Stained Glass Kings | ONC2024

iii. a lullaby for the damned

[a/n: 

content warning-- from this chapter onwards, there will be violence and descriptions of gore. please stay safe, lovely reader.
also, this chapter has been edited a truly disgusting amount of times for spelling and grammar mistakes. if you still spot any, please feel free to point them out! i'll rage-cook something to eat and then proceed to fix them XD]

She follows Alexander through the twisting intestines of the mansion. 

Halfway through a carpeted hallway Divya is distracted by an upright glass coffin pushed against a wall. Trapped inside it is a porcelain doll the size of a small child.

She steps up so close that her breath mists on the glass. The doll is lovely, her face painted with a hand so delicate it looks like it might smudge with a single breath of wind. Her glassy eyes are uncannily realistic–the deepsea green of a faraway chasm. Her cheeks are rosy pink, her hair set in chocolate ringlets tangled with silver ribbons. Her rosebud lips are frozen in a smile. She's dressed in a gown that falls to her knees, dotted with sparkling pearls and scraps of lace. On her feet are a pair of little white boots tied with little white bows.

"Beautiful, isn't she?"

She hasn't noticed him step up behind her. His footsteps are eerily silent.

Divya startles. "Yes, I suppose so." 

Peculiar, is the word she would have used. Maybe even frightening. Spiderweb cracks spread over the porcelain, disappearing under collars and sleeves. Her skin looks soft, as if it would be warm to the touch. Divya shakes her head away from that line of thought. "My little sister would love it."

"You have a sister. What's her name?"

"Anya."

"Lovely name for a doll. I don't believe we have an Anya in our collection," he gestures to the doll in the case. "This is Clarabelle. She's one of the few dolls that never went out for mass manufacture. Back when she was made, each one was unique. The skin, the hair, the eyes. You cannot find another Clarabelle anywhere in the world."

Divya looks away, certain that her uncanny green eyes would blink if she stares for too long.

Alexander crosses the corridor and opens a door for her on the other side. "Come. This is the drawing room. My father is waiting for us."

Divya sucks in a deep breath and steps through past him.

The drawing room is big, almost a hall, heavy with the smell of musk and sickeningly sweet vanilla. Thick red curtains, cherrywood furniture, dark velvet cushions. Divya is certain that everything in the room is an antique. The grandfather clock ticking against one wall, the damask covers on the armchairs, the coffee table with the claw feet.

And then there's the piano.

Divya gasps. She has seen her share of expensive pianos in her life–in the chrome hallways at Juilliard where she goes to school, in the silver candlelit piano bars where she works, in the velvet curtained theaters where she drags her mother to. But this one is something else entirely. Something that makes her heart roar in her ears and steals the breath from her throat. It's a Steinway that's at least a hundred years old. Glittering mahogany top, polished ivory keys and carvings of swirling waves that foam and crash and froth in wood. The strings are brass and coated in what looks like liquid gold. The feet end in curled lion paws.

The thing probably cost more than her entire four years of college tuition.

Alexander is watching her. When she meets his eyes, he smiles. "It's endearing how little it takes to impress you."