Page 1 of Ashen Torment

1

Prologue

Evander

14 February 1856

His hand no longer burns. It lies still and heavy upon the sheet, when I press my finger against it, the warmth of my skin vanishes into his, failing to stir any heat.

I do not pull away, even though the coldness stings. I remain motionless against the bed, my eyes fixed on his lashes, stuck fast to his skin. I wait for them to flicker, to flutter just once.

They do not.

I wait for the white linen of his shirt to rise, for his chest to draw breath and make the bedframe creak.

Instead, my father remains straight and rigid, like the lead soldiers in my drawer.

“Papa?”

The only sound in the room is the sputtering of the tall tapers burning at the bedside, their flames casting streaks of light against the black drapes on the walls.

I slide my finger over his knuckles. I feel the bone immediately beneath the skin, as if the flesh had withered away in a single night.

Il ne peut pas être vraiment mort.

The rustle of skirts against wood makes me turn my head. My mother stands in the doorway, a dark silhouette in the gloom of the corridor. She watches me without blinking, and there is something in the way she stares at the bed.

An intensity I cannot understand.

“He will never answer you again.”

The sound of her footsteps reaches me, stopping just behind my back, but I cannot bring myself to turn.

My throat burns.

I clasp my father’s hand with both of mine, squeezing hard, trying to feel anything but cold and silence.

She draws closer, shrouded in the scent of camellias, and she places a hand on my shoulder.

“Let go.”

Her fingers pull me away from my father’s hand, sharply, without waiting for me to move on my own.

“Compose yourself. There are people waiting for you.”

Rising, I dig my nails into my clenched palms and make no sound.

I follow her from the room without looking back.

17 December 1860

The door creaks open.

My mother enters the small parlour, and behind her emerges a shadow that fills the entire frame.

I remain motionless in my armchair, fingers pressing into the velvet armrests until the skin pulls taut.

Why is he so large?