Nenia Campbell - 01 Black Beast by Nenia Campbell

Author:Nenia Campbell [Campbell, Nenia]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter Seven

White marbled floors surrounded her, polished to perfection, and when she looked down at her feet she could see the outlines of her own face looking back at her, pale and insubstantial as a ghost. She was wearing a green summer dress, made of lace and light. Her hair was longer than she had worn it in years, woven with orange lilies.

Despite the torches in their bronze sconces and the hot, acrid air, there was a chill. It permeated the walls, sunk deep into every stone. Catherine stepped away from the doorway and into the sunlight, and found it insubstantial. She was in a courtyard now, and not five steps away was a garden filled with roses. All of the roses were on fire, but she couldn't smell any smoke. She could smell the floral sweetness, but not the fire, and that was when she began to be afraid.

“There you are.”

Catherine whirled around, stirring up the floral fragrance so that it billowed around her, and inhaled sharply, choking on that smothering sweetness. It was the witch. The one from the gully.

Except—not.

The speech was all wrong, his voice hadn't been that deep, and he looked completely different. A black long-coat, with a brown vest, and a white shirt with a black cravat, black breeches, and knee-high boots made him look like a relic from a bygone age. It was amazing, how ridiculous Edwardian fashions looked in such anachronistic contexts. Even Mr. Darcy would look a fool.

She braced herself for the inevitable attack, but none was immediately forthcoming. He stood there, arms folded behind his back, regarding her as one would a garden statue. “You always did prefer the garden,” he said, sounding condescending but not necessarily displeased.

Something like dread began to form in the back of her brain, calcifying as her doubts grew.

“It's changed,” she heard herself saying, without understanding what she meant in the slightest.

He seemed to, though, because he nodded—a brisk, impatient jerk of his head.

Catherine stared hard at the burning roses. The flames made no sound as they devoured the petals, browning them and causing them to curl at the edges before flaking off into falling clumps of ash. “Why won't they die?”

“They're phoenix roses,” said the witch dispassionately. “When an old one dies, a bud rises from the ashes to begin the process anew.”

True to his words, a thorny mass was emerging from the nearest gray-brown clump of soil. She could hear the rustling of the leaves as they unfurled, the flesh-colored roses already starting to ignite as they blossomed, opening their faces to the bloody sky above.

The witch extended a hand, gloved. Catherine hesitated a long moment before taking it.

Together, they walked up a staircase that led to the parapets, with notches in the stonework where arches would stand to defend the palace by bow and arrow. It was empty now, but the ghosts of the past remained, drowning the silent stones with the heaviness of memory. She could see a few moldy old barrels, forgotten for years, the bands holding them swathed in orange rust.

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