Selma dashed through the darkness, recklessly colliding with stone walls, tripping on staggered rocks in the dirt. Without the lantern, she couldn't see even her own hand in front of her face. Her body ached all over from bruises and cuts, each of them accidentally self-inflicted in the pitch black. The only thing that appealed to her about the situation was, surprisingly, the Darkspirit.
Suddenly, she heard it again.
Seven soft clicks, each faster than the other. In a matter of seconds, Selma dropped to her knees. She gripped the wet bottom of her dress, wrapped it around her fingers, and shoved it in her ears, as deep as they would go. Selma huddled down, bracing herself.
EEEAAAAAOOOOWWWW! The monster screeched.
She could feel the violence in its cry reverberate all around her — moving her body, dancing on her flesh. Its screech made her joints and muscles weaken, but only for a moment. Selma grinned wildly. A giddy feeling burst in her chest like fireworks, so strong that she had to hold herself back from busting out in laughter. As soon as the monster's roar concluded, Selma inhaled deep breaths, forcing oxygen to her muscles as fast as she could so that she could continue running. She pulled her body upward and forward, and continued running.
This feeling thrilled her, but also terrified her. She had grown up a princess — proper and protected. Selma had grown up praised for her compliant personality and her knowledge. She built her self-worth around it. But as she ran through these halls, she felt pride bloom in her chest when she figured out the monster had to stop to make the sound. She found herself growing amused by how quickly she'd deduced that the monster had a clear time lapse between when it could let out that screech. She found a grin on her face every time she surpassed her own limits. And as she ran, completely blind in the dark, bruised and cut by the walls, Selma began to fear how natural this felt to her. If besting the monster is what excited her — if that's what brought such joy that it brought tears to her eyes and laughter to her throat — then that meant she wasn't a compliant girl at all. That meant she'd been living her life as a lie. The stories of the Starblessed excited her, they always had. So she joined the Starfollowers. She learned their ways. Taught herself to speak the way they spoke. But if she was honest with herself, did she ever truly believe in the grace of the Goddess? It's what she was told was true. The Starfollowers allowed her an outlet to study. It was convenient. And the Starblessed — their power was fascinating. It excited her. But is fascination and pride the same as faith?
WHAM!
Selma found herself on the floor faster than she could process the fact that she'd slammed her body into a wall at full force. She couldn't see anything but her mind spun. She tried to force herself up but her body wouldn't listen.
I need to figure something else out, she thought. I'm going to end up tenderizing myself against the walls for the damned monster on my own.
She could hear the heavy footsteps of the infected just down the hall. She needed to move quickly and quietly. Its cry warped her senses. Even with the information she'd gleaned by letting it chase her randomly around those dark halls, it wasn't enough to stop it. She would have to find her way back to Harriet or a place to hide. But where?
Selma pushed herself to her feet, placing her hand on the cold stone wall beside her. She pressed her fingers into its grooves for stability when suddenly, she recognized the shape of its ridges. She frowned curiously, allowing her fingers to move over the bumps and ridges. Suddenly, her eyes widened.
This is a pattern, she thought, excitement curling low in her gut. Selma's heart pounded wildly as her fingers recognized the vertical pattern of the raised markings. It was said that the Forsythian Princess who stood beside the first Starblessed began to quickly lose her sight toward the end of her life. To a scholar whose life is filled with nothing but the written word, nothing could be worse. Selma smiled as she recognized the words as the ancient Forsythian words for 'left' and 'tearoom.' She still used the halls. Of course the Princess worked around her disability. And hundreds of years later, her work is going to guide me out. If this is where the tearoom is, then the laundry room shouldn't be too far!
Selma moved fast, keeping her arm steady and level as she pushed her body down the hall, quietly tracing the wall with her hand. She could hear the monster's heavy footsteps stumbling about in the dark, too close for comfort. Selma was surprised with herself — that she wasn't frozen with fear but brimming with adrenaline. Most any sane person suddenly blinded with darkness, stuck in a labyrinth with a monster might not be so calm. But to her surprise, Selma liked this new aspect she figured out about herself. Normally, she struggled with social interaction, always worried about what others thought and how her actions reflected on her family or status. But here, in this moment, Selma had the opportunity to learn who she truly was. Not a replica of who she thought a princess should be.
Then, just as she turned a corner, her fingers found another word in the dark. Her heart dropped to her stomach.
It's the character for clothing, she thought, doing her best to decipher the glyphs. Then the symbol for…'regularly used area.' And then another character for sleep.
Selma's heart pounded furiously. She could hear the monster growing ever closer. She knew she didn't have much time before its next cry. Between the first three cries and the self-inflicted bruises, Selma wasn't sure how much more her body could take. She wasn't exactly known for her physical strength or stamina. She had to get out of there, and fast. The only problem was — she wasn't skilled enough with the characters to know what this series of characters or the arrangement meant. She wracked her brain but she was running out of time. The monster sounded closer than before, and soon it would be ready for another mind-piercing shriek.
She placed both palms on the wall, feeling for the entrance. Many of the secret entrances were hidden in places people would never think to look, like behind a painting in the royal hall or behind Selma's wardrobe or even underneath dirt and grass in the field behind the palace.
They were places people would miss almost every time.
Then, Selma felt her hand brush something that felt like thin metal. Her palm closed around the cool, rusted flaking steel and she realized it was a thin metal handle. She pulled and the door swung upwards. The opening started on the floor and was about half the height of her. But that wasn't the problem. As she yanked the metal, the distinct screech of old, creaking hinges echoed throughout the chamber — too loud.
Her location was compromised.
Selma's eyes widened in the darkness as she heard the creature — far too close for comfort — hiss loudly. She thrust her body into the wall, stumbling in. The space was deeper than she imagined, mismatched to the floor of the secret hall but spacious enough for her to stand without crouching. She quickly shut the door with another distinct screech. She could hear the monster slam its body against one of the walls, unable to see in the dark. She heard it hiss, more agitated than before and force itself up. Then, the monster quieted down. Selma took a deep, silent inhale through her mouth, and then closed both hands over her nose and mouth so that the monster wouldn't hear her breathing. She backed up as far as she could in the space, which wasn't more than two feet from the door. She hadn't had time to inspect the door, but she did know a few things. She could hear everything the creature was doing on the other side, which meant two things. First, the door was very thin. And the second, if she could hear it, the creature could also hear her.
Then, she had another thought. It had more than enough time to make that deafening sound. But it hadn't. Selma's eyes flew open.
It was waiting for the right time.
Selma bit down on her lips, and slowly — ever so slowly — bent her knees to kneel on the floor. Centuries of dirt and grime covered the floor. Her toes dug into something that felt almost like dirt but softer — fluffier. She ignored it and did as she did before. Selma gripped her wet dress, and just as she heard the clicks, she shoved it in her ears.
Then, the Darkspirit released its shriek — the worst it had thus far.
Selma didn't know if this one was so bad because the creature was so close or because she'd been subjected to it so many times before. But as her mind began to unravel, she tried to keep herself locked into what she could sense. Selma couldn't see. She couldn't move her arms an inch. She couldn't even breathe right. But in that moment between the shriek and the peace of silence, her lungs expanded, and with it, a scent. A scent no person in history could miss.
Ash.
And as Selma's mind started to come back to her, slowly, it put the pieces together. She sat in ash. The space was compact, not a door that led to an actual room.
She unplugged her ears, and heard the infected's footsteps recede. Her ears rang terribly and her body felt extremely weak. But as soon as it sounded far enough away, she clumsily spread her arms out, lifting herself from the floor with shaky knees. The space was a small box, rectangular and just as dark as the secret halls. But where was she? Why was the floor of this box mismatched to the hall? Selma reached her arm upward, and to her surprise, the ceiling moved. Not much, but enough that she knew it could. She pushed on it very hard, and with a slight scraping sound, she was able to move the stone that covered it.
But that's when her stomach sank. Light finally crept into the space and Selma knew exactly where she was. She was beneath the tearoom of the guest hall. More specifically, she was beneath the fireplace of the guest hall, not far from the laundry room. Dread dug its cruel hooks deep into Selma's gut. The opening was too small to even fit her head through. This space wasn't meant at all for escape — it was meant for spying on guests.
Her arms relaxed at her sides and she grinned through her exhaustion.
Of course I'm beneath the damn fireplace, she thought, blowing amused air through her teeth.
Selma lifted her gaze back up at the ceiling. She was trapped. For a moment, she considered subjecting herself to the halls with that monster once more, but she knew by the shaking of her legs that she was far too weak to make it to the laundry room. And not only that, the infected knew she was in the area. There was no way she'd brave those halls once more and come out alive.
I just hope Maren and Cora figure it out before it's too late, she thought as she gazed into the light above. I did everything I could.