Lux found herself enveloped by the memory of a frigid, winter night. Her eyes weren’t her own, standing in the spirit of an angel she’d never met. Hushed whispers sounded in the distant dark; her gaze wandering around without her permission to find a trio of quarreling children.

  “Old World magic, I’m telling you—right under all our noses! All we’ve got to do find our way round’ the cliffside without gettin’ caught—and the Benaill province’s ancient magics are ours to awaken.”

  Their mouths huffed white puffs into the air, voices rising; but the sound teetered off into nothing. The snowfall around Lux flickered, the glimmer of her foreign spirit dissipating as the memory around her blacked out. Then, she found herself standing in the barren bedroom given to her by the Avarice family.

  Lux cursed under her breath, would’ve been nice of those boys to mention where that rumor came from. . ., there’s no way I’ll find out now. She glared down at the date written on the transcript. Nearly one-hundred years ago.

  Her gaze hovered over the open window, eyeing the swaying trees that poked above the Avaritia house’s rooftop. She set the dead-end transcript to the side, shifting her focus to the one thing she did know about the rogue spirits calling out to her. They’re at least young enough to know what an angel is; and to avoid being caught by one at all costs. She grabbed her satchel and started downstairs; silently calculating. The God of Solstice’s doctrine spread worldwide around 4’300 years after the end of the Old World. . ., if I start backwards. . ..

  Assuming this sorcerer is of a short-life species. . ., I should be able to rule out their involvement with 120 years of data.

  The next four days went by in a blur of research, inquiries, and errands. The nonstop excursions weighed on Lux’s spirit—she still wasn’t used to going without constant sun-exposure; her magic beginning to dwindle by the day.

  However, just as she thought she should she rest and refuel, Lady Rae approached, apologetically dipping her head, “. . ., If you’re still looking to speak about Azazel, I’m available this evening.”

  ~

  Lux sat on the lonely sofa in the center of Lady Rae’s office, surrounded by bookshelves that stretched from floor to ceiling. Supposedly, it was a place to work; ponder the politics behind things relished in without a second thought. Yet, Lux couldn’t find a single stack of files, letters, or proposals. Instead, she found herself making eye contact with life-like dolls, uniformly lining the shelves. Their faces, painted with such intricate detail that it was easy to picture them jumping to life. Despite the fact that their features were far too perfect to truly fit in with mortal-kind.

  Lux concluded that Lady Rae was much more spoiled than she originally thought.

  A crowded tray of teacups clanked in the corner of the room, putting an abrupt end to the silence between Lux and Lady Rae.

  “Apologies,” a maid whispered, ducking her head, as she placed the tray onto the coffee table separating them.

  The floral scent of tea filled the air, complimenting the delicacies plated beside it. A courtesy Lux had thought she made clear she didn’t need; but the house’s staff continued to offer her new snacks and beverages wherever she went.

  “Thank you,” Lady Rae said under her breath as the maid stepped away, wandering eyes landing on Lux as the door shut audibly across the room; the maid gone. “. . .. You said you’d like to know everything. . ., so where should I start?”

  “Why not start with recounting the events that took place the day your daughter was cursed?” Lux said, watching Lady Rae run her finger around the rim of her teacup repeatedly. A self-soothing compulsion. “Or, even better than that—begin with a few days to hours prior to her death, and cursing. Did anything seem out of the ordinary?”

  “Is this. . .,” Lady Rae exhaled a feeble sigh, “really a necessary step in order to save my daughter’s soul?

  “Yes—it’s a crucial step,” Lux said, golden quill appearing at her side to put their entire conversation to print; perhaps scrawling a little too eagerly. She couldn’t help it—she’d begun to obsess over Azazel’s story, every detail she lacked leaving her hollow and hungering. As much as she loathed admitting it, Azazel had stolen every one of her thoughts, and she swore if she continued on without answers she’d be consumed by them. So, Lux replayed the words Azazel left her with over and over, her skin crawling at the memory.

  “Keep the rogue spirits in the woods between us—and don’t trust a damn person in that house either, they’re all snakes.”

  It had been the first time Azazel dropped her redundant act; that of a spoiled noblewoman far-removed from reality, welcoming her childish delusions. Lux’s image of her had changed; now, when she stopped to think—she envisioned the elation that overcame Azazel the moment she said the words, ‘mortal killer.’

  The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement.

  “To put it bluntly,” Lux continued, “Lady Azazel is a very bitter, hostile person. Since your family is unaware how her curse affects her beyond the physical; part of my job is to determine how much damage her psyche may have suffered. Then, if she can rightfully achieve repentance despite it.”

  Lux’s statement was far from a lie; however, she did obscure one key detail.

  Azazel seems to think the culprit is inside the Avaritia house.

  Lady Rae gave a delayed nod, mustering up the words to connect her disarrayed thoughts. “I suppose it started. . .,” she inched forward, reaching towards the coffee table and sliding a creaky drawer open, “as I was putting little Amos to bed; so, it must’ve been around 9:30.” She pulled out a hefty book, resting it on her lap, “Azazel was always a bit. . ., hard to appease,” she laughed, rather weakly, “easy to anger, overly emotional—it wasn’t unusual for her to storm off into some hidden nook of the house. . ., so when I realized she wasn’t in bed; that’s where I began looking for her, inside.”

  Lady Rae sighed, doing away with the dust gathered on the book’s plush sleeve. It appeared home-sewn, colored in varied floral fabrics. Some of the patterns matching the dresses worn by the dolls around them.

  “I believe I was searching for. . ., an hour or two. Up until my youngest son, Amos, woke up.” She flipped the book open; the pages filled with old photos. “He said something like, ‘mama, I saw Azzy running ‘round in the woods,’” she slipped her finger beneath a glassine sheet, pulling out one photo and pushing it across the table, “‘Azzy,’ is what he always called her; he had some speech troubles, couldn’t ever pronounce her full name.”

  Lux took the photo by it’s edge, bringing it close and tilting it until the glare blocking the image from her disappeared. The fuzzy, monochrome image was backlit by a crackling fireplace, illuminating the silhouettes of three children. The tallest of the three, Azazel; wrapped in a thick flared coat. Huddled in both her arms and a woolen blanket, a young boy. Surely Amos. He looked starkly like his sister, even without her albinism. Both their faces full of laughter.

  In the far corner sat Abigor, unable to hide from the camera lens. His expression as deadpan as Lux’s own.

  “At that point—I panicked,” Lady Rae’s voice quivered, “She had already been gone so long—I fixated on the thought of the steep terrain, how easy it would be to get lost, to fall. . ., and the dark; she could hardly see a thing at that hour; especially outside.” She begun to fumble of her words, “I sent three—no, four groups of maids to search the woods for her. . ., I watched the clock tick for three hours before they found a thing—.”

  Lux could tell Lady Rae would soon spiral. The anguish of the memory overcoming both her mind and body. Still, Lux didn’t allow her to pause; urging Lady Rae to continue with silent nods whenever her voice trailed off into quiet tears.

  Eventually, Lady Rae reached into the drawer again, shuffling loose items around until she clenched her hand around a ring-box and brought it up to her chest. “At that time—this was the only sign they’d found of Azazel,” she reached out, taking the photo from Lux’s hand and exchanging it for the box.

  Lux wedged her nail between the base and roof of the box, prodding it open. She’d expected a ring, perhaps earrings; nonetheless something exquisite. Fit for the heir Azazel was supposed to be. But what she found was a twisted, splintered hair barrette. With red jewels carved in the shape of a marigold, glinting under the lamplight. Some were dislodged, off-center and barely hanging onto the length of the barrette. Others were missing entirely. Another remnant of Azazel’s lost stature; as tainted as her cursed body.

  “It was early morning, so it couldn’t have been much longer when they told they’d found her. . .,” Lady Rae dropped her head into her hands, sobbing into her fingers, “but that she was not alive.”

  Lux spun the barrette in her hand; discolored red dotted the length of it, seeping into the crevices meant to hold the jewels in place. A discontented breath escaped her, unable to tell if the stain was born of blood, rust, or a careless jeweler. “What condition did they did find her in?” she pried.

  “At the bottom of a small cliff. . ., face down, in a shallow stream, her face split by the rock she laid on,” her voice trailed off, “. . ., it was never determined whether the fall, blood loss, or drowning took her first.”

  Lux rested the barrette in the ring-box, snapping it shut. She leaned back, the past mingling with the present as she pictured Azazel sitting across from her. The scar that cascaded down her right side was straight cut. It began at her brow, dragging down until stopped by her collarbone. A streak far too linear to be natural; something any reasonable person would assume. Nature was inconsistent, perfection was manufactured.

  Yet, Azazel’s sly smile told Lux not to pry further.

  “You hadn’t determined she was cursed at that point, correct?” Lux asked.

  Lady Rae frantically shook her head, “no, no—after she. . ., her corpse was returned to us; we hid her death from the children, we were talking about an autopsy, a funeral.” Lady Rae’s voice finally broke, hitching as she dropped her head into her hands. “Amos, I don’t know what he heard, if it was something about her being found, if he assumed she was well. . .. I thought I had locked her door, but—somehow he got inside.”

  “I heard him scream; a high-pitched, pained scream. . ., and it was already too late,”

  Lady Rae’s hands fell, dangling at her sides as she stabilized herself with a deep, drawn-out inhale. “The decay started in his hands,” she held her own palm, beginning to drag her fingers up her left arm. “It traveled upwards, reached his chest. . ,, spread through his torso until his organs rotted.”

  “Then. . ., there was Azazel, in bed where we’d laid her to rest, asleep—but breathing again.”