The Hollow Ball

Chapter 11

Disrupting the silence of the late night, sobs tore through the western wing of the manor like a violent winter gale. For a moment, I thought it was Ms. Casa's ghost who returned to exact her revenge upon me. She visited my dreams the same night she died—barely two days ago—and tried to speak to me of my purpose. But even then, she could make no sound no matter how much I begged her to, no matter how hard she tried, her neck twisted at an odd angle, her lips bloodless. I waited, night after night, for her to return.

She never did.

Her funeral would not be until after the Hollow Ball.

Father and the others in the house concluded her grief led to a misstep on the steep stairs even after I told them what happened. Now, the memory turned hazy the harder I tried to remember it. Though I couldn't prove it, I knew whatever it was that sent Ms. Casas to her death was behind it. I tried not to think of who or what exactly it was—fearful that even thought might summon its wrath upon me or another in the manor.

"Risa!" Father called. "Risa! Please! You'll wake the house!"

The sound of his voice shattered my hesitation to leave my bed, and I threw away the covers just in time to hear Mother's angry,

"So be it!"

I'd only heard her scream like that once before.

When they found Gwen.

My breath caught in my throat as my first thought went to Kian. He couldn't be dead, too, could he? Oh, goodness. Please don't tell me he is dead. My hands shook as I opened the door, bile rising in my throat at what waited on the other side. Down the long corridor, the door to Father's study burst open, and Risa Castellano marched out of the room, the picture of fury.

She wore the same evening dress from the feast at City Hall last night. Disgusted and upset, she ripped the diamonds and pearls from her neck as though they were poison, the sound of the precious jewels clattering against the wooden floors akin to heavy spring rain, and tossed her earrings back into study.

"Perhaps a mother's anger is exactly what they need to hear!" she shouted. "Perhaps a bargain with me will do them some good!"

My father's shadow quivered in the lamplight from his study, and only his hand emerged from the threshold as he beckoned her to him. "Come, dear. We—"

"No, Ben! No! I don't care!" she cried. All I could do was watch—frozen—as she whirled around, sensing me with that keen instinct belonging only to mothers. Seeing me, her fury cracked, and her anguish hurt more than any broken bone or burn or cut I ever experienced, and I found myself running to her just as she ran to me.

"You're not going," she whispered, folding me into her embrace. "I forbid it. I forbid it. These are their gods. Not mine. They don't get to tell me what happens to my children anymore!"

Her words were blasphemous and could mean certain death if she weren't careful. I was so afraid of what would happen to her, to think of her damned and condemned to a fate worse than death when I realized that was Mother's reality. She lost one child. Her second was slated for death. And the third's fate remained in the balance. For all we knew, the Shadows could take Kian the moment they were done with my soul.

The thought clattered through me, violent and painful.

You strike a bargain, I told myself. Your soul for the safety of his. Then and only then will you allow the Shadow to take you.

Just beyond her shoulder, my father stood stone-faced with his hands clasped behind his back as though that were the only thing keeping him intact. If I were not so aware of his subtle expressions—honed into the slight change in his shoulders, the tick in his jaw, I might have mistaken it as indifference instead of pain.