Free The Rose Master by Valentina Cano Page B

chair, Anne.”
    Lord Grey pulled back his seat at the head of the grotesque table and sat without a sound.
    “Would you like me to light a candle or lamp, sir?”
    “No, that’s quite all right.”
    My hands shook as I grasped the chair I’d scrubbed that morning and every morning for the past three weeks, sitting down on the tip of the seat, allowing only the minimum of my body contact with the grand furniture.
    “Would you like some wine?” he asked as he uncovered the decanter before him.
    “No, sir, thank you.”
    “I suppose it’s just as well. I don’t know where Dora keeps the bloody glasses.”
    My head jerked up at the tone, but he was already sipping at the thick liquid. He began cutting his meat. His hands were steady now, no trace of the twitching I’d seen earlier, but they had cuts on them, puckered edges of skin drying with blood. I winced as he brought a piece of meat up to his lips, knowing the horror of Dora’s cooking, but he made no sign. He ate with an air of distraction, as if his mind were pacing far away while his body nourished itself.
    After a few bites, he set his instruments down on the plate and lowered his hands to his lap.
    “You must take care not to go about touching things in this house,” he said. “Certain things do not take kindly to being disturbed.” His forehead creased and his eyes shifted to look past me, toward the mirror.
    “Yes, sir. I understand.” But I did not understand. Objects that complained of being touched?
    “Not that mirror, though. You could have touched that without consequence. Or, at least, nothing more than a smudge, as I’m sure you know, being the expert in all that.”
    He blinked and pulled his eyes back to me. “It is a strange glass, isn’t it?
    “Yes, sir. Very beautiful.”
    “Beautiful? I’d never thought of it that way.” He laughed, allowing the moonlight to brush his voice. A second later, the sound twisted as his voice hitched into a cough. He took a deep breath. “It is of my own design.”
    That gave me pause. If he’d designed it, how could he not have thought it beautiful?
    With a suddenness that surprised me, he rose from his chair and crossed the room, his thin frame all angles in the gloom. He stepped right before the mirror.
    “Hmm. You’re right, Anne. It is quite pretty.” He passed a hand over its surface. “Look.”
    What did he want now? I cursed myself for walking into the dining room in the first place. I inched close to Lord Grey, who still had his hand on the glass.
    “Put your hand here.”
    Oh, for the love of everything good and holy. I walked over and joined him in front of the mirror. My left hand hovered over its surface for an instant, until I finally pressed it into place with a sigh. As soon as my skin brushed the cold surface, a jolt slithered through my fingers, pushing my hand back, off the mirror. I gasped and yanked my hand as far away from the glass as I could get. What in God’s name?
    “Sir, what—”
    Lord Grey’s expression stopped my voice. His eyes narrowed as he stepped away from me. He looked at my palm, his face as cold as the stones beneath us.
    “Interesting,” he said. He looked at the mirror once more, then walked out of the room without another word.
    I glanced down at my palm. The symbols I’d touched were on the surface, their strange angles stitched into my skin.

    Twelve
    That night, when the scratches began again, I felt more anger than fear as I ripped the covers off and stood. Sleep dragged at me, making me feel heavy and thick. All I wanted was to get some rest. Whatever blasted animal was amusing itself by waking decent people at indecent hours had better hope it could run, because if I caught it . . .
    But when I opened the door, the entire corridor was empty. A low laugh brushed by me—a wind of cold tagging me, then moving down the hallway. I covered my eyes with my hands and shook my head. What was going on? The paralyzing cold had returned, making me