sprang to life and fought for control. The battle was like a dance, with smooth lines, sharp turns, and cruel intentions. Celestine wanted agency of her life, while Margot wanted dominance and blood.
A burning sensation started at the back of Celestine’s eyes, and her jaw locked from how hard she was clenching her teeth. The muscle in her forehead protruded as blood dripped from her nose, and she clutched the couch for support.
“Uh, Celestine, you don’t look so hot.” Vivian took a couple of hesitant steps forward.
“No—” Celestine tried to warn Vivian not to come any closer and to get out, but Margot zipped her lips closed.
Babette also moved further into the room, her smile slipping and concern etching her eyebrows. “Celeste, you’re not—” She never finished the sentence.
Margot pinched and kicked and hit every inch of Celestine’s insides. It felt like she was a frog being squeezed to death by an over-enthusiastic child.
She clutched her head and screamed, the pain becoming overwhelming. A soft hand gently touched her shoulder, but she couldn’t see which girl was doing it. She highly doubted it was Babette, though.
“Breathe, Celeste.” Babette’s voice came from so near, almost as if she were beside her.
“You’re going to be okay,” Vivian said from Celestine’s left. “You can fight this.”
Did she know?
A hand rubbed a circle on Celestine’s back, but it wasn’t Vivian; she was standing two feet away, watching Celestine’s meltdown.
Still far too close.
She wanted to yell at Vivian to leave—to get as far away from Celestine as possible. But the words never escaped her lips. Margot was too strong—too powerful—and she was winning this battle. Celestine was being pushed into her cage again, inch by inch, and Margot was closing the door. But she hadn’t closed it yet.
Still, she had enough control to reach out, touch the floor, and say, “Wolfsbane, do my bidding.”
Without seeing Margot’s intentions, Celestine knew, and she threw all her energy at her prison door and tore it open.She managed to get two words out of her mouth.
“Vivian, duck!”
Four arrows flew out of the eye sockets of the painting right as Celestine jumped up and tackled Vivian to the floor. “My character is trying to kill you.”
Celestine landed on top of Vivian, straddling her chest.
“So it would seem,” Vivian said. “Hello, Marguerite.”
