House of Salt and Sorrows(42)

We stared out over the forest, trying to spot the pack, but there were too many shadows.

His fingertips brushed against the back of my hand, no more than a whispered question, sending a dance of shivers down my spine. When I glanced up, I saw Cassius looking at me, but it was too dark to see the intent in his eyes. For a moment, the world seemed to be willing us closer and closer together. I felt his breath on my cheek and knew if I took one small step toward him, he would kiss me.

“Do you want to know what my biggest regret tonight will be, pretty Annaleigh?” he murmured, his lips brushing the skin of my temple.

Every fiber in my being was paused on tiptoe, aching for him to bridge the gap between us. My tongue felt too tied up to properly answer, and as his hand slipped over mine, I thought my heart would shatter with happiness.

“If I don’t spend the rest of this ball with you on the dance floor.”

He gently tugged me back inside, toward the ballroom. As a new waltz began, I suddenly remembered Cassius had never actually answered my question about what he was doing there.





I woke up screaming and fighting to free myself from tangled sheets.

Blinking against the early-afternoon light pushing in through half-closed curtains, I struggled to sit up, feeling sick and ready to vomit. My stomach lurched. The sheets were soaked in sweat, and my nightgown clung to me like a clammy shroud. A sour funk permeated the room, coating my mouth and choking me. I stumbled to the windows and pressed my flushed cheeks to the cold glass panes, gulping in the salty breeze and slowly coming back to myself.

It was the third night in a row I’d had the nightmare.

After returning from our night in Pelage, sneaking back into Highmoor just before the kitchen staff woke, I managed to stay awake until breakfast, then collapsed in an exhausted stupor. While I slept, Camille and the triplets returned to the Grotto, seeking invitations for the next ball. And the next ball. And the one after that.

We’d gone dancing every night for a week.

Not all of us, though. The Graces couldn’t stay up so late. They had lessons with Berta, and she’d fretted over the dark circles under their eyes, worrying Hanna and Morella. They stayed behind, quite grumpily, while the rest of us primped and powdered, dressing for whatever the night’s theme was in Mama’s gowns. Cobbler Gerver’s claims of the fairy shoes lasting for a whole season were wildly exaggerated. After a week of dancing, the stitching was unraveling and the soles were worn bare. We were forced to squeeze our big toes into Mama’s golden slippers and sandals. The aged leather frayed even faster, and stacks of spent shoes grew beneath our beds.

I found the dances great fun at first, seeing new places, meeting new people. A thrill raced down my spine as I stepped into a new ballroom, hoping Cassius would be there. But he never was, and the sleepless nights were catching up with me. I slept in later and later, but my slumber was interrupted by strange dreams, extensions of the dances themselves.

They always started normally enough, with gorgeous dresses in beautiful halls. A handsome man would emerge from the crowd and hold out his hand.

“Dance with me?” he’d ask, and we’d be off, twirling through a series of steps.

But as the dream wore on, the music would take on a different pitch, the notes turning flat and sour. We’d spin around again and again, and a strange light would appear, tinting the room sickly and greenish. No one but me ever seemed to notice. The crowds just kept on dancing. No one ever stopped.

I’d try to, forcing myself to lose momentum, begging my partner for a reprieve, but my feet would never listen. They’d continue following his steps, no matter what I did.

“Dance with me,” my partner would plead, but the voice never matched his body. It was raspy and harsh, as though multiple voices spoke the words, wanting to blend into one but not completely synced.

I’d shake my head, backing away. This wasn’t right. Something was terribly wrong. I wanted to leave the dance floor now—right now—and that’s when she’d grab me.

Her skin was pale and mottled, like a mushroom grown too large and soft. Black hair swirled about her, tangling in her layers of gray chiffon, weightless and writhing. Worst of all were her eyes, dark as night, hostile, and shedding pitch-black tears. They ran down her face, leaving behind oily tracks that dripped to her bare gray feet. Sharp, pointed teeth winked from a sly grin as she pulled me closer.

“Dance with me,” the Weeping Woman would whisper, and I’d wake up, gasping for air.

“Don’t tell me you’re still in your nightgown,” Hanna said, bustling into my room. She carried a basket of mending and set it down with a whoosh of breath.

“I had a bad night.”

“You and everyone else, it seems. Camille is still asleep. Short of stomping into her room with a pair of brass cymbals, I’m not sure how to wake her.” She turned to my bureau, sorting stockings from the basket.

I flexed my aching feet back and forth. I’d broken my last pair of Mama’s slippers and could feel hot blisters on the side of my little toes. We needed new shoes.

“Your father is coming home today,” Hanna continued.

“Today?” I brightened. Perhaps he’d arrive back from court in high spirits and I could finally tell him all I’d learned about Eulalie’s final night.

“Madame Morella received a letter after supper yesterday. She’s been up for hours, waltzing about the house and singing the news to anyone who will listen.” She sighed. “And if I have to hear about those babies one more time…Do you really think they’re boys?”