Shadowsong (Wintersong #2)(71)
But without thinking, I became lost in the bowels of Snovin Hall instead. I had meant to return to my quarters, to wait for Josef, to plot our way out of his accursed valley together somehow, and had made a wrong turn somewhere in the house. I found myself in a room I had never seen before with a large grandfather clock in the corner and a suit of armor on the far side.
The clock chimed the hour.
Gong, gong, gong, gong. I counted the bell strikes, one, two, three, four, but they did not match the hands on its face. Indeed, instead of numbers, symbols were painted around the edge of the clock—a sword, a shield, a castle, a melusine, a dolphin, a wolf, and on and on, an unusual zodiac of eccentric objects. There was something off about the arrangement of figures around the face, and it wasn’t until I counted them that I realized there were thirteen instead of the customary twelve.
All the hairs rose on the back of my neck.
After the gonging echoes faded away, there was an odd, erratic clicking sound. No second hand ticked away the moments, but moreover, the noise was coming from another part of the room.
I turned around.
Behind me, the suit of armor was lifting its arm.
Pulse pounding, I watched as the artifact moved of its own accord, animated by nothing but its own inanimate intelligence. Goblin-made, I realized, imbued with the magic of the Underground. Its fingers curled, all save one, which remained pointing in a direction down the corridor.
I followed where it led, down to a set of doors I had never seen. They were tall, reaching from floor to ceiling, and ornately carved with grotesques—leering satyrs, screaming nymphs, and snarling beasts. The doors were gilded once, but the gold had flaked and worn off with age, leaving nothing but rusted iron beneath. I glanced over my shoulder at the suit of armor still pointing its arm. It nodded, once, twice, the squeal of ancient metal grinding against itself grating on the ears.
I pushed open the doors.
Searing white brightness burned my eyes, and I threw up my hands against the light. When the world returned after temporary blindness, I saw that I was standing in a ballroom.
Surrounded by mirrors.
They caught the light of the morning sun, reflecting and refracting the rays to an almost uncomfortable intensity. There were no shadows anywhere in this prism room, for even the cracked and broken floors were polished to a high shine. The forest had begun creeping in on this space years ago, and now it was as much a part of the wild outside as it was the house. Roots burst through the tiles beneath my feet, climbing up the shattered walls, and down the wooden door frames on either side—one leading back into darkness, the other into the light.
The doors to darkness slammed shut.
I jumped, but a breeze from the broken windowpanes ruffled my hair, like a reassuring sprite sent to soothe my ruffled nerves. No malicious magic here, though the ballroom was steeped in the uncanny and unknown. A thousand Liesls stared back at me from broken mirrored panels, our eyes wide with wonder, our complexion wan with weariness.
Mirrors. Every other reflective surface in the house had been covered, including polished stone and brass and copper. It seemed strange that the Procházkas had not bothered here, but perhaps it had taken too much effort. The ballroom was not much larger than the one in their Viennese Stadthaus, but the mirrors and ceiling height gave it the illusion of a much bigger space.
I explored the panels, lightly touching the cracked silvered glass, and discovered two walls I could slide aside like a screen. To my surprise, I found an array of old and dusty instruments as well as some chairs and music stands—a musicians’ gallery. A clever construction, for the musicians could remain hidden out of sight while they played for the guests, opening up the entirety of the ballroom for dancing. I ran my hands over the violoncello and an old viol, the strings long since rotted away, leaving trails in dust as thick and as white as snow. An ancient virginal with an inverted keyboard sat off to the side, its lid closed, its bench still standing. It was likely similarly rotted and decayed inside, but I couldn’t help but press a few keys despite myself, feeling a sharp pang for the clavichord I had left behind in Vienna.
The notes rang in tune.
I snatched back my hand, my myriad reflections mirroring the gesture out of the corner of my eye. Something else moved beyond the edges of my vision, half a breath later than the rest. Looking around, I searched for a rat or some other vermin scurrying about when I found myself staring into a pair of blue eyes.
Liesl?
“K?the?” I asked, not daring to breathe.
Our images ran forward, hands outstretched, as though we could grab each other through the glass. Behind me, a thousand Liesls trailed behind, all running for my sister standing in the shadow paths.
Liesl! she said in a voiceless cry. Liesl, where are you?
“I’m here, I’m here,” I said, choking on the salt taste of my tears as they ran down my cheeks.
Where is here? K?the squinted, as though trying to peer into my world from the mirror.
“Snovin,” I said. “Snovin Hall.”
The Procházkas’ house?
“Yes! I’m here, I am safe. I am well. Where are you?”
Get out of there! K?the said, her eyes round with terror. You must leave at once!
“How?” I asked. “Have you received my letter? Is there any way you could send help?”
Oh, Liesl, she said. We’ve been trying for weeks to send word. The night of the black-and-white ball, two people were found dead in the gardens, their throats slashed with silver, their lips blue with frost.