Page 112 of A Weave of Lies
Only the soft click of the door closing one second too late told her he had heard her.
Chapter 25
Semrasretracedherstepsas fast as she dared to.
The plan had failed. Time to fall back on the previous one. She’d castigate herself later for foolishly counting on an inquisitor again. For now, the west wing awaited.
Minutes later, Semras stood in front of its door. Carved out of dark walnut wood, it looked almost too … ordinary for what she hoped lay beyond: a sister witch—Nimue.
What else could the monster keep away from the world other than his mistress and his child? He had lied about everything; Semras didn’t doubt he had also lied about his relationship with the seeress. But whether the other witch supported him or was just another one of his victims remained to be seen.
Semras pushed the door open. Beyond, a short corridor of doors and thin leaded windows lay before her. Through the glass panes, the view of a back courtyard caught her attention.
Outside, the afternoon sun shone on the glistening waters of an artificial pond. A few willow trees grew around it, their slumping branches of yellow leaves grazing the pond tothe rhythm of the wind, sending ripples coursing through its surface.
The world out there looked peaceful, but the hustle of the city replaced the songs of birds the witch was used to, and walls of stone cut off the horizon instead of the undergrowth of her beloved forests. Everything inside and outside was artificial. Even freedom.
Semras ripped herself from the view and fled through the first door of the corridor.
She walked into a small space far less opulent than the rest of the mansion, where natural wood and hand-woven tapestries dominated. Something in its plain plastered walls and low pine ceiling felt like a cozy, warm home. A true witch abode—albeit one with means far above her own.
Rows and rows of canvas hung everywhere. Potted plants stood next to easels, and long-dried colour palettes lay forgotten on a worktable. Pushed to the side haphazardly, the painting studio took only part of the living space; furniture better fit for a parlour stood on the other half.
Semras toured the room cautiously, keeping an eye on the back where a door connected this room to the next one.
Multiple paintings adorned the walls—scenes of fights and fire and shadows brought to vision in broad strokes like dreams made of paint. The style reminded her of the ripped-up portrait she had found in the monster’s study.
On the worktable lay papers splashed with even more colours. Upon further examination, Semras found other painted scenes there.
There must have been a little less than half a dozen drawings, all sketches thrown rapidly on scraps of canvas. One showed the silhouette of a black-haired woman running into a forest. Another two featured two blondes, each with a different fate: one woman had her throat slit, while the other burned at a pyre.
The fourth paper made Semras shiver. On it, the silhouette of a brown-haired woman was curling up in a room far too similar to her own, her face emaciated. Self-starvation had taken her life, if the plates of food scattered around her were anything to go by.
With growing horror, Semras examined each drawing one after the other, then looked to the side, searching for more—and found them. Eyes roving over the paintings, she studied them all, her breath hitching each time she discovered a new one.
There were so many.
They all depicted women—witches, no doubt—fleeing, dead, or executed. An uncertain hand had written at the top corner their name and Coven. Next to them, she saw the monster’s handwriting display the same, repetitive message:‘Not this one.’
It horrified her.
Her captor had said Nimue was a seeress—she had painted the fates awaiting whoever he could have brought back here instead of her.
A growing sense of trepidation and urgency took hold of her. Semras spilled the drawings everywhere, shuffling in search of the most important one: her own.
What was drawn on it? What was her fate? What did the monster intend for—?
“You won’t find it here,” said a voice with a thick Freran accent.
Semras jumped out of her skin. Behind her, a blond woman had appeared at the door connecting this room to the next one. She hadn’t even heard it open.
Draped in a yellow silk dress and cradling a newborn in her arms, Nimue leaned against the doorway. Blonde, pale-skinned, with a delicate quality to her frame and soft, green moss eyes, she looked beautiful in a pleasant and ethereal way, like the warmth of the sun after a cold draft of wind. The blood of the Fair Folk ran strong in her veins.
The child in her arms stirred and cooed, then started bawling. Dropping her head toward him, Nimue soothed her child with shushing noises. Her eyes lacked focus—white clouds covered them, partially blinding her.
Semras felt a wave of pity for her. The Arras must have looked diminished and darkened for the seeress.
A witch without sight was a sad thing to behold. Weaving required both eyes and fingers, and losing any—or worse, both—had driven many witches to a tragic end. Semras knew how much she mourned her own hands, even in their temporary binds.
