Thread of Darkness

Ch. 11: the most devastating type of storm

Penny unwound a hair ribbon.

The candle in her bedroom was burning low, casting long shadows across her vanity. Her hairbrush winked silver in the moonlight, and her white quills fanned out like angel wings. Outside, she could hear the faint slap of water against stone. Someone — a late-night reveler, probably — was singing drunkenly and offkey.

She massaged her temples.

It had been a long day. A gods-damn hard day. Between the Scythe's little performance and Eris's smug demand, there had been an uproar after dinner. And uproars meant a lot of emotions. And emotions meant headaches.

Penny blew out a breath. Mentharoot oil. That's what she needed; it usually calmed her pounding temples. She spun on her heel, scanning her bedroom. Where had she put it? Under the bed, perhaps? She dropped to her knees, pulling things out at random: a poetry book; a half-drunk bottle of wine; a stray satin slipper.

A hatbox tumbled open.

Penny sighed. Wonderful. Just what she needed. She shoved the items back inside — mostly poems and sewing needles — and then paused, staring at a scrap of paper.

Thirteen words were scrawled in her own hand.

The missing princess is the key. His burning soul must be set free.

A shiver slithered down her spine.

Penny sat back, staring at the paper. She'd forgotten about this. It was oddly written — shorter than most of her other poems — and the words bled together, as if she'd been frantic to write it. A feeling niggled at the back of her mind. Worry? Concern?

She traced the words.

Missing princess... could that be Anna? Or herself, Penny thought, since she'd lost her memories? Surely that meant a part of her was missing, in a sense. The next part of the poem was even more confusing.

Burning soul.

Penny mouthed the words to herself, staring up at the ceiling. She'd heard that before, but where? Who had described themselves that way?

It struck her all at once.

She sat upright, her heart pounding. Holy gods. Ryne. Didn't he describe his illness that way? "It's like fire," he'd said to her last month. "I feel as if I'm burning up from the inside. It's not particularly pleasant."

Penny stared at the parchment.

Was it possible that she'd been trying to tell herself something? Could she be holding the cure for Ryne's illness in her hands?

She rose.

Penny tiptoed out of her room. The castle corridors were dark rivers, carrying only velvet whispers and midnight kisses in their currents. Nobody roamed the empty halls. Which was good, Penny thought, starting down the corridor; she'd never quite mastered Camille's ability to glide through the night like a ghost. She was more like a cyclops in tap shoes. Or a drunk toddler carrying cymbals.

She held her nightgown in one hand, padding barefoot up the smooth marble steps. She hesitated at the top, glancing in both directions. Damn. Where was his room again? Left? Right? Up another floor?

"Penny," a voice called.

Ryne stood at the bottom of the staircase, dressed in pajama bottoms and a midnight-blue robe. He took the stairs one-at-a-time, his movements slow and laboured. He paused halfway to rest a hand on the railing.

"Where are you going?" he asked.

Penny debated lying, and then decided there was no point; she'd never been able to keep secrets from Ryne. "To see Grayson."