The Iron Thorn - Caitlin Kittredge [52]
Nobody showed themselves. The dust floated in the lamplight like ghostly fireflies, and my only companion was the sound.
I descended the stairs and found myself in a back hallway, which in turn lead to a back parlor. All of Graystone’s furniture sat swathed in dust catchers, lion feet peeking out from under their white skirts. The only uncovered thing in the room was an old-style wireless box, its aether tubes cloudy and dim with disuse.
I left the parlor and found another faceless hallway, where portraits of Graysons past watched me with dour frowns, cobwebs trailing from their frames. I stopped and raised the lamp, gazing at each face in turn, trying to find some clue to myself. There were precious few who looked anything like me among the starched clothes and serious eyes. The mossy green color of those eyes, though, was the same as mine. I turned away and tried a few doors, iron handles cold to my touch. Each was locked, and I left them that way. I wasn’t a sneak, but my father didn’t know that. I could only imagine being caught breaking into Graystone and snooping around. I wanted him to meet me on good terms, and approve of me, and nod in acknowledgment that I was his daughter. My heart sank, though, as I wandered farther and farther afield, each turn of the hall yielding nothing but dust and desolation. And the sound, always. Graystone was dead, hollowed out like the carcass of a beast. My father—or anyone, for that matter—hadn’t been here in a long time.
I turned into what I recognized from my fevered state as the front entry hall, and the marble chilled my stockinged feet. I’d been re-dressed in my bloodied sweater and ripped blouse, but they weren’t much good for keeping out the cold.
Across from the grand staircase to the second floor, I confronted a pair of pocket doors carved with a peculiar forest scene. Creatures cavorted under fruit-heavy trees, but they weren’t creatures I’d ever encountered. These were half men, half goat. I reached out a hand and touched them. They felt delicate under my fingers, wrought by an artist who had the finest touch with his chisel. They were beautiful. Strange. Certainly forbidden by the Proctors, I felt sure.
I pulled my hand away. From behind the doors, springs wound and weights swung. Tick. Thock. Tick. Tick. Thock. I hadn’t managed to find Conrad or my father, but at least I’d found the source of the sound.
I tugged at the brass pulls, made in the shapes of the north and east wind, great billowy brass clouds for hair and sharp lightning-bolt noses, rings caught in their teeth.
I stuck my finger in the east wind’s mouth, then yanked it back again like the thing might really bite me. I let out a nervous giggle.
Tick. Thock. The sound was louder, or perhaps I was just nervy from the dark house and the knowledge that even if my father had locked the place up and gone somewhere less dank and forbidding, I was trespassing here.
When I at last tugged on the handles, the doors were locked and I virtually collapsed from relief. I didn’t need to be the lone adventurer any longer. I could creep back upstairs and be in bed before Dean realized I’d ever been out of it.
Still, I wished I’d seen what kind of clock could reverberate its gears through brick and wood, to the ears of sleepers rooms away. I touched the doors once more and gave them a last, experimental tug.
To my surprise, a heavy clacking arose, and the locks opened. The doors themselves slid backward on some kind of self-propelled mechanism, and a puff of stale air kissed my face as they settled open with a clank.
Spinning, I looked behind me to see what might have triggered the doors. My thoughts didn’t jump to viral creatures, but rather to an angry Archibald Grayson discovering a thief or my mad brother playing one of his tricks. Shadows leaped with the jostling of my lamp, painting the shadow of man and phantom on the walls of the entryway.
I was alone, though, and when I realized the fact, a little fear got in with it. The walls of the Academy