What Lies Beyond the Veil (Of Flesh & Bone, #1)(3)

"Tomorrow," I agreed, hating the words the moment they left my mouth. I wanted nothing more than to tell him to tend to his wife's health instead of spending his time with me, but I kept my mouth shut and turned back to the twilight berry bushes.

Because duty came first.





2





The luminescence of the Veil came with the setting of the sun and with it my inability to sleep. Gleaming in the moonlight, it drew me toward the window of my small, cramped bedroom until my breath fogged the glass. My father’s last words rang in my head as they always did, calling me to the freedom of the night and the temptation of what might wait for me outside this miserable village.

Fly free, Little Bird.

I curled my threadbare quilt tighter around my shoulders, attempting to chase away the chill as the late autumn air filtered through the gaps at the edges of the window. After my father had died, I’d stuffed scraps of old cloth from outgrown dresses into the holes many winters ago in a pathetic attempt to keep the coldest of winter nights from entering my protection from the elements.

In the fall, I could almost convince myself that it was enough. But once winter well and truly arrived, I would join my brother on the floor in front of the fire while my mother slept nearby in the wheeled chair Lord Byron had fashioned for her after my father’s sacrifice.

My bedroom was mostly empty, my meager belongings taking up precious little space in the room that was barely more than a closet. My bed had been carved by my father’s hand; the wood of my floor patched repeatedly by my brother every time it rotted out beneath my feet.

I touched my fingers to the cool, cracked glass, drifting over the circle I’d rubbed clean with my sleeve more times than I cared to count over the years. When those trembling fingers finally touched the latch in the middle, I only glanced over my shoulder once to make sure my brother hadn’t appeared in my doorway to catch me sneaking out yet again.

Then I tugged them open, the wind nearly blowing them wide as it entered the ramshackle cottage so suddenly the shock of cool air stole the breath from my lungs. I caught them, but only barely, saving myself from the humiliation of waking the house. The tendrils of dark hair that had fallen free from my braid blew away from my face. I lifted myself onto the windowsill and swung my legs out—my skin prickling as moonlight kissed my bare hands.

I couldn’t suffer through another moment of my nighttime imprisonment, of being trapped inside the structure that was too broken down to truly be a home. Not when the night sky called my name and the fresh scent of pine in autumn flooded my senses from the other side of that windowsill.

There was something deeply therapeutic about my rebellious little walks in the woods. Something appealing in the way they went against the strictures placed on me by a corrupt society that was so often determined to keep women pure and virtuous for the husbands who hadn’t even been chosen yet. Good men were few and far between in Mistfell, a rarity rather than the norm. I didn’t dare to hope for a marriage like my parents had shared, a life filled with happiness and affection.

Dropping the blanket to the floor of my room behind me, I lowered myself down to the grass and fumbled around in the dark while my eyes adjusted, searching for my stick. I dug my fingers into the dirt below me, dusting myself in the neglected soil that never seemed to flourish. Dry and sandy grains slipped through my fingers as I rose to my feet and tugged the window panes closed. I slipped the twig into the gap in the windowsill beneath them and turned it until the branch caught on the other side, holding it closed until I could return to sneak back inside before my brother discovered I was missing.

The mix of wooden planks and wattle and daub that made up the outer walls had warped and cracked over years of neglect, the thatched roof was in need of repair in the spots where rain water had leaked in over time. There were only two glass windows in the structure, cracked and broken things my father and brother had been given as a gift after they’d helped one of the wealthier families replace them.

Leaving the house behind me, I walked toward the copse of trees that hovered just beyond the outskirts of my village. In the distance, something howled at the moon, calling me into the darkness where creatures roamed beneath the stars and the people of the village of Mistfell feared for their lives. But instead of the dread that should have pulsed through my body, there was only the sensation of what I could never find during waking hours when people roamed the streets.

Freedom.

It was a temporary illusion in my world, a deception I granted myself to ease the stinging reality; the privilege of making my own choices was not mine to have. For the time being, my life was determined by the Lord of Mistfell and the elite force of Mist Guards who had strayed from their original purpose and grown into a twisted army that did whatever he demanded. My brother’s opinion came only after theirs, his choices dictating my life in the absence of the father Lord Byron and the High Priest had sacrificed to the Veil.

One day, sooner than I cared to acknowledge, my fate and my activities would be decided by my husband, and that was when the true horrors of my life would begin.

I dragged a hand over the bark of the first tree as I came to the edge of the woods, not bothering to glance behind me as I drifted around it and into the tree line. Darkness quickly swallowed me whole, wrapping me in a steady embrace that beckoned me forward and called to the part of me that was different from those who feared the night that I craved.