The rain had stopped. For a brief moment, the sky cleared and I could see the dazzling sun again, but its rays never touched my pale skin. I refused to go downstairs, walk past the corpse that had been rotting there for a week, and step out the front door. Father would notice—and he would gladly catch me.
No one had come for the man. Father's crony had boasted someone important would collect the body the very next day, yet a week had passed and no one appeared. The stench was unbearable now; I couldn't even go near it. I hated my sense of smell—unlike sight, I couldn't simply shut it off. I drifted through the halls with my eyes closed, forcing myself to picture what decay must look like.
I planned to spend the day in the library with the others, watching Jelissa rummage through forbidden books. My eldest sister hoped to master angelic magic so she could get us out of here. It would have been cruel to steal that hope by explaining she could never defeat Father. How could she? He'd spent centuries gathering power, studying forbidden darkness, perfecting himself. Two things interested him—his war on the incomplete and strength.
The library doors burst open. A heavy tome slipped from Jelissa's hands and crashed to the floor. Oswin leapt up, summoning her wings in shock, though a moment earlier she'd been quietly drawing. Ewordie snatched a lantern, brandishing it as a weapon. I alone didn't move—sitting closest to the doors with a worn book in my lap. Why were the others so frightened? They should have expected something like this. Still, they gaped at the open doorway, speechless.
Slowly, I turned my head. I was surprised too. Standing in the doorway was not Father, as usual, but Mother. She looked straight at me. Her hair was tidy, she wore a fresh dress, and she had even put on make‑up. She resembled the ghost of the woman I dimly remembered from childhood. "There's food waiting downstairs. Come, let's eat together," she said, her voice hoarse yet surprisingly gentle. For an instant, she stopped staring at me, forced a stiff smile, and glanced at the others.
I arched an eyebrow and opened my mouth, but no words came out—I must have looked like a fish on land. A chill raced over my skin. Was I supposed to answer? Had she truly come to invite us to lunch? Unthinkable. I hadn't heard such words in years. It had to be another test—an experiment.
Ewordie moved first. Mother remained by the door, watching us intently, following every slow step as if waiting for someone to rebel or run.
We filed into the dining room far too meekly.
What is she doing? What, in the name of Prophetam, am I doing? This was a play I'd sworn never to perform again. She hadn't awakened as a new woman overnight, hadn't found her lost soul—she'd merely slipped out of her role for a moment. Maybe her old self had surfaced briefly, but I knew it wouldn't last. How would Oswin feel when Mother sank back into emptiness?
I lifted my gaze and looked across the table. Jelissa glared at Mother with the same loathing I felt, only stronger. Out of the corner of my eye we both glanced at Oswin and Ewordie. To my surprise they were smiling, swept away by the lie, happy to be deceived. They didn't see that everything would soon return to the old routine—or refused to admit it.
We'll get them out. Jelissa didn't speak aloud; she only moved her lips. I read the words easily because I was thinking the same thing. A tear slid down my right cheek. I wiped it away before anyone noticed—but she noticed. My eldest sister—the strongest of us, who loved us more than life.
We'll run. She did it again. I froze, understanding at once. We'll get them out of this cursed dining room, and we'll run. I had no idea how she meant to manage it—maybe she didn't either—but it was clear we couldn't stay; things had gone too far.
Mother returned carrying an enormous silver tray. It must once have been used for serving banquets, yet I'd never seen it before. Where had she hidden it all this time? She set it in the middle of the table, and my eyes nearly fell out. A roast chicken lay there, sprinkled with herbs, flanked by potatoes and a salad garnish. We knew potatoes and salad—but meat like this? Never.
At that moment, I stopped caring whether it might be poisoned. I felt as though I hadn't eaten in an eternity. I stared at the huge portion of meat, tempted to ignore everyone and devour it myself.
Only Jelissa held back. Oswin, by contrast, was the boldest. She knelt on her chair, braced both hands on the table, and leaned toward the chicken. The aroma was intoxicating—especially after a day spent inhaling the stench of a corpse. A shiver ran down my spine.
My gaze slid to Jelissa's hands. They were shaking uncontrollably, and she couldn't stop them. The sight terrified me. Suddenly, I struggled to breathe, as though some foreign object pressed against my lungs, keeping me from drawing air. I had to remind myself not to faint—not now.
Mother reached to serve Oswin some meat. Before I could act, Jelissa sprang up and slashed her hand through the air. Angelic magic shot across the room, struck the plate, and knocked it from Mother's grasp. It crashed to the floor, shattering. A portion splattered across the filthy carpet.
"Don't touch her!" Jelissa snarled. "You won't poison her with this slop! You can't cook!" Both her hands stayed raised, ready to conjure a shield or attack.
"Jelissa," Mother said, her eyes narrowing, the smile gone.
"Upstairs, all of you!" Jelissa didn't look away. She didn't even blink. She knew she was facing a powerful foe.
No one moved. Not one of us stood and obeyed. I knew one thing—she wouldn't drive me away. I'd stay with her, be at her side, but the other two had to leave.
"Didn't you hear me?!" Jelissa screamed, glaring mainly at Oswin.
The youngest tried to comply.
"I can't stand!" Ewordie cried in panic.
Oswin wriggled on her chair, but she too couldn't rise.
I tried as well. It felt as though something had glued us in place. I braced my hands on the table, strained with all my strength, but I couldn't budge.
A soft laugh sounded at the door.
"Sorry, I'm late!" Father watched us, laughing endlessly.
He entered, kissed mother—who still hadn't moved—and sat in an empty chair.
He had paralyzed us with magic.
"I see a little accident happened, but never mind. Darling, sit down. I'll handle it."
Mother obeyed at once. With eerie slowness she crossed to her seat and sat down.
Father hadn't yet mastered stolen darkness, but he was a master of manipulating minds. He could force us to carry out small, precisely calculated commands.
My heart hammered as if it wanted to burst. My palms were slick with sweat; dizziness threatened. The pressure of his presence—of his magic—was unbearable. I wasn't just paralyzed by his spell; I was suffocating under a tidal wave of fear. I knew this wouldn't end well.
None of us could speak.
Father moved his right hand; the fallen plate flew up into his palm. He caught it lightly. With another motion, he lifted the food from the floor and set it back.
An illusion spell cloaked the meal—the kind I'd been able to cast since childhood. Useful, yes, but I'd never imagined using it on food. It might look appetizing, yet it was all illusion. The food underneath remained the same—only hidden.
Father sent the plate floating straight to Jelissa.
If looks could kill, he would have dropped dead. Jelissa glared at him with hatred she couldn't conceal—even with magic.
"Enjoy," he said coldly, gesturing for her to eat.
No! I wanted to scream at her not to touch it. But I couldn't. I was too weak.
Jelissa fought him with every ounce of her will. Sweat ran down her face, veins bulged on her forehead, her jaw was clenched tight—but it wasn't enough. Finally, his pressure forced her to raise the fork and stab the meat.
As she slipped the first bite into her mouth, I closed my eyes—otherwise I would have vomited.
Tears rolled down her cheeks. A dreadful silence filled the room; we all heard her loud swallow.
Yet he made her lift the fork again. She had to finish. Only when she'd taken the last bite did his magic release us.
Ewordie promptly collapsed under the table, cracking his head against a chair.
No one else had to eat.
"Darling, thank you for the meal. It was excellent!" Father stood, kissed Mother again, and—radiant with good humor—was the first to leave the room. Mother followed soon after.
Jelissa retched.
None of us dared to remove the illusion. Certainly not while she was the only one forced to eat.
She barely got to her feet. She stared at the chicken, flicked her hand to dispel the spell—but I stopped her.
"Don't," I ordered firmly.
"We'll kill them! We'll kill them, Losie. Promise me we'll kill them!" she whispered, broken, into my ear.
"Of course," I said, gripping her hand and pulling her toward the second floor.
* * *
Jelissa vomited all night. I tried to comfort her, inventing various schemes to get rid of our parents. They were, of course, impossible plans, but at least they gave her hope.
Early the next morning, I dressed, checked that Jelissa was breathing, and was first downstairs.
I had to see the food. The illusion must have faded by now.
The ground floor stank hideously.
I inched toward the table. I peeked from afar; even at that distance, I knew yesterday's meal was a nightmare. The smell wasn't just the corpse—it came from the table too. At last, I could see what mother had truly served us.
Without the illusion magic, only revolting reality remained: from a slab of dark‑gray meat crawled white maggots.
My stomach flipped; nausea surged. I clenched my fists to keep from vomiting on the carpet. Tears welled in my eyes, my knees trembled.
Even so, I stepped toward the table. I did it for Jelissa. I couldn't leave it there. She mustn't see it.
I wiped my tears on my sleeve and stopped before the huge hearth. I piled in wood, paper, and straw. With a snap of my fingers I sparked a flame. It leapt so fast I had to jump back to avoid being set alight—clearly I'd used too much magic.
I grabbed the serving tray. Up close I saw how truly rusty and useless it was—fit for garbage, not food. Maggots squirmed over its rim, nearly crawling onto my hands. And the side dish? A slimy mess, as if someone had fished trash from a bin, soaked it in water, and boiled it.
Before there were any witnesses, I flipped the tray and dumped everything into the fire. It crackled; sparks shot onto the rug, but my magic ensured not a trace remained.
I drew a deep breath and wiped my mouth. We couldn't stay here. They could poison or beat us to death at any moment. The hope of improvement was dead.
No one would come to help us. No one even remembered we existed. Who would punish Father when his hand slipped too far? In the end, our bodies would rot in the great hall.
If only I were the one rotting here, I thought.
Books claimed life was sacred, irreplaceable. We ought to cherish it—that one day joy would come. I didn't feel alive. I merely existed. Sometimes death is a mercy.
"Enjoying the view, Losiela?" Father's voice echoed. I had no idea where it came from. I spun around, but couldn't see him. As though hiding in the shadows, he delighted in my despair. I tried and failed to pierce every dark nook—there were too many in this cursed house. He'd lived here far longer than I had; the advantage was his.
"Get rid of that other stinking thing as well," came from behind the curtain to my left, but the voice lasted too briefly to be sure he was there.
"Forget it!" I shouted back. Bravery was easy when I didn't face him.
Slow clapping sounded behind me, followed by ragged, terrifying laughter. I whirled, bracing against a wall so I wouldn't lose my footing. A poker lay at my feet—one move from him and I could seize it.
He stood in the brightest patch of light. Sun spilling through windows lit his form. He wore a cloak, mud‑caked boots, and hair disheveled. The roguish grin on his eternally young face filled me with raw dread. Fear sliced into my heart like sharp blades, paralyzing me.
For an beat, I thought father could read my mind—he knew I planned to flee, to take the others.
"Get rid of it or we'll go flying together," he chuckled. "You know only one of us would come back. Don't make your siblings weep over you."
He'd do it. He'd taken me on brutal outings before; they always ended in disaster for me. Once he'd dropped me from a great height and calmly watched me plummet.
I'd give anything—even my soul. I'd do whatever the devil himself demanded, suffer any torment the angels decreed—if only he would fall dead and powerless, so I could stand over him, scream my victory, knowing he'd never hurt us again.
I counted breaths, stayed frozen. I longed for compromise—if I couldn't kill him, let some higher power drive him away. I wanted solitude. I wouldn't approach while he jeered; I lacked that courage.
Perhaps Prophetam himself took pity on me. Father smirked one last time, straightened his cloak, turning his back. He began humming some song—its words unknown but welcome. The melody let me listen carefully, waiting for the safe moment to move and claim the hall.
I dared not disobey. He'd ordered me to dispose of the corpse, and the price of disobedience would be steep—he'd once forced me to lie on it; I wouldn't endure that again.
The stench was unbearable.
If only I were the one rotting here.
Books claimed life was sacred, irreplaceable… I didn't feel alive. I merely existed. Sometimes death is a mercy.