To Bleed a Crystal Bloom by Sarah A. Parker

You can always tell what time of the day it is by the varying smells in the kitchen.

Midday belongs to the hearty aroma of slow-roasted game. Evening’s filled with fire-charred root vegetables and rich botanical seasonings. At night, the air is either pinched with the acidity of pickling liquids or sweetened by sugared berries being reduced into a jelly preserve. And in the mornings, like right now, there’s the yeasty aroma of freshly baked bread ...

My favorite time of day.

Tentatively, I edge into the bustling kitchen that’s pregnant with cheery chatter. Strangers from forest communities and tribes often stop by to deliver fruit, vegetables, and game, and the years have taught me to proceed with caution.

Always.

It saves me from the unfamiliar stares and whispers that were never quiet enough.

Lex, the sous chef, is up to her elbows in dough, wrestling it into submission. She offers a friendly smile that lights up her sea-green eyes. “All clear.”

I smile back.

Everyone else seems to understand that I don’t want to step a single foot outside my safe, ordinary existence.

My bubble of protection.

Drawing a lungful of goodness, I move deeper into the room that holds the heart of the castle; a woman with a barreling laugh and the ability to brighten your day with her wholesome recipes.

I reach for the steaming roll set on a small plate beside the hearth, splitting the soft, spongy dough in two. There’s a glob of cinnamon-nut butter piled on the plate that I sweep my finger through and smear across the bread, taking a large bite.

“Morning, girly!” Cook hollers, and I spin, cheeks bulging as I offer her a wave.

Her rosy, silver-streaked hair is pulled into a tight bun, auburn eyes twinkling, full figure swaying. She sets a large, copper pot on the cooker, making water slosh over the sides.

I skirt around the edge of the kitchen, plate in hand, dashing into the cellar stacked full of grain sacks, rounds of aging cheese, and big barrels of wine. Knees kissing the cold stone, I set the plate on the ground and thread my arm down a circular air vent cut into the wall, extracting my nabber—a mousetrap made from a hollowed-out tree branch, some coiled metal, and a bunch of ingenuity.

I lift it, peering down the spyhole only large enough for a rodent nose to fit through.

Curled at the end is a small, frightened mouse who obviously has the same appetency for cinnamon-nut butter as I do.

“This is not your lucky day,” I murmur, releasing the latch, lifting the lid, and digging my hand in to hook the squirming rodent out by its tail.

“Is it a fat one today?” Cook asks from behind, her warm, robust voice basting me with an immediate sense of ease. “There’s been something mighty big chewing holes in one of my grain sacks, so I’m hoping you’ve caught the vermin.”

“Normal size,” I answer, watching the poor thing swing back and forth, trying to twist up and bite me.

Cook hums her disappointment while I root around inside my bag, locating the jar with air holes. I unscrew it one-handed, drop the mouse in, and secure the lid. Spreading what’s left of my butter on the nabber’s internal wall, I reset the latch and slide it back in the hole.

“Any special requests?” Cook asks, and I smile, glancing over my shoulder. “Best get them in early. The kitchen will be busy over the coming weeks. We haven’t had a ball here in years.”

I clear my throat and stand, stashing the mouse in my bag, ignoring the heaviness that settles on my shoulders. “What about some of those apple and pastry rolls you used to make when I was little?”

Her brows draw together. “The ones with lemon-toffee drizzle?”

I nod, wiping buttery fingers on my top.

“You only ever asked for them when you were feeling blue ...”

“I’m fine,” I lie, forcing another smile. “Just an abundance of ripe lemons on my tree. I’ll bring some down later.”

“Mmm-hmm.”

Time to change the subject.

“How’s your granddaughter? Did you make it to Cardell to see her yesterday?”

Thatmakes her cheeks swell. Her daughter and son-in-law are truffle farmers in a neighboring village, and recently welcomed their first, long-awaited child.

“I did. And she’s a tubby one, unlike you.” She looks me up and down, clicking her tongue and shaking her head. “One of these days, I’ll find a way to put some meat on those bones. Mark my word!”

We both say the last three words in unison, and I laugh, hooking my bag over my shoulder.

“Now, off you go,” she says, shooing me. “The soup ain’t gonna prepare itself. Bring those lemons down later and we can have a cuppa. I’ll tell you all about my wee babe.”

“Looking forward to it.” I lift onto my tippy toes and plant a kiss on her freckle-dusted cheek, then pick up the plate and dart off, setting it in the sink before I head out the door.

The mouse squeaks his displeasure at being jostled about as I sprint down the cold, barren hallway lit by flaming wall sconces. I come to a T and bank left, slowing my steps when I reach a cobbled archway on my right—one that looks like every other archway in this giant castle.

But it’s not.

It’s one of the thirty-seven entrances to The Tangle—the unutilized labyrinth of corridors lumped in the center of the palace that twists and turns and splits and crosses and feeds into areas otherwise difficult to access.

My secret weapon.

These corridors lead anywhere and everywhere, if you know how to use them. Some pop out in doors that are invisible to the untrained eye, others lead to sensible places regardless of the insensible track it takes to get there.

Take the trapdoor entrance on the fifth floor for example; a tunnel that spits you out in an underground storage room despite not seeming to rise or fall a smidge.

In short, they’re easy to get lost in if you don’t have a clear grasp on things, something I learned the hard way too many times.

I’m surprised I’m not a dehydrated corpse decorating a tunnel somewhere.

These days, Castle Noir is my own personal city, just like the ones I’ve read about in the many books stacked in Spines—the giant library.

The passageways are streets; the kitchen, a bakery that exchanges the best buns and cinnamon-nut butter for my mouse-ridding services; and the bedrooms are houses rich with people’s lingering scents.

Like The Den—Rhordyn’s personal suite.

The thought that these halls may soon be swarming with strangers over the course of an entire weekend sits like a rock in my gut.

Coming to a fork in the tunnel, I veer left, spotting a young girl bunched on the ground at the base of the wall.

My feet root in place.

Something bitter clogs my throat as I peer over my shoulder, then back again.

She’s perhaps no older than seven or eight, shivering, her inky hair a messy shroud around her shoulders.

I don’t think she’s seen or heard me yet, likely because I move through the castle like a wraith, my bare footfalls softer than a gentle pull of breath.

Always.

Over the years, I’ve taught myself to move with the air and blend against walls. To meld with shadows despite the brassy veneer of my long, golden hair doing everything in its power to make me stand out.

I clear my throat and the girl jolts—her wild, fearful eyes darting to me.

Suspending my hands between us, I try to show I’m no threat regardless of the impromptu squeak that emanates from my knapsack.

“Are you lost?” I ask, crouching.

She nods, her heart-shaped face pale like the moon. “Wh-what’s wrong with your voice?”

My hand flies to my throat like a pitiful shield.

“I hurt it when I was little,” I whisper. “So, I sound ... different.”

Raspy. Perpetually broken and harsh, like I haven’t had a drink all day. Not the smooth, honeyed voice some of the servants have. Never the lilting chime of my handmaid.

“Oh ...” she replies, still wound in a lump on the ground.

Watching me.

I’m thankful she doesn’t ask more, unsure of what I’d say if she did. The only memories I have of the night that broke my throat are the fragmented ones that come to me in my sleep.

The screams, the smoldering flames, the strident scratching that scored so deep it left irreparable scars on my soul. Damage that prevents me from living a normal life lest a sharp sound trigger an impromptu attack.

I forge a smile and drop to a kneel. “Let’s go find your parents, shall we?”

“I don’t have any ...”

My smile falters, heart sinks.

I can suddenly see the darkness hiding in those emerald eyes; a haunting darkness I recognize.

“Well,” I answer, trying to sound bright and cheery. “Where did you come from?”

She sniffs, wiping her cheeks with the back of puffed sleeves that cinch her wrists. “From the big shiny doors.”

The Keep.

Doors I’ve never been allowed through. One of the dark zones I’ve yet to explore.

I think of the skeleton I once found resting against a wall not too far from here ...

Fair to say, I’m obliged to return this child to her rightful place.

“Lucky for you, I know exactly where that is.”

I bridge the space between us with an outstretched hand.

She studies it, gaze dropping to my bag. “Do you have any treats in there? Or just the mouse?”

I lift a brow.

She gives me a shy smile. “I heard it squeak.”

“Clever girl,” I say, digging around for my jar of toffees. I unscrew the lid and offer the sweets. “One for each hand. For guessing the contents of my bag.”

Her eyes light up, and she pops two straight in her mouth, then lets me pull her up.

We walk in silence, hand in hand, her grip tightening as we journey down crooked stairwells and silent stretches of tunnel. By the time I help her through a trapdoor that spits us out in a lofty, fourth-floor corridor, my fingers feel bruised.

I roll the rug back into place and brush the cobwebs off her dress, then turn to The Keep looming over us like an entrance to the underworld.

There are no windows in this corridor that seems unnaturally long. Certainly no other entrances nearly half as interesting as this.

Large sconces light the twin, handleless doors from either side, casting them in a golden sheen, the polished stone offering perfect reflections of ourselves. I ignore mine, stepping forward to knock four times, each echoing back at me.

A taunting heartbeat.

The child shuffles behind me as the mechanics grind into gear, and the door cracks open like the mouth of a monster, though just enough to spit out a burly beast of a man I recognize all too well.

Jasken. The keeper of The Keep. Or at least that’s what I call him.

He’s dressed in the classic garb of a Western guard—black pants, knee-high boots, and a swarthy coat that kicks out at the shoulders. Armor reminiscent of flowing ink protects the left side of his chest and spills down one arm, but leaves the other bare.

If I were to crawl inside the man, it would require three of me to fill him up. Even then, there would be space for each of us to shift around and get more comfortable.

He looks down at me with small, wary eyes, and I offer him a dazzling smile.

“Orlaith,” he rumbles, voice surprisingly warm. From that sound alone, you’d think the man’s a pushover.

Wrong.

“Jasken,” I say, tipping my head in greeting. “Lovely day for a stroll.”

One bushy brow reaches for his ruddy hairline. “I’m sure. Back so soon?”

Rude.

“I don’t appreciate your judgemental tone. It’s been two whole days since I was last here.” I shrug. “Anyway, I have”—a ticket—”someone. I found her in The Tangle.”

I swear the corner of his mouth kicks up. Difficult to tell with all that rust-colored scruff covering half his face. “The what?”

I roll my eyes, reach behind, and nudge the child forward. She’s staring at the ground, twining her fingers together.

Jasken’s honey eyes drop before his head dips behind the door. “Vestele!”

I cringe.

He has quite the pair of lungs.

A woman with wiry hair and a wiggly spine hobbles through the opening—face pinched, cheeks red, hair pulled into such a tight upsweep that it almost smooths the years etched around her pale blue eyes.

“Anika! Kvath be damned, where the hell have you been?”

Her voice boxes my ears, but it’s her stare that really stings—two icy pins stabbing at me and the child.

She yanks Anika through the doors, and the poor thing barely has a chance to peep over her shoulder at me before she disappears.

When I try to follow, Jasken slides sideways, blocking my line of sight—a mammoth, impenetrable wall. By the way his cheeks have rounded out, I can tell he’s smiling somewhere beneath all those wiry bristles.

I’d smack that smirk right off his gruff face if he weren’t so damn tall.

I frown, stamping my fists on my hips. “You take your job far too seriously.”

“So you keep telling me,” he says, tipping his head. “Orlaith.”

I sigh, mimicking the action, hands falling heavy at my sides. “Jasken.”

Thus ensues the walk of shame.

Not my first, and I doubt it will be my last.