The Glass Ballerina Who Danced On Knives

Thank God for Grayson Hawthorne

hopefully the title speaks to you xD 

this ones for you Emily_Potato_

"That's what every cheating husband says," quips Xander, sledgehammer in hand. "Have something you want to tell us?"

"Um," I swallow. "There's a secret passage that goes into Uncle Toby's room?"

"One you denied existing?" Xander's voice smiles, but the way he crosses his arms and the scroll on his face is accusing.

Avery and Jameson's eyes bounce back and forth between my pursed lips and Xander's scowl.

"Are we interrupting something, or can we just work together here?" Avery sounds exasperated, restless.

I smile sweetly. "Sorry about that Avery. Just a little...Hawthorne thing." I realise how rude that sounds the second it flies out of my mouth, and rush to correct myself, but Avery's eyes are clouding over and I'm sure she won't truly hear any apology I deliver. Instead, I shoot a pointed glare at Jameson.

"So, how long has this been boarded up?" Avery's coming back, slowly but surely.

"Since Toby 'died', so around twenty years." Jameson shrugs.

"Wow," she breathes. "Everything's so... perfect."

"Except for the dust bunnies!" quips Xander, as he drops the sledge hammer by the door.

We file down the mirror-coated hallway, wandering into different rooms. I walk into a room painted in shades of grey. A circular table is set for poker, cards and chips laid out.

52 chances. a war of clubs and spears,
The ego's greatest fear
The devil's vice
In which the Angel attempts to stop the dice.
Six sides with 21 eyes

But you don't use dice for poker. The drawers can't be empty, but when I pull on them, they refuse to budge. Feeling defeated, I sit down on one of the chairs. This game was never played. Maybe a decoration? Everything is set out as if in mid play, but the placement of the cards is odd, sterilised, like a cover up. I count the worth of the chips. One thousand nine hundred and eighty-one. One thousand nine hundred and seventy-seven. One thousand nine hundred and seventy-three. Weird. 1981. 1977. 1973. Something about those years seem familiar.

Then it hits me. Those are the birth years of Toby, Skye, and Zara. No wonder the game looks so fake. It is. It's a cover, a puzzle. I can do games. I was raised to play. First, I deal cards,which results in nothing. Next, I shift the stacks of chips, triggering some sort of clicking sound. The drawer pops open.

Two dice sit, nested in cushy black velvet. Granddad knew every inch of this place, of course he could put something in Toby's room. Hesitantly, I reach out and take the dice in my hands. A smooth black marble, set with painted white divots, the dice are clearly weighted. I throw them down. Two and two.

Again.

Two.

And two.

But what does it mean?

My mind reels. There are so many meanings, so many possibilities. Before I do anything, I sit up a little straighter, listening for anyone walking into the room. It's silent, so I whip out my phone and snap a picture of the dice before sliding everything back into place. Wait. It's silent.

It's never, ever, ever silent when my brothers are around. Unless something is wrong.

Slowly, I creep to the hallway, Avery and Xander already there. They shoot me a quizzical look.