There was still no answer or movement.
She moved around the chair and confirmed what she suspected. The man was long dead. His skin was gray and dry, and drawn into the bones of his face. His eyes were mostly gone, sunken in so far as to be almost invisible, and his lips pulled back from brown teeth.
He had been a short, stocky man in life, and his clothes, although musty and threadbare now, had been fine at one time.
Celia suspected that this was the Minister that Friedrich and Greta told her about. If the position really had become hereditary, the line ended here.
“I am sorry.” Even as a whisper her voice sounded loud in the room. It was a small decency. She didn’t know him, but her friends said he was a good man, and he deserved better than sitting alone in this place.
She sighed and was about to turn and leave, to search for another way out, when she heard the whistle. It came from the hallway that led to the stairs and was getting louder, a disjointed tune that kept stopping and then starting over.
There were no other exits from this room. She could hide under the bed, or in the large wardrobe, but what good would it do? Whoever opened the door downstairs knew she was in here. They were probably watching her.
The only thing to do was fight. It was one whistle, and she’d already shown she could put one of the hunters down. Let her get past this one, and then she’d worry about any others.
She moved to the bed and grabbed one of the posts holding the canopy. A sudden jerk snapped it off with a loud crack. The whistle hesitated for a moment, then started up again, still becoming louder.
Celia ripped the corner of the canopy from her club and hefted it. It was too large and unwieldy, but in a pinch, like now, it would work. One good shot should take care of the hunter. And while her makeshift weapon was too long to swing in the hallway, she could use it to charge into one of them, like a heavy, dull spear.
The whistle was right outside the doorway when it stopped. Celia stood motionless, muscles tensed, ready to swing.
Around the corner came a small figure, dressed completely in shocking pink. Blonde hair was twisted into spikes that stuck out in all directions from her head. And on her face was a featureless white mask.
“Lyssa,” Celia said, feeling her heart break.
She was there when the girl was taken and had seen her expressionless face watch as she ran away. But inside she had still hoped that she would find the girl, alive and unharmed, and bring her home to her parents.
The girl didn’t move. Even without eyeholes, Celia felt she was being watched. She moved slowly to her right and the girl tracked her. The same when she moved back the other way.
“Lyssa? Do you want to go home?”
There was no response. On the other hand, there was no move to attack either.
“Come with me. We’ll get out of here together and go see your Mom and Dad.”
Still nothing.
Celia lowered her club and moved closer. She honestly didn’t know if she could bring herself to use it on the girl or not, but she wasn’t ready to let it go quite yet.
Lyssa still didn’t move beyond turning her head to keep Celia in sight.
“Are you ready to go?” She kept her voice calm, trying to soothe the girl.
When she was in front of her, she reached down with her left hand, keeping the bedpost in her right, allowing the end to drop to the floor. Lyssa didn’t object when she took her hand and started moving to the door. She turned and allowed herself to be led.
Celia tried not to hurry, but she had the sense that whoever set all this up was only toying with her. Letting her take the girl a certain way, and then the other doors would all open and the rest of the hunters would appear. In their bright colors and white masks, with bodies that felt like old wood and long arms that could wrap around you and—
“Stop it,” she ordered herself. This wasn’t helping, and it wasn’t going to help Lyssa.
She made it back to the stairs, the little girl walking sedately next to her, the white mask turned up to watch her rather than where they were going. Down the two flights and back to the first floor.
All along the hallway, the girl walked with her.
But when she tried to enter the front room, Lyssa balked. Celia tightened her grip on the girl’s hand and pulled gently. Reluctantly, the child followed. Then, she balked again, planting her feet and pulling back.
Celia either needed to drop her club or lose the girl. She threw the bedpost as far as she could into the dark front room and grabbed Lyssa with both hands. Lyssa reared back, but Celia caught her around the waist and lifted.
When she stepped over the threshold, Lyssa went berserk. A piercing whistle came from the mask and she started to twist, squirm and lash out. Her fist caught Celia on the end of the nose, which made her eyes water. A foot into her stomach, followed by a knee.
Lyssa was stronger than any girl her age had any right to be, even one of the Folk. She pummeled Celia, kicking, punching and head-butting until Celia had to let her go.
She dropped the girl, who immediately scrambled away, sprinted back into the hallway and to the stairs. Celia watched in misery as Lyssa disappeared back to the upper levels of the manor.
“Damn it.”
Behind her, for the second time in this very same room, there was the sound
