Page 33 of Fangs

I cross to it, my fingers trembling as I pick it up.

The words stare back at me. My words. But I don’t remember writing them.

Old cemetery. North wing. Chapel adjacent to his tomb. Gold. Gemstones. Enough to pay the debts. Leave tomorrow. Never look back.

His voice echoes in my memory, fragmented and fading like a dream dissolving at dawn.

“One gemstone would be enough to pay your father’s debts a hundred times over. Take as many as you want. Go tomorrow. Then leave this place and never return.”

I press my fingers to my temples, squeezing my eyes shut. The memories are slippery, difficult to hold. I remember shadows. A promise of escape.

But I also remember fangs. Blood. A kiss that tasted like copper and darkness.

Was it real? Or did I dream it all in some fevered hallucination born from exhaustion and terror?

I look down at my neck again. No marks.

But the notebook is in my handwriting. I wrote this. I know I wrote this. Didn’t I?

I touch my lips. They are warm, but I feel an ache lingering there. The ghost of a kiss. The phantom pressure of teeth against my skin.

I don’t know what is real anymore. The lines between dream and memory have blurred into something indistinguishable.

I shake my head hard. It doesn’t matter if it was real. What matters is the plan. Perhaps I have a chance to escape.

I will go to the tomb and see if the gold is there. If it is, I will take it and run. If it is not—

I refuse to consider that alternative.

I drag my attention back to the present. The blood on the sheets. The servants will be here soon. I need to clean this, hide the evidence.

And I need to decide: do I tell them about my cycle?

If I tell them, they will lock me in the tower and I will lose my chance to investigate the tomb. It must be a secret at least for today. Just long enough to see if the tomb is real.

I strip the sheets from the bed, balling them into a heap. The blood is still wet. I grab a cloth from the vanity and scrub at the mattress, working the stain with frantic energy. The rust-colored smear fades but doesn’t disappear entirely.

Good enough. They don’t inspect the mattresses. They won’t notice.

I pull my uniform from the wardrobe and dress quickly, my fingers clumsy with urgency. I tug wads of toilet paper from the small supply in the water closet and stuff them into my undergarments, a crude makeshift pad. It will have to do.

I’m lacing my doll shoes when the first knock comes at the door.

My heart hammers. I smooth my skirts, paste a neutral expression onto my face, and open the door.

Three servants stand in the hallway, their faces blank as usual, they don’t look at me.

Thank God they never speak. No explanation is asked for. Their eyes remain empty.

“Breakfast,” I say, hitting the corridor. And they follow, herding me with the false appeal of control.

The great hall is already half-full when I arrive. Long tables groan under the weight of platters and pitchers. The girls chatter in low voices, their eyes darting to the head of the room where the masters sit in their thrones.

I slide onto the bench next to Meg. She gives me a small smile. I return it, though my mind is elsewhere.

The masters are watching. All four of them. Their eyes scan the room like predators surveying a herd.

I keep my head down and reach for bread. I try to be invisible but I fail.