She continued to the door at the end of the hall and opened it. As before, the staircase spiraled around both up and down from here, only this time there were no lights burning overhead. Everything beyond the reach of her oil lamp was in darkness.
She took the stairs down, listening hard for the sounds of doors anywhere else in the manor opening or slamming shut, but there was nothing. The silence was complete, except for the noise of her footsteps moving down the wooden stairs.
At the bottom was the same small landing with the heavy wooden door. It was the only option, unless she wanted to turn around and go back up the stairs.
No, whatever was here was behind this door, she was sure.
She reached out and pulled the handle, but as before the door was stuck fast, without the slightest hint of give. She set the oil lamp and the mask she still carried down and tried with two hands, putting all her strength into it, but it still didn’t budge.
Celia stepped back, trying to think of something, anything that she could try.
Her heel brushed up against the oil lamp, setting it rocking. In a near panic, she reached down and grabbed it, stabilizing it before it had a chance to tip over. As she did, she saw the mask lying on the ground.
Without conscious thought she had set it face down. Now, as she looked at it, she noticed that she could see the floor through the spots where eye holes would be, if the mask had any. It was dim, not as clearly lit as the rest of the floor was by the light of the oil lamp, but it was there nonetheless.
She frowned and picked it up. Turning it around, it was still featureless and pristine white, almost shining in the gloom. When she turned it around the other way, she could see a vague outline of the stairway.
The sight made her uneasy and she felt a queasiness in the pit of her stomach. Well, that wasn’t unusual when dealing with whatever was going on in Dunfield.
She turned back to the door. The view of it grew clearer through the mask, and she swore she saw it move a fraction of an inch.
Moving forward, she brought the mask closer to her face. The memory of the stinking slime and the white worms within it returned and she almost retched, but she fought off her disgust.
Yes, the door definitely moved.
She forced herself to put the mask up to her face.
She could see the door clearly, as if it were in the bright light of day. She reached out and touched the handle and the door swung open.
Then, something moved on her face. It was a soft, tickling sensation, like something lightly brushing her cheek. It was immediately followed by what felt like a sheen of moisture on her brow which she knew it wasn’t her own sweat.
With a cry, she ripped the mask from her face. For a brief moment it stuck, and a scream escaped her before she pulled it away. It might have been her imagination, but she thought she saw a thin, wriggling tube-like… something… pull back into the material of the mask itself.
She wiped her hand across her forehead, feeling the moisture there, but now it very well might have come from her.
She dropped the mask and reached up, pinching her cheeks. Her face felt numb for a second, then tingled and she could feel her fingers working across it.
The door swung shut with a boom.
Chapter 63
What was her problem? Jocasta stared in the direction Shireen had run off. Jamshir still stood in the hallway, tears streaming down his face as he stared at the dead thing at her feet.
“What was this thing?” she yelled.
“I told you!” Jamshir screamed back. “It was one of my statues! Why did you kill it?”
Apparently, the one-time ruler of the Greenweald— Jocasta couldn’t even realistically consider him as such anymore— was so far gone into madness that he didn’t even see the problem with a statue that came to life and then turned to hard-caked dirt when it was killed.
“All right.” She took a deep breath, raising her hands to rub at her temples. Her headache still remained, although it did seem to be receding. “Let’s try this again. If this was a statue, why was it moving?”
Jamshir stopped crying and moved closer. “Why wouldn’t it?” he asked, as if it was her question that was unreasonable. “They all do, when it’s getting dark outside and then again when it’s getting light.”
“And you don’t find that strange?”
“Strange? Of course, it’s strange. That’s why it’s so wonderful! Who else has such things? It’s only fitting that they were only given to me.”
Jocasta nodded. Now they were getting somewhere.
“And who gave you such a gift?”
“Ah…” Jamshir’s tone changed, became sly, his voice barely above a whisper. “I can’t tell you.” Then he burst out into his annoying high-pitched giggle.
“The secret House, right? The same ones who helped you bring in those Soul Gaunts.”
“What secret House? I’ve never heard of such a thing.” Jamshir was like a small child telling a lie and not being able to pull it off. He exaggerated his words, his eyes roamed around the hallway, never lingering on the dead thing on the floor.
“Have it your way.”
The main tree of Glittering Birch was huge, with hallways and rooms spreading off into all different directions over several floors. Jamshir only took her to the room with the statues one time, but that was enough. Jocasta had navigated her way through uncharted seas,
