Page 249 of Ashen Torment

I seize the ribbon, which resists for a moment beneath my fingers before surrendering with a sharp rustle, then I lift the lid.

Inside, a porcelain doll returns a gaze I know all too well. Black hair styled with cruel precision, and blue eyes, glassy, immobile.

Always her.

Always the same.

My knuckles whiten around the lid, I snap it shut.

I cross the room in a few strides and pull open the door. In the corridor, Alice is still there.

As I suspected.

“V-Viscount... I was just going...”

“Take that package. It was not intended for me.”

She hesitates.

“I beg your pardon?”

“It belongs to my mother. Take it to her.”

Her blue irises widen. “Forgive me, Viscount. They brought it here, I thought—”

“Deliver it to her.”

She steps back inside, obedient, gathers the box and then vanishes down the corridor. When the silence returns in full, I go back into the library and close the door.

I sit again. the armchair welcomes me without warmth. I rest my elbows on the armrests and bring my hands to my temples, closing my eyes.

It is useless.

Behind my eyelids, that unnatural color remains, that blue too pure to belong to anything living.

Two fixed eyes watching me without judgment and without mercy. I grit my teeth. My breathing becomes irregular. I remain thus for a few moments. Or perhaps much longer. The present slips away. Not all at once, but like a room emptying while one is not looking. And what follows no longer belongs to this morning.

The carpet scratches my cheek. It is coarse, worn, and smells of ash. I am lying on my side, motionless, staring at the fireplace. The wood crackles softly, the flames bend and straighten.

Beside me, there is a heavier, more labored breath. The lingering scent of a cigar invades my nostrils and clings to my exposed skin.

“Do not stare too long at the fire.”

The voice reaches me from above, unhurried.

The flames tremble, open, and close again. I continue to watch them. A shadow stretches across the carpet; my mother’s footsteps make no sound, yet they seem to leave a mark upon the floor.

I feel her gaze even before I see her. It burns the nape of my neck.

“Always like this,” she says.

She approaches the sofa, my bow is there. Her fingers seize it, the wood describes a brief arc in the air before the fire swallows it.

I bolt upright, my legs giving way, liquid runs down my thighs and the carpet slips beneath my feet. I push myself up, panting.

She smiles.

She does not show her teeth, but her eyes do.