Total pages in book: 116
Estimated words: 109878 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 549(@200wpm)___ 440(@250wpm)___ 366(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 109878 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 549(@200wpm)___ 440(@250wpm)___ 366(@300wpm)
Stained glass windows line the stairwell, each one telling part of a story I can’t quite piece together. There’s a woman with long hair climbing a tower, a man in a boat surrounded by sirens, another woman dancing with a beast. The colored light they cast paints everything in jewel tones—emerald and sapphire and deep ruby red.
I start down the stairs, my hand trailing along the banister for support. The metal is cool under my palm, and I can feel the intricate details of the roses carved into it. Some of them have thorns sharp enough to draw blood if you’re not careful.
Halfway down, the staircase opens onto the main floor, and I get my first real look at the heart of Maison Rouge.
The entry hall is enormous, its ceiling soaring up three stories to a dome painted with scenes from fairy tales. The floor is a mosaic of black-and-white marble arranged in intricate patterns that seem to shift and change as I move. Probably a result of being so overwhelmed, overstimulated, and still drugged as fuck. A massive chandelier hangs from the center of the dome, its crystal drops catching the colored light from the stained glass and throwing rainbows across the walls.
Furniture fills the space—not the kind you’d expect to see in a normal house, but pieces that would be in a palace. There’s a grandfather clock that’s easily ten feet tall, its face showing not just the time but the phases of the moon. Tapestries hang from the walls, their threads telling stories of knights and dragons and ladies in towers. A piano sits in one corner, its ebony surface gleaming under the chandelier light.
But it’s the portraits that make me stop and stare. They line the walls between the tapestries—dozens of them, all women, all beautiful, all wearing visible emotions that range from joy to terror. Some are painted in a classical style, others look more modern, but they all have one thing in common: They’re all staring directly at whoever’s looking at them.
There’s something unsettling about the collection, something that makes my skin crawl even though I can’t put my finger on what it is.
“Quite a gallery,” Wren says from behind me.
I spin around, my mind racing. She’s followed me down the stairs with the silent grace of a cat.
Wren moves past me toward the front door, her keys jingling softly. She reaches the door and turns the key in the lock with a decisive click.
I’m frozen on the stairs, staring at dozens of painted eyes that seem to watch my every move while the housekeeper locks me in with them. This isn’t real. This can’t be real.
But the lock clicks shut with finality, and Wren is walking back toward me with the same pleasant smile she’s worn since I woke up in a trunk. “Now then,” she says, “shall we go back upstairs? I have a lovely dinner planned, and Blue should be home soon.”
That breaks the spell. I bolt.
I run toward what I hope is a back door. The entry hall branches off into smaller rooms—a library with books stretching floor to ceiling, a dining room with a table that could seat twenty, a parlor with ornate furniture . . . palace-type furniture.
I find a door that leads to the kitchen, all gleaming copper and modern appliances that look strangely out of place in the gothic manor. Another door leads to a small pantry. A third opens onto a narrow staircase that probably goes to the servants’ quarters.
Finally, I find what I’m looking for—a door with glass panels that shows trees and sky beyond. I grab the handle and pull, expecting it to be locked, but it opens easily.
The evening air hits my skin like a slap, cold and harsh with the trace of pine and ocean salt. I’m standing on a stone terrace that overlooks the most beautiful and terrifying landscape I’ve ever seen.
Maison Rouge sits on a cliff overlooking the Pacific, the ocean stretching to the horizon where it meets a sky painted in shades of purple and gold. The house itself is even more imposing from the outside—all towers and turrets and complex stonework that makes it look like something out of a fairy tale. Gothic windows climb the walls, their arched frames decorated with filagree and ivy.
Gardens spread out below the terrace in descending levels, each one more magnificent than the last. There are fountains and statues, hedges trimmed into fantastic shapes, and flowers in colors I don’t have names for. Stone paths wind between them, disappearing into groves of trees that look massive and wild.
And surrounding it all is a wall.
Not just any wall—this one is at least twelve feet high, topped with iron spikes and built from the same dark stone as the house. It stretches as far as I can see in both directions, disappearing into the forest that surrounds the estate.