To Steal a Weeping Widow

Chapter Thirty-Two: Burn the Snakes, Raze the Garden

"Stilus mediocris" (Self-portrait with Beret and Gathered Shirt) by Rembrandt van Rijn (1630), stolen 2000, recovered 2005, value - $37 million

Chapter Thirty-Two

It wasn't a movie.

The entire room didn't immediately cease to be heard; sound wasn't sucked from eardrums, or stolen from mouths like the Widow was stolen from these halls.

It was slower.

It was the dropped jaw of her, then him, then another, and another. It was a wildfire of shock at my audacity; a stupor born from witnessing my boldness. The ripple was a silent mix of astonishment that was part admiration, and part incredulity, at my sheer insolence that had me showing my face. Yet, it was only a short hush, because it was soon interrupted by bewildered laughs and dumbfounded remarks.

Shock ricocheted off chandeliers when I started down the stairs. Scorn was a weapon they wielded with ease, and projectiles aimed for my back—but I'd already learned my lesson once. I didn't need to be taught twice. I was ready to face the people I'd once called allies.

Carrie and Lena stayed at the top. It was my journey, and my journey alone, through the hall of judgement. My dress trailed marble as I walked down the wide steps of Whitehill Museum and Art Gallery. The fabric slinking after my heels was a far cry from the chains formerly attached, and starkly different from what others had once tried to weave around my wrists.

I had nothing tying me down anymore.

I was sharper, stronger, smarter. I strode with dignity down to my so-called friends, who'd cast me out and marked my sins with red; who'd jeered at my losses like they hadn't worshipped my success before. The traitor forged by wicked justice had returned to the castle, and the remaining citizens weren't sure whether to cower or start swinging. In their hesitation, I'd wreak chaos and wrench victory.

With every step, a new whisper started, and another stone fell at my feet.

With every step, my chin rose higher, and another scarlet thread pulled me together.

With every step, I burned another bridge. I burned it all down—what still remained, what wasn't charred by my tossed matches or scorched by their Molotov cocktails. I stood in the ruins and razed the remnants down to the ground, knowing they'd mark these stones as consecrated once I was done. The amount of loss we'd all suffered was impossible to forget.

No lies or mistakes had ever equated the destruction I'd endured.

With every step, my power rose. My anger rose. My ice, my stone, my shields. They'd sentenced me a witch, so now they'd meet who'd risen from the ashes. This wasn't a walk to the gallows, this was a walk back from the grave. My reputation had already been slaughtered, my name had already been trampled, my deeds had already been done—I had nothing left to lose.

But I had everything to gain.

I had plenty to gun for. I had so much to curse. They were witnessing the reclaiming of a title; a cat strolling into a gilded cage, ready to hunt the same canary that'd mocked them.

Across the room, regal and magnificent, the kingdom's monarch raised a glass.

I saw those around her watch the movement with intrigue, like sheep monitored their shepherd, gauging her response for sincerity. But Geraldine never advertised her entire truth. They'd have nothing more to read even in the fine print; her alcoholic acknowledgment would be the only chance to decipher what lurked in her mind.

I looked around the large room. I took in the crowd, the refinement, the beauty of the halls I'd missed. My eyes caught on the precious finds.

Simon stood by the door, flanked by Owen and Beck, solemn and guarding as they monitored the crowd. But like everyone else, his eyes were on me. His dark gaze was layered with wonder, respect, fascination, and something that inconceivably sparkled from across the room. It was something so brilliant, so rare; it outshone the riches on every neck and sleeve. I met his enthralled eyes for a moment—then I looked away. This was mine to conquer. I couldn't stare at the sun when enveloped by flames, nor could I make him a target for the twitchy archers around me. Their bowstrings were taut, and their suspicions were primed; they watched my every move with fidgety fingers.