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Nothing could stop Midsummer Night from arriving. Two short hours before the clock struck twelve, Darya was putting on her new dress, her body near stiff from fear.
The dress hugged her body tightly. She couldn't help but trace her fingers down to the pearls on the hem of it, feeling herself turn pale. She didn't know what Riddle wanted from her. What he wanted her to do. Why she needed to wear such a beautiful dress. The only thing she knew was that there was no escaping him and his orders.
She walked down the stairs in the manor with short steps. Her hands were shaking badly, and she was doing an attempt at calming herself, though deep breaths couldn't help her at this moment. He was standing in the living room, just beside Cordelia's chair, his hands folded behind his back as he looked around the room. His gaze moved between paintings of her ancestors and age-old Sirens.
He gestured at the photograph of a great ship, its sails torn as it drifted on the sea. "Ashera Swan," he muttered. "This was the ship Ashera was murdered on."
His eyes had still not landed upon Darya. He couldn't see her trembling and how she flinched when he spoke Ashera's name. She knew that the story of her family had been written in many books, but she felt horrible, knowing that he was aware of their stories.
"The ship with no name, isn't that what they called it?" He walked closer to the painting while he spoke. "If one ever sees it while traveling the sea, they know that their death is near. It is truly the sign of death."
Darya arched a brow. "People fear the ship, not its dangerous sailors?"
"They're dead, aren't they?"
"Ashera made sure they got what they deserved," she confirmed. "Think the Siren Song should be the indication of death, not a stupid ship."
"But you refuse to sing it. You are a Siren who refuses to use her powers."
"I use my powers, Sir. I use them for good. I do not need to kill sailors. They have done me no harm."
"They have done your ancestors harm; you are well aware of that. Tell me, when you saw those men at your shore earlier, did you not want to taste revenge?"
Her answer was clear: "No. Hurting others will gain me nothing."
Finally, he turned to her. He looked at her face, her hair, her dress. She felt like a doll. He was looking for a pretty smile and red cheeks - a perfect doll to collect and bring into his dollhouse. Darya wondered if that was what his followers were to him: dolls.
When she looked into his eyes now, it was nearly impossible to comprehend that he had harmed and killed so many as the papers had told her he had. She wondered if he had made his followers do all his dirty work so that he could sleep well at night while they sat with their heads between their knees, crying out. He would give them commands and sit on his throne of bones he had broken. They would come back to him with blood under their nails like rusting metal, still hoping that he would let them serve him another day.
