PAST - Catherine

  Catherine’s father told stories with the slow roll of brandy on his tongue. Paint clinging to his tunic in earthy streaks, its scent thick with oil and time. His voice wrapped around her like a thick woolen blanket, tucking her in as much as his hands ever did. In the glow of the lamplight, his worlds danced in the shadows, their colors richer for the brandy, their edges softened by sleep. Catherine would bury her nose into his chest and be soothed to dreams by the gentle rumbling in his chest.

  For all his stories over the years, none ended like this.

  Catherine’s feet dragged through shale, its wicked edges drinking deep. A calloused hand clenched close to her scalp, pulling her along as if she weighed nothing at all. Blood-slick fingers slipped from his arm as she tried to force him off. Ink, like a black snake, wrapped around his forearm and was caught in the moonlight.

  Sweat and pipe-weed—a thick, sour odor—choked her nostrils. The man grunted through his ruined lungs. She reached for something, anything, to take the pressure off her hair, but there was only the jagged ravine. Every step flayed open another eager gash, willingly feeding the thirsting rock below.

  Screams lodged deep within her, unable to wrest free. She gasped for air, drowning in her own fear. Like the earth beneath her, no matter how she gulped, she could never satisfy the need for more.

  A faraway light flickered in the wood above the ravine, and her heart lurched, battering against her ribs, desperate to free itself.

  Then hands. More of them. She was hoisted up like a hog at slaughter, her arms wrenched in another’s grip. She scratched at the earth, and a fist cracked across her jaw.

  Dizzy. Another strike.

  The impact cracked through her skull first. Then cold. A deep, gnawing cold that bit through the thin fabric of her dress, settling into her skin. The air was frigid, full of wet stone and decay. She opened her eyes, but the she could only make out smeared shapes. A door. A room. A prison.

  Things began to clear as she steadied herself. In the corner, there were two buckets and a pile of straw soured with rot. Light spilled from above, where a window, caged in iron, let in a sliver of moon.

  She pressed her hands to the stone, willing herself upright. An unfamiliar weight dragged her back down. Her arms gave out, and her cheek slammed into the floor with a smack. Pain rushed over her face as she fingered a bruise on her jaw.

  Where was she?

  Pushing against the creases of the stone, she began to crawl toward the straw. It stank of decay, but its warmth was welcome. She reached for the bucket and gave it a weak shake. A slosh. Water.

  The first swallow was a knife in her throat. The second was worse. But the thirst demanded more, so she kept drinking.

  When the bucket was empty, she sat in the stillness and took in her surroundings with a clearer mind. This was no simple dungeon. It was a holding cell, above ground. Catherine tapped at the tender bald spot on top of her head, a drought for the liquid obsidian that was her hair.

  She was alive. That meant something.

  Then, boots thudding on the dungeon floor.

  Hastened footsteps sounded down the corridor on the other side of the door. A small glinting light crawled along the walls through the tiny window. Catherine could see it, just barely, and she knew her answers were coming with it.

  She stiffened as the steps stopped dead in front of her cell.

  Catherine pushed herself upright, backing herself quickly against the wall, her hands clenching into fists at her sides. The lock let out a clanking groan. A series of clicks followed—deep, mechanical, gears shifting apart. The scrape of old metal dragged through the air as something heavy slid free. The door swung open.

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  And the giant stepped inside, looking all the more uncomfortable for it. Catherine’s heart fluttered in her throat.

  Focus. Remember. You’re alive. That means something. It means something.

  She was tall. The sort of height that kept her looking down on others. She draped in flowing violet, the fabric just shy of pooling at her feet. Her skin bore the texture of parchment left too long in the sun, stretched and worn, the sharp ridges of her face pulled even tighter by the severe knot of silver hair at her crown. But it was the sash that stood out, a bold cut of cerulean—no, not quite that fine— slashing across her chest, a potentially valuable piece of cloth. If Catherine hadn’t seen it for the mimicry it was.

  The giantess’ expression remained impassive, thin lips pursed in permanence, in arrogance. But her presence was the largest thing about her.

  She was a servant playing at being more.

  Catherine knew her type all too well. The people given a little responsibility over others, an orderly among the rabble, keeping the rest firmly pressing onward under the master’s heel. Cruelty and self-service ran in their blood and Catherine knew just how to press the right nerves.

  “You will stand, now.” The withered creature said.

  Catherine jumped at the forcefulness of the words. With all the grace of a newborn deer, Catherine rose to her feet, enduring the sharpness in her now clotting cuts. Her words were icier than the floor.

  “Catherine Holly-Rose Pergrace, your ladyship.” Catherine responded politely, followed by a weak curtsy. The wisdom of her father rang out in her mind, above all else, my sweet girl, he would say, remember, lies are unbecoming of ladies and flattery is more easily swallowed anyway.

  “Bah! I am no lady, Ms. Pergrace. However, I do appreciate your eye for refinement, even in circumstances such as these.” The woman sounded as if she were grinning, but Catherine kept her head down, where it belonged. "I am Lucia Decallanour and all you need know is that I am Manor-Mother to Duke Gaelin Renault, Guardian of the Western Rivers, Caretaker of Stoneheart Forest, and Lord of Heartsteel."

  Stoneheart. Forest. No, that couldn’t be right. Dukes didn’t—his lordship wouldn’t have her abducted, surely.

  "You will say nothing unless I tell you to."

  Her gaze moved over Catherine, taking her apart piece by piece, weighing her worth before she had a chance to prove it.

  "You will look at no one unless asked to." Her shoulders straightened back. "And you will obey every command I give you," she said, each syllable smooth and effortless, shaped from something absolute. “If you want to live out the night."

  Live? No. A mistake. One she would correct herself.

  “Come, we mustn’t keep his lordship waiting a moment more. He is quite eager to speak with you.”

  Lucia led Catherine through a short hallway to the exit of the dungeon. Then, they hurried across a small courtyard at the back to the nearest manor entrance. The massive cherry-mahogany portal swung open seemingly on its own and they pressed onward. Catherine kept her eyes down as commanded.

  “Thank you, William. Take this, would you, dear?” Lucia said sweetly, the light of the torch fading for something smaller as they went on their way. Catherine did not see the one called William, but felt his presence.

  Calm. Focus. She would follow the orders and move. That’s all.

  The bland gray stone that had paved the entirety of the dungeons and courtyard turned into exquisite deep silver marble with flourishing runs of bright whites and deep blacks throughout. Its fabulous sheen was a testament to the wealth of the Duke and the prosperity of those with stake in Stoneheart Wood.

  For a moment, Catherine forgot her circumstance in awe of the artisan moldings that decorated the base of the walls, they must’ve been painstakingly hand carved. In truth, she longed to see more of her lavish surroundings, but she kept her eyes down, as instructed.

  Lucia wasted no time in leading them to their destination. The interior of the manor was not at all what Catherine expected of a noble’s home, especially one so well-known as the Duke of Heartsteel.

  What was strange about the estate-center wasn’t the lack of extravagance for Catherine had only seen but a portion of it. Rather, the strangeness was in the lack of noise. There were no footsteps, save her own and the Manor-Mother’s. There were no voices, no echoes, no movements. The manor welcomed them in silence.

  After crossing the length of a commoner’s home just through the foyer, the pair made a left turn down a long, narrow, dark hallway. They passed a set of doors on either side and came upon a second set. Lucia turned to the door on the right and paused.

  “Look at me,” she commanded.

  Catherine did so, stomach turning at the sudden eye contact. The Manor-Mother’s features had softened considerably, but there was no question to the seriousness of her words.

  “Sweet girl, you are quite the looker.” The old woman seemed to be recalling her youth as she brushed some of Catherine’s matted hair from her cheek. “You will enter this room. You will do exactly as you have done with me. You will obey. If you do this, you will live. The rest I leave to you, young one. Now, go, you are already late.”

  Again. Live?

  Lucia twisted the brass handle in the center of the room’s door and pushed it open. Catherine returned her eyes to the floor and entered the room. The roar of flames could be heard several feet in front of her. Its cracking was the first real sound she had heard within the walls. An audible thunk echoed behind as Manor-Mother Lucia Decallanor shut the door promptly. Catherine’s shoulders tensed around her neck.

  “Ah! How stupendous! Come in, come in!” Welcomed a solid, melodic voice. “And forget that nonsense about staring at the marble, I know Luci can be a bit melodramatic.”

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