Page 25 of Necromance
The floor beneath us trembled, the walls groaning as if something ancient had stirred awake. A sudden gust of icy wind rushed through the room, blowing out my candle and sending loose papers and dust swirling into the air. The door slammed shut behind us. I gasped, clutching the portrait as the temperature plummeted. My breath misted before me.
Lucien’s hand was suddenly on my arm, steadying me. His expression had sharpened, his dark eyes flicking warily around the room. “Well,” he murmured, voice low and edged with something curious. “It seems you’ve found a clue.”
The air felt alive with unseen energy, the weight of something long-buried pressing down upon us. The woman in the painting. Who was she?
Lucien and I stepped into the hall quickly, the heavy door groaning shut behind us. The air still crackled with unseen energy, but it was nothing compared to the presence that awaited us.
A young servant girl stood a few steps away, her ghostly form flickering like candlelight. She wrung herhands in the folds of her spectral apron, her wide eyes darting between me and Lucien.
I immediately sensed her fear mixed with hesitation.
I moved carefully, my voice soft, soothing. “You don’t have to be afraid. I can help you.”
The girl’s gaze landed on Lucien, and to my surprise, she quickly dipped into a curtsy. “Your Grace,” she whispered, reverence in her tone. “You’re back.”
I stiffened. Interesting.
I turned to Lucien, but his expression was confused—dark eyes locked on the girl, his jaw set in something I couldn’t quite name. He didn’t speak.
An idea formed, a possibility creeping into my mind. This girl… this ghost remembered him.
I took a careful step forward. “What’s your name?”
She hesitated. “Portia,” she murmured at last.
“That’s a lovely name, Portia,” I said gently. “Do you remember this place? Do you remember him?” I gestured toward Lucien.
Her hands twisted tighter in her apron, her face troubled. “Of course,” she said, almost to herself. “But I don’t understand…” Her gaze flickered over him again, doubt creeping in.
Lucien remained silent beside me, but I could feel histension, the way he seemed too still.
I drew in a breath, steadying myself before holding up the small portrait. “Portia,” I said carefully, watching her expression. “Who is the woman in this painting?”
The moment her eyes landed on it, they went wide with fear. She stumbled back a step, as if the mere sight of it burned her.
“She was his lordship’s betrothed,” Portia murmured, her voice barely audible.
The words sent a sharp jolt through me. I turned my head just enough to look at Lucien. His face held no expression, but something flickered behind his eyes and his lips parted as he sucked in a breath.
His betrothed?
I tightened my grip on the small portrait, the painted woman’s crystal-blue eyes staring back at me.
“What is her name?” I asked, my voice steady.
Portia’s head snapped up, her ghostly form shuddering with unease. She shook her head violently. “No,” she said firmly. “We don’t speak her name. It makes her angry.”
A chill swept down my spine.
Portia hesitated, glancing at Lucien again, her lips pressing into a thin line. She looked as though she wanted to say more, but fear held her tongue.
I took a careful step closer. “Portia,” I said gently. “What do you mean?”
Her gaze darted down the hall, as if expecting something or perhaps someone to appear. She fluttered quickly, almost as a frightened pulse would.
“She doesn’t want him to leave her,” she said softly, a desperation in her voice.
The cold air in the corridor seemed to thicken, pressing in around us. I glanced at Lucien. He was unnervingly still, his jaw clenched.
