A Crown Of Salt And Thorns

The Sentinel of the Stairs

Chapter 2:

The floorboards of the upper gallery at Thorne Manor had a specific language—a series of groans and sharp cracks that told me exactly where the shadows were heaviest. At sixteen, I had become an expert translator of that silence. I stood in the dim light of the hallway, my fingers tracing the cold wainscoting, watching the door to my mother's chambers.

Inside, I could hear the rhythmic, frantic pacing. It was a sound that had replaced the lullabies of my childhood. Lady Annabella was no longer the woman who had taught me to embroider or read poetry; she was a bird trapped in a cage of her own ribs, and the "conditioning" of her mind was worsening with every passing hour.

"Gabriella?"

I jumped, my heart hammering against my stays. William stood at the end of the corridor, his brow furrowed. At eighteen, he was trying so hard to be the man of the house while our father, Lord Samuel, withered away in the south wing. He looked at Mother's door, his eyes filled with a boyish confusion that I couldn't afford to share.

"She's just resting, Will," I said quickly, stepping forward to intercept him. I forced a smile that felt brittle, like frozen silk. "The rain always makes her head ache. You know how the Thorne constitution is—delicate as glass when the mist rolls in."

"She was talking to the walls again, Gabby," he whispered, his voice cracking. "I heard her through the vents. She was calling out for someone named Agatha. And the letter... she burned a letter in the hearth this morning, and she looked so... frightened."

"It's the pregnancy," I lied, the words tasting like copper. I reached out and smoothed his lapel, acting the part of the elder even though he was the heir. "The child within her is taking all her strength. It's a heavy burden to carry a Thorne heir while Father is so ill. We must be her pillars, Will. We can't let her see us worry, or the vapors will only settle deeper."

I could see him wanting to believe me. He wanted to believe that our mother wasn't drifting into that dark sea we weren't allowed to name. He nodded slowly, his shoulders relaxing just a fraction. "I suppose. I'm going to the stables. Killian said he'd show me the new colt."

"Go," I urged. "Stay out until dinner. I'll have Cera bring some tea up to the gallery."

As soon as his footsteps faded, my mask crumbled. I turned back to the door, my hand hovering over the latch. I wasn't just worried about the "Madness"; I was terrified of the life growing inside her. I had seen the way she looked at her own reflection lately—as if she didn't recognize the woman staring back. She touched her stomach not with affection, but with a wary, distant fear, as if she were carrying a secret that was eating her from the inside out.

The doctors spoke of "hysteria" and "maternal exhaustion," but I saw the nitty-gritty of it. I saw the way she looked at the heavy velvet curtains and the iron fire-pokers. There was a darkness pooling in her eyes that had nothing to do with the child's health and everything to do with the spirits Miller had mentioned.

I was the sentinel. I would keep the secrets from William, and I would keep the world away from Mother. But as a low, mournful wail drifted through the mahogany door, I realized I was just a girl trying to hold back a landslide with my bare hands.

The third child was coming, and I feared that when it arrived, there would be no room left in this house for light.

The shadows in the hallway seemed to lengthen, stretching like long, skeletal fingers across the patterned rug. William lingered for a moment longer, his gaze drifting back to the heavy oak door that stood between us and the unraveling mind of our mother. I could see the questions dying on his tongue, the weight of the Thorne name pressing down on his young shoulders. He wanted to be the protector, the lord-in-waiting, but he was still just a boy who missed the sound of his mother's laughter—a sound that had been absent from these halls since long before the rain began its current siege.