Thread of Ash and Fire

Ch. 12: Knife Through Flesh

Isolde hopped from the carriage.

She shielded her eyes, squinting up at the manor house. Roberge Lund's home looked exactly as she'd expected it to: snow-covered turrets, wrought iron railings, green vines, a burbling fountain... It could have been a crumbling ancestral home, she thought, if it wasn't for the scent of fresh paint. Something new disguised as something old. Next to her, Julian shoved a dagger into his sock.

"Are you sure about this?" Julian murmured.

He was assessing the manor house, his blue eyes sweeping over the windows and doors. A winter breeze ruffled his dark hair. Isolde shivered, burrowing further into her fur cloak.

"We don't have a choice," she said.

Julian's gaze narrowed. "I don't trust him."

"We need the support." Isolde toyed with the cold metal ring at her throat. "The red brothers have the men."

He turned. "If anything happens..."

"Jules—"

"Run," Julian said firmly, ignoring her interjection. "Even if that means leaving me behind. Promise me, Iz."

He took her hands. Isolde stared down at their gloves — black and white, nestled together like piano keys — and something in her stomach tightened. Not anxiety, Isolde realized with some surprise, but something else. Something primal.

"We'll be fine," Isolde murmured.

Julian's grip tightened. "Isolde."

There was an edge to his voice. When Isolde looked up, Julian was watching her with steady eyes. Strange, she thought, to see Julian without a bow sprouting from his shoulder like some bizarre third limb. But they'd agreed that bringing loaded weapons into Roberge Lund's home would send the wrong message; it was, as Julian's mother Malissa had pointed out, far better to bring concealed ones instead.

"Fine," Isolde said. "I promise."

Julian dropped her hands. "Good." He turned for the house. "Stay behind me. I'm not sure if Roberge was joking about the attack dogs."

They climbed the stone steps. Julian raised the iron knocker, and the door creaked as it swung open. Isolde peered into the house beyond — a dimly-lit entrance hall, with a smattering of black-and-white tiles like a chessboard — and raised her eyebrow.

"Okay," she murmured. "This is creepy."

Julian took a step forward. "Stay close."

"I wouldn't step on that, if I were you," a voice called.

A figure emerged from the shadows. He was dressed in a bottle-green smoking jacket, and his gold spectacles winked in the darkness. His blond hair was freshly washed and combed. But it was the posture that gave it away, Isolde thought; he stood with his shoulders in a sharp line, like a knife prepared to slice through flesh. Only rich men stood like that.

Roberge Lund.

"Rigged tiles," Roberge continued, nodding at the tiled flooring. "If you step on the wrong square, the room will flood with nightmare somnium. You'll be dead in moments."

"Must make it difficult to accept parcels," Julian said.

His voice was pleasant, but a muscle fluttered in his jaw. Roberge stuffed his hands into his pockets.

"Follow the red tiles," Roberge offered. "That's the trick."

Isolde took a step forward. Julian held out a hand.

"I'll go first," he said, his voice low.

Isolde glanced up. Roberge was watching them with an unreadable expression, his head cocked to the side. Isolde thought of the grey cat that had once prowled the convent, assessing the mice that scurried under the floorboards. Which was the fastest? Which was the weakest? The cat made its decision just before it struck.