C6

"Hand it to me, Cecelia," Christopher's voice cuts through the silent bedroom as he steps into the room.

I sit on the edge of the freezing mattress, my hands locked tightly around the small metal casing.

Beside me rests the single worn leather bag I was permitted to bring into this mansion. Inside its torn cloth lining, tucked deep near the bottom seam, I had found the small silver locket resting against the fabric.

I press my nail against the tarnished latch, popping it open with a faint click.

The faded photograph of my mother, Celestine, stares back at me through the cracked glass frame. Resting beneath the photo, pressed against the metal back, sits a tiny silver key. For the first time since this nightmare began, a tiny, fragile spark of real hope flickers inside my bruised chest. She is still here with me. I am not completely alone in this dark house.

"I said give it to me," Christopher repeats, his shadow falling over my lap as he closes the distance between us.

I press the locket tight against my chest, my nails digging into the silver metal. "No. This is the only thing I have left of her."

"You have nothing in this house," he says flatly.

Christopher reaches down, his large, warm hand grabbing my wrists with unrelenting force.

He twists my arm until my fingers loosen, pulling the silver locket out of my open palm before I can pull back.

My heart hits my ribs like a trapped bird as I watch him step toward the nightstand.

A tall glass candle burns silently on the marble top, its pale yellow flame flickering in the dark air. Christopher holds the open locket directly over the open flame. He doesn't rush. He holds it calmly, his face carved out of stone as the heat licks against the edges of the faded photograph.

My lungs lock up completely. I don't scream. I don't beg him to stop. I don't let a single tear spill over my eyelashes.

I sit completely frozen, watching in absolute silence as the paper picture of my mother begins to brown. The photo curls, blackens, and dissolves into dark ash right before my eyes. The tiny plastic glass over the frame cracks from the intense heat, melting into a dark blob over the metal casing.

Christopher drops the burning, ruined piece of metal onto the floorboards right at my feet.

"Your mother was trash," Christopher says, his deep voice slicing through the thick air like a blade. "You are trash. Don't dig up things that should stay buried."

I slowly lower myself off the edge of the bed onto my knees.

The cold floor bites into my skin, but I don't care. I reach out my steady hands toward the small pile of warm, grey ash resting beside his black leather shoes. My fingers gather the warm remnants of her photograph, scooping the ruined ash into my bare palm with careful, quiet movements.

My face is completely blank. My breathing stays slow, deep, and measured.

Above me, Christopher stands unmoving.

He stares down at the top of my head while I gather the ashes from the floor. His sharp jaw clenches hard once, twice.

Then, for half a second, his right hand trembles at his side—his fingers twitching violently before he ball them into a tight fist to hide the reaction.

The absolute, total quiet in my eyes hits him harder than any screaming or crying could have.

He shifts his weight back, his dark eyes narrowing as an unreadable shadow passes over his face. He hates that he noticed the change in me. He hates that my total silence feels less like surrender and more like a quiet, dangerous warning.

"Clean it up," he growls through gritted teeth, his tone sharp to cover the sudden crack in his voice. "And get into bed."

He turns on his heel and storms out of the bedroom, slamming the door shut behind him with enough force to rattle the glass lamps.

I stay on my knees on the floor, holding the warm black dust against my heart.

Hours pass in the pitch-black room. I lie wide awake under the heavy covers, staring blindly at the dark ceiling while the clock on the wall ticks toward three in the morning. Every muscle in my body is taut, waiting for the night to end.

A faint footstep sounds in the quiet hallway directly outside my door.

I freeze under the sheets, holding my breath as I listen to the floorboards creak outside.

A shadow blocks the crack of light beneath the door frame.

"She doesn't know anything," Christopher's quiet, raspy voice carries straight through the thick wood of the door as he speaks into his phone. "She's just a broken girl collecting dust."

A woman's faint, tinny voice responds from the receiver, her tone sharp and demanding.

"I won't let her touch the inheritance," Christopher replies to the phone, his tone dropping into something dark, sharp, and ruthless. "I'll break her completely before the year is over. Then I'm coming back to you, Elizabeth."

The call ends with a sharp click, followed by the quiet sound of his heavy leather shoes walking away down the carpeted corridor.

In the total darkness of the bedroom, my eyes snap open wide.

The wetness in my eyes is completely gone. The tears have dried into salt against my cheeks. My heart isn't thrashing in fear anymore. It is beating with a slow, heavy, freezing rhythm that settles deep inside my bones.

My gaze turns to the dark corner of the room where the small silver key from the locket rests hidden inside my palm.

They burned her face, but they didn't take the key.

My lips press together in a hard, unyielding line as I stare into the dark, my blood turning colder than the ice running through this mansion.

Christopher

I stand at the end of the long, dark corridor, my chest heaving as I stare at the heavy brass doorknob of the master bedroom.

The phone feels heavy in my palm. The display is still lit up with Elizabeth's name on the screen, but my mind is entirely trapped in the room behind me.

I press my thumb hard against the glass screen until the light goes out, plunging the hallway back into shadows.

The total silence from her room echoes in my ears like a threat.

I expected her to cry. I expected her to scream, to hit my chest, to beg for her mother's memory like any other fragile girl would.

Instead, she just looked at me with those cold, clear eyes—eyes that looked straight through the ice I built around myself and found the blood on my hands.

My jaw tightens so hard the muscles ache.

I look down at my right hand, watching my fingers tremble in the dim hallway light before I force them flat against my thigh.

She isn't breaking.

And that terrifies me more than anything else in this world.