A creak from the floorboards above startled her, and she did her best not to cry out. Merrilee. She needed to check on Merrilee.
Slowly she took the stairs one at a time, her knuckles growing white from gripping the banister as she went. Above her, the second-floor landing was lit only by the radiance of the moon cascading through the picture window, and the house was so quiet that she could hear her own breathing echoed back to her by the walls above.
She took the last step and pulled herself up onto the landing. The moonlight illuminated about a quarter of the hallway, but gradually the darkness took over until it seemed to consume the length of it. Nearly frozen, Rowan peered down into the shadows to the far end of the house where her mother’s old room lay. She moved slowly, running her fingers along the walls, careful to keep her feet silent as she went. She watched her fingers disappear as she moved out of the moonlight and into the darkness, and from then on she was guided only by memory, and by the lines of light beneath each wooden door. When she reached Antonia’s old room, where Merrilee slept, she caught her breath and opened the door as silently as she could. Light streamed in through the window and kissed the sleeping child, who was curled up on the bed like a tiny animal. Rowan breathed a sigh of relief.
Turning, she pulled the door closed behind her, and then let her attention fall to her mother’s old room, where the duke was staying, and again she felt uneasy.
She crept across the hall to his door, and quietly she opened it and stepped into the bedchamber. Unsure what exactly it was she sought, she looked around for anything that might stand out. Reaching for the matches over the fireplace, she lit a mounted sconce, and a warm, quivering light flooded the room and danced upon the walls. The chamber was neatly kept, the bed expertly made. Oddly, though, his personal belongings were nowhere to be seen. It was as if no one was occupying the space at all. She tried the closet door but found it locked. Remembering that Emily kept keys in the top drawer of the dresser in each room, she gently pulled the drawer open, but inside she found nothing.
Rowan leaned against the wall and swept her eyes over the room once more. If the duke had the key on him, then she was out of luck, but perhaps he’d hidden it. If she were going to hide a key somewhere, she wondered, where would she hide it? She scanned the space again, and then they alighted on the wooden bedposts. Rowan grew very still as she stared at the round wooden finials. They looked like … eggs—like wooden eggs. In her dream, her mother held one of those wooden eggs in her hand. But if the witches were right, then those dreams weren’t really dreams; they were memories. And if it was a memory, then that meant that those finials could be removed. Could there be space inside them large enough to fit a key?
Hesitant, her heart beating wildly within her chest, she took a step toward the bed. With shaking hands, she reached out and began twisting the round finial nearest the window, near where the light had streamed in in her dream. It gave way easily, and she turned it until it came loose from the post.
Her heart gave a start as she realized what this must mean. The witches were right. It was true—she had known her mother. Her mother had held her and loved her, and Rowan remembered it all. The dream wasn’t just a dream; it was a memory. She fought back tears of joy as she thought of it. Carefully removing the wooden egg, she reached inside the post. It was a space definitely large enough to hide a key. She let out a joyful gasp, overwhelmed by what this meant, and then her fingers brushed against something metal. The key.
Smiling, she pulled it out and headed to the closet. She slipped the key into the lock and turned it, and the door eased open to reveal a most unexpected sight. Three trunks lined the base of the closet, their lids shut and padlocked, but the shelves, instead of being filled with clothing, were hidden by lengths of thick black velvet cloth. With a shaking hand, she reached up and pulled off one cloth, and then another, and another, and behind each gleamed mass of sparkling silver after mass of sparkling silver. Strewn along every surface—forks, knives, spoons, serving implements, dashed together carelessly, and at the center of the mess was a large silver bowl. Rowan found herself stepping away, clutching at her chest as the meaning hit her.
It was him. All along it was him. Although she’d had moments when he’d made her feel odd, she’d never suspected he could be the Greywitch. She’d assumed that all witches were female, but apparently she’d been wrong.
The light from the dancing candle seemed to animate the glittering mass of silver, sending it into a rapturous dance, and even as her gut cinched in upon itself, she found herself reaching out for the riches. But just before her fingers grazed a gleaming chalice, she came to her senses and jerked her hand away.
She needed to get out of there. If the duke found out what she’d discovered, they’d all be in terrible and immediate danger. She tossed the cloths back over the silver and locked the door.
She stole back to the bedpost, but when she shoved the key down inside, she felt it hit something. She pinched whatever it was with her fingers, pulled it out, and replaced the key.
At first when she pulled it out and stared at it, she didn’t understand what she saw. It was twine—yellow twine—twisted and frayed. And then it was upon her, and her knees nearly gave way.
The golden snake. It had been her mother’s marriage twine, but why was it in the bedpost? Why had her mother removed it? She thought about the golden snake, the way it had cut into her mother’s flesh, and then suddenly she remembered her mother’s belly, swollen, about to burst, the skin of her wrist swelling along with it. As her second pregnancy had progressed, the twine must have cut into her wrist, so she had removed it. Rowan had heard that that happened sometimes, and in such cases, arrangements could be made, the elders could be consulted, and the twine could be replaced. But her mother hadn’t consulted anyone—hadn’t sought anyone’s approval. She had simply slipped a knife blade between her skin and the bracelet, and severed it, freeing her flesh, freeing herself.
Just then, she heard the front door open, and she was jerked back to the present. Quickly, she replaced the twine in the bedpost and secured the finial atop it. And after extinguishing the candle, she closed the door silently behind her and hurried downstairs.
Rowan found her father in the hallway, brushing the snow off his boots. Her first instinct was to run to him, to press her face to his chest and cry, for standing there, he seemed the very image of safety, and yet she knew that was all it was—an illusion of safety. He was mixed up in this somehow; she was certain.
“Goi Tate is dead,” she said to him, and he nodded, grief carving its way along his lined face.
“I’ve heard. I met Jude and the duke on the path just now. Tragic.”
Walking past her, he continued down the hall and into his study, but Rowan followed, anger rising in her chest. He took a seat behind his desk, and Rowan approached him.
“I’ve been to see Mama Tetri. She … she told me things. Things I couldn’t believe. Things about my mother. Things about my sister.”
Henry Rose opened his mouth to speak, and for a moment, time seemed to be suspended, and in his eyes, Rowan could see him trying to decide what to do. He furrowed his brows, angry, but then he shook his head, and his cheeks flushed.
“You know,” he sighed, and grasping his hands in his lap, he shut his eyes tight as if to block out the truth.