I woke up fumbling for a blanket. Cold air wafted in from the open windows. My eyes fluttered open, and my body shivered. My right hand rubbed my forehead, ruffling my bangs before disappearing inside my thick coat. I eased my breathing, preparing to fall asleep again when a light humming brought me to consciousness once again. The door opened. A young woman in a long dress came bursting forth with a mop in one hand and a bucket in the other. I followed her with my eyes for a moment, watching the water in the bucket slosh on either side, wetting her wool stockings. She set the bucket down in a corner and leaned the mop against the wall. She started clearing the floor.

I saw Brigit as she dipped again and rose with my briefcase in her hands. My body shot up.

"Brigit." My voice was harsh. Spinning on her heels, she turned to face me. The briefcase thudded against the floor as it fell from her grasp. She dropped to the standard bow, back bent quarter-way and right foot slanted forward.

I forced a smile and held out my hand. "Please," I said, "give me the briefcase."

She unfolded herself from the bow and moved to fetch the bag. When it was in my hands, I clutched it to my chest until I felt the hard ridge of the journal. I must have kicked the briefcase to the floor in my sleep.

Brigit made a nervous gesture, and then glanced at a spot below my eyes.

"I didn't know you were here. I swear. If I'd known, I never would have come in."

Her eyes darted to and fro before they saw the open window. She jumped to attention and sped to turn the window winder until the glass shut firmly within the pane. When she was done, she spun around. "I never would have opened the window if I'd known."

Icy air still lingered in the room, and I shivered again as I tossed the bedsheets away from my body.

"I know you wouldn't have, Brigit. Don't worry. I'm not angry. Besides, I should have been up three hours ago."

She gave me a slight nod and fled from the room—without her supplies, I noticed.

When I heard the soft bang from the door closing shut, I stretched my limbs and fell back on the bed. A full grin broadened across my face. I reached for my briefcase, unbuckled it, and swung the flap around, leaving it open. My fingers stilled. The fingertips brushed the worn edge of my bag. Even though I'd felt the journal, I didn't fully trust that it was still there. I hesitated then plunged inside, feeling for a familiar slight weight. When I felt it, I pulled it out.

My eyes feasted on the journal. The twine. The binding cloth. The burgundy extravagance that I knew there to be.

Then, they fell onto the heart-shaped clasp. Perhaps it was only decorative. Gently, I tried to pry open the journal. No luck. I needed that key. I traced the braided border, wishing I had pressed Jack for the key before leaving. Not that he would give it to me—if he had it—without charging another 2000 citz.

Grabbing my robe, I hid the journal in the deep pocket, left my room, and walked the distance to my father's study. I glanced back once before closing the door shut behind me. 

On the wall, right next to the door, was my father's treasured key collection. There were three long rows of hooks holding keys. They dangled in the air like a silent wind chime. My hand gravitated toward the first row to the left, and I moved closer. It was futile, I knew, but that didn't stop me from gently lifting a bright, golden key from its hook. The key refused to fit inside the clasp, and I released a whoosh of breath. After I replaced the key to its rightful hook, my hand moved to the next key, and I started all over again.

One by one, I held my breath as I tried to fit the key into the clasp. One by one, I was disappointed, until I reached the second to last key. It was gold with a long shaft and jagged notches. I slid the key inside, my heart shuttering to a stop as the key fitted within the clasp with ease.

It couldn't be this easy.

Quickly, I turned the key, waiting for the lock to click open. But nothing happened. I tried again, more forcefully this time to no avail. I stared at the key as I pulled it out, running a finger over its jagged notch before returning the key to its position on the rack. I didn't want to try the last key, but I forced myself to slide it from its hook and fit it into the clasp. It didn't work, either, but I wasn't surprised.

The journal was in my hands, and before I could stop myself, my fingers gripped the front and back cover, trying to pry it open. It didn't budge, and I almost pitched it to the far side of the room. I stopped myself before the journal left the safety of my grip.

I remembered the excerpt, the words, and the feelings it conveyed and knew that I couldn't part with the journal...not yet—not until I knew it had absolutely nothing to offer me.

Taking a calming breath, I wrapped it with its cloth, bound it with its twine, and then I placed the journal in my pocket and retraced my steps back to my room.

I wanted to find pliers and break it open. I dared not. Judging from the light pouring inside from the unmasked windows, it was past twelve.

Rolling the carpet away, I revealed the unblemished expanse of cold-white marble. My knees pressed into the ground as I felt around for a rift on the floor. My hands skimmed the surface inch by inch.

A ridge nicked one of my fingers. I brought it to my mouth and sucked the sting away. The tile was uneven, not a perfect square. One corner was rounded, not sharp, leaving a tiny hole where the unfinished edge should have laid.

The aberration was small, so miniscule you'd miss it if you weren't looking for it. I poked my injured finger inside the gap and lifted up the tile. A crunch sounded in the room as the tile twisted and finally rose. The rest of my hand fitted underneath the little slit, and with help from my other hand, the tile was removed from its place on the floor, and a gaping hole took its place.

Underneath the sculpted opulence of the marble floor was rusted steel and weathered wood.

I sat up and dusted my hands. After gathering the journal from the bed, I placed it in the opening, careful not to let anything smudge it. I slid the tile into its slot and covered my secret with the decorated mat. I dusted my hands clean, as if to wipe away any sign of evidence.

Shrugging off my robe, I let it drop to the floor and prepared for my bath.

An hour later, I was on the move again. My right hand clasped the railing as I slinked down the steps toward the kitchen. Breakfast was long gone, and I knew I'd have to wheedle for a bite now or wait until dinner, since lunch is hardly ever served.

I could kick myself for forgetting to set my alarm. If Cookie didn't let me swipe something to eat, I was sure I'd waste away.

I reached the last step, ready to turn right toward the kitchen when a body stepped in my way.

The collision was unexpected, and we both tumbled to the ground. I fell on my elbow and winced as it smarted. But a wince soon turned into a snort, and then a short laugh as I lifted myself up.

"Funny is it?" She was sprawled on the floor. Her dress had hiked up in the fall and lipstick smudged her chin. "If your clumsiness damaged my hair..." Her dark eyes delivered the rest of her promise.

I moved to her side, towering over her. "You should smile more. All that sneering is making you age." My joking smile ignored her anger. "Here. Let me help you."

"No." She got to her feet, wincing as she used her wrist to pull herself up.

I moved to help her. "No," she said, stumbling back. "Don't...touch me." She rose onto wavering feet. "I'm fine."

I nodded and tucked my hand behind me. She walked to the mirror with a slight limp in her step. I followed her.

The mirror was above the fireplace. The blaze warmed my legs as my feet pressed against the edge; I dropped my arms onto the mantle. Inches above the wood, the mirror rested. It was large and rectangular and set in bronze. The frame was a mesh of swirling petals and unborn flowers. Within the glass showed the brief beauty of youth. My sister's and my face bloomed across the mirror.

I turned my head to the side to watch my sister as she stared at her reflection.

Her hands floated about her face like an extension of the petals forever memorialized in the frame.

Her hair was flat braided upward toward her forehead, and then twisted and teased to create a sleek pompadour. Only a few strands were dangling free. She pressed the wayward locks flat against her skull with her left hand, while her right rubbed away the lipstick smudge on her chin. Tidying up absorbed her attention. Her determined eyes never left her reflection. I knew they never would until she looked smart and pristine again.

I caught the broken nail of her fourth finger before she did. It wasn't long before the jagged nail snagged her hair. She winced and hesitated before lifting the hanging nail to her teeth and biting it off. She frowned at her uneven nail before tapping it against her lips. I knew what she wanted to do, just as I knew she would never do it. Biting off a hanging nail leaned into grey area, but deliberate chewing was inexcusable. She stashed her left hand behind her, just as I knew she would.

I'd spent my whole childhood looking at my sister. Observing her movements. Imitating her mannerisms. I let my eyes drift from her person. My arms fell from their spot on the mantle. My feet shuffled back. I turned away.

"Celeste."

I whipped around. My sister faced me. She looked as if she'd never fallen. Even the slight limp was missing from her gait as she moved toward me, but not too close.

So smart. So pristine. So cold.

"You went somewhere last night," she said.

My fingers went to my forehead, feeling for my bangs. "That's not a question."

"I saw you." Her voice was soft. "I saw you walking out. And if I saw you, others may have as well.

My heart clenched. I felt as if she could hear the rapid beating of my heart. I met her gaze. "I went out, yes, but I didn't go anywhere."

Her eyes slanted as though she didn't believe me.

"I was tired last night, but I couldn't fall asleep. I thought a short walk would help."

"A short walk," she said. "That's interesting because it was a while before you returned."

"If you were so curious, why didn't you follow me?"

"Because unlike you, I use my brain. Unlike you, I don't harbor an unnatural obsession with the wall." She paused.

"You can close your mouth. No one else knows. I only know because I'm your sister, and I know you so well."

"Could have fooled me." The words poured from my lips before I could stop them, and after they did, I met her gaze and stared until her eyes dropped.

"Celeste..." Her voice came out as a heavy whisper, weighted by a wealth of pain. She reached for me. Just before her hands could brush mine, she froze, snatched her hand away, and held it against her body. "Celeste, I..." she said. Her eyebrows furrowed, creasing her forehead. A hand rose to her mouth and a finger pushed against her lips as she chewed her nail.

I turned away. She didn't call me back.

"Could have fooled me, Analiese."