Castle of Sighs by Jennifer Murgia

Author:Jennifer Murgia
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Spencer Hill Press
Published: 2015-01-01T05:00:00+00:00

Chapter 23

The grimoire sits atop the mantle of the large, ornate fireplace like a mocking red smile. My brief setback is gone, allowing me to march steadily across the room and reach up for it. It is so heavy it takes both my hands to lift it.

Laurentz strikes a long match and inserts the slender stick deep within the small-hinged door of alantern. He then carries it with him as he lights several candles at the largest table in the salon, then pulls two chairs out for us to sit.

Even though it is afternoon, clouds cover the sky, dimming the room as if night has fallen early. At my insistence, Niclaus and Margret have fallen asleep on the settee for their afternoon nap rather than returning to the nursery. My heart is reluctant to allow any of us to be on our own in this large castle, especially the children, which is why I’ve agreed to let Laurentz take them to Castle Eltz. There, they will be surrounded by a full staff who will share the duty of keeping watch over them—Cook especially. She may be a bit rough with orders in her kitchen, but when it comes to children she is a fit nanny, and I am certain she will keep the newest hire, Adelaide, in check.

“That was not Matilde,” I whisper fiercely, setting the grimoire with a weighted thud atop the table.

“Then who? Do you think the woman Niclaus sees is the specter who haunts the corridor? Could she be the breath you felt?”

I shake my head, for I do not know. “Niclaus and I have only seen her outside these walls.” But that is not entirely true. Niclaus saw whom he believed to be Matilde in his vision. “But yes, it is possible. After all, she is the one who brought us the key that would open the room below.”

I steal an unsure glance at Laurentz, and then open the grimoire’s thick cover.

“Wait.” He rises from his chair to make sure the window’s sash is fully closed. Neither of us can recall when it may have been left open. And while neither he, nor I, will admit it, there is an unmistakable unease hovering about the otherwise comfortable room. The salon, while adorned with golden-framed portraits and rich textures, lush pillows and tapestries to keep the wintry chill at bay, holds a feeling that we are being watched—and it raises every hair upon my body when I stop to think of a specter disguised as my beloved Mutti.

I shake the discomfort from my bones and concentrate on the tome I have placed before us for examination. The ravens and moons etched into the red cover mean nothing to me. There is no recollection of a story Matilde could have told me as a child, nor any reference to them among the peculiar items stowed within the dusty room my mother hid from the rest of the castle.

I flip the red leather over so it kisses the tabletop. “I suppose we begin here.

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