House of Salt and Sorrows(52)

I swallowed deep and approached the heavy velvet curtains. My imagination was flooded with a barrage of gruesome images as I anticipated what I was about to find.

Moonlight poured into the room, silvery and so thick I could almost touch it. With shaking hands, I yanked one panel back, then the other, but my sisters were not there.

Movement caught my attention. A butterfly, nearly as large as my hand, clung to a windowpane. It fluttered its wings, rustling up against the glass.

A second butterfly crept out from the folds of the curtains, crawling along the toothy surface. Strange markings like tiny, leering skulls dotted the wings. A third came down. Then a fourth. I backed away from the window, and one landed on my shoulder with surprising heft. It caught in my hair, tangled and twisting. I ran my fingers through the spot, hoping to rescue it, and my hand brushed against something furry.

In disgust, I shook my hair out. The insect landed on the floor with a thud much greater than a bug should make. Leaning in to examine it, I was disgusted to find the biggest moth I’d ever seen. Its wings were tattered and powdery, and it flopped against the tiles, struggling to right itself. Six legs, muscular and writhing, squirmed with rage. Huge antennae crowned the moth’s head, just above its bulging black eyes.

“Verity?” I cried again, but there was no response. My little sister was not here, and I was beginning to think she never had been. My head felt loose and disjointed as I struggled to put together what was happening to me.

Another moth sailed in from above, landing next to the first. Backing away, I stepped on one. Feeling the wings crunch beneath my toes, I panicked and bolted from the room before any could come after me.

Daring to look back, I saw a swarm of moths, many hundreds strong, settled on the statues, the paintings, the fireplace mantel—anywhere they wanted. I charged up the stairs to the fourth floor.

“Papa! You have to wake up!” I cried, bursting into his bedroom.

From the noises coming out of the bed—its drapes blessedly closed—it was suddenly painfully obvious that Papa was not sleeping. Morella’s cries of ecstasy turned into a strangled howl of frustration.

“Go away, Annaleigh,” she commanded through gritted teeth.

“But there’s…” I trailed off. My chest felt a painful jumble of warring emotions. The terror I’d felt downstairs was momentarily drowned out by the boiling-hot acid of sheer mortification.

Bedsheets untangled with another loud sigh. Papa’s head poked out from the curtains, flushed red by exertions I never cared to think about. “What is it, child?”

“I can’t find Verity, and there are moths. Hundreds of them. All over the gallery.”

There was a long moment of silence. I tried not to imagine what had been going on before I stormed in, but I couldn’t erase the sounds from my head. A hand pushed aside the curtains, and Papa pulled a robe off the bedpost, muttering something I couldn’t hear. I saw a quick flash of Morella’s white body before he drew the curtains shut around her.

“Show me,” he ordered, tying a knot in place.

His face was terrifyingly stern as we reached the main floor. I stopped outside the doors of the gallery, too frightened to go in. I couldn’t bear to see their furry bodies crawling over everything.

“Annaleigh, explain yourself.”

I dared to peek in. The gallery was empty. Papa turned on several of the gas lamps, looking for evidence of the swarm, but there was nothing.

“I don’t understand.” I shook out the drapes. Perhaps some had hidden away in the folds. “They were here. Everywhere. I stepped on one right there.”

I crossed to the fireplace. Had they all flown up the flue and clung to the darkened bricks like bats in a cave? I looked up, certain I would be attacked by large, moldering wings.

It was clean.

Papa stared out the window, limned by moonlight. Waves of tangible fury radiated from him. “This wasn’t funny, Annaleigh.”

“But, Papa, they really were—”

“I know you older girls are not keen on my relationship with Morella, but she is my wife, and I will not have you interrupting our nights like this again.”

My mouth dropped open. Did he really believe this was a mean-spirited prank? “That wasn’t what— I didn’t even know you were…” I stopped, my cheeks burning. No amount of remorse could make me finish that sentence.

“Go to bed, Annaleigh.”

“But Verity—”

“Verity is asleep in her room. We’ll deal with this when I return from Vasa.” I opened my mouth to protest, but he immediately cut me off. “Not another word.”

I trudged out of the room when it became clear he wasn’t going to listen to me any longer. He crossed to the foyer, taking the long way up to avoid me. My stomach twisted as I watched him go.

What had just happened? First Verity and Eulalie, then the moths. I paused at the foot of the stairs, then turned and went back to the gallery, certain I’d find it crawling with the flying monsters.

It was empty.

I left, rubbing my temple and feeling not altogether there. I’d never been prone to sleepwalking before, but perhaps I’d dreamt the nightmare up.

But it had felt so real.

Elizabeth had spoken of seeing ghastly things before she took her fateful bath. Shadows that weren’t there. Omens in tea leaves. She once spent a whole afternoon trapped in her room, too frightened to leave because she’d seen an owl fly by in broad daylight and claimed it was a sign foreshadowing death. Servants whispered she’d gone mad.