Page 29 of Sweetling
She peered up and down the corridor to find it unoccupied. Squinting at the door he’d indicated was his that first night, Molly slowly stepped from her room. Only a layer of dust greeted her.
She stared down at that dust suspiciously. He’d been here at least once, and she suspected many more times than that. No boot prints had been left behind to prove it, though.
What, can he fly now, too?
She wouldn’t put it past the fae. What little she’d managed to learn about him was that he wasn’t human. She knew that already, of course, but glimpsing him work at his tasks tirelessly—literally,tirelessly,for days on end—only underscored his strangeness. He didn’t seem to rest. He could hammer at the roof all day. He’d practiced archery from dawn to dusk one day. Another, he hauled buckets all morning without signs of exhaustion.
Molly grew tired just watching him.
His strength and endurance were inhuman—superhuman.
Today, though, the house was quiet. No hammering, no whizzing arrows. Maybe he truly did need to rest eventually.
After a morning of listening to only the complaints of her stomach, she decided to try her luck—which had been abominable up to now, but she had to keep up hope it’d change soon.
Careful to keep her footfalls light and soundless, Molly eased down the corridor.
Although a little dusty, the corridor was nevertheless grander than any place she’d lived before. The walls had once had some sort of wallpaper but had been stripped and cleaned, though they still bore faint traces of hung paintings and paper glue. Scratches on the floor indicated where decorative tables had once stood and slightly darker areas where carpets had once lain.
To her right, the wall was lined with tall leaded windows that rose nearly to the corniced ceiling. Light streamed inside, and the wall of glass offered a stunning view of the forest beyond. In the daylight, it wasn’t so foreboding as that first night. Still, she didn’t think it was entirely her hunger that made her think the trees whispered to each other.
That washisforest. This washishouse.
They were probably whispering to him, reporting back on everything. Including her.
A prickle of unease ran up Molly’s neck at the thought.
Much as she’d loved the tavern, it was her uncle’s, and he reminded her of that whenever he could. She’d felt Brom in every panel and floorboard. Always looking over her shoulder in what was supposed to be her home made existence exhausting, and she’d promised herself life would be different when she made a home of her own.
Food first, and then, with a full belly, she was sure a better plan than making a rope of bedsheets would come to her. That new life of hers was only a few days and one good plan away.
The corridor spilled out to a shallow set of steps that led down to a landing with four doors. Holding onto the banister, Molly took the stairs a step at a time, careful not to make the floorboards groan.
Still, a loudcreakreverberated through the empty stairwell when her foot touched the landing. Cringing, Molly hurried to the first door and threw herself through the threshold.
The other side was far darker than the last corridor. Tattered curtains hung limply from grimy windows, and dust carpeted the chipped floor. A hideous wallpaper that’d once been robin’s egg blue peeled from the walls, and desiccated flowers just a breath from crumbling to nothing drooped in cracked porcelain vases.
It was an eerie space, a reminder of the family that had once lived here. Molly didn’t know much, just that whatever family had once owned Scarborough had lost it and then their lives in the bloody wars of succession that nearly tore Eirea apart. Although it’d been thirty years ago now, the scars were still present—and so were the ghosts of that time. Everyone knew Scarborough was haunted.
Holding her breath, Molly ventured deeper into the gloom to test the first door. The room inside was bright, and she couldn’t resist a closer look. The fae had obviously done work in here, and she could see why.
The first door led into a beautiful library. Rich bookcases of cherrywood were stuffed full of gilded tomes, their shelves sagging beneath the weight of the pages and bronze devices and dried up inkwells. The walls were lined in burgundy velvet wallpaper, and aplush carpet had been cleaned and laid before the stone fireplace. A set of leather armchairs had been recently oiled, the scent of it tickling her nose.
An expansive desk stood to one side, beneath a pool of light from the set of four windows on the east wall, a framed, faded map of Eirea laid out on its face. Molly peeked and found old borders still dotting through the landscape. A few books also sat on the desk, as well as abandoned papers, quills, and what looked to be a fresh crystal inkwell.
He uses this.
Pulse picking up, she hurried from the room via the nearest door. It was a small one tucked into the back of the library, leading into the adjoining room.
What she found was an empty room, dark save a single shaft of light streaming in from the drooping corner of the heavy curtains. It’d been a solar, perhaps, somewhere to meet and chat with guests. The walls had been stripped, the floors cleaned, but the emptiness of it tugged at her, filling her with dread.
The door out to the corridor opened.
Molly gasped, jumping back, and watched as…
The door opened, but—no one stood on the other side of it.
The wind,she told herself, even though she felt no breeze and nothing disturbed the curtains.
