The emperor, proud and imposing.

I knew today he would be the death of me.

I was not wrong. 

The wine he so graciously gave to my mother was poisoned.

Sweet, delicious, and how grateful I was that I was the first and last to drink it.

- Unknown date. Patricia of Shreik. 

1638, the 32nd year of the rot

The nightmares were becoming more persistent as of late. Patricia hated them. She hated having her own room. She hated that nanny Irene could only occasionally visit her in the mornings and evenings now; that, too, because she hadn’t yet been given a lady’s maid or governess. Why couldn’t she stay in the nursery with her younger sister? What made turning twelve so special?

Patricia sat up in bed, scowling in the dark. She could just barely make out the shapes around her. There was a blackish-blue thing in the corner that could be her vanity. No, it definitely was. The fireplace off to the side of her vanity was partially obscured by thick bed curtains, but she had no doubt it was still just that. A fireplace. Not a square monster waiting to attack. Nothing more than a simple fireplace.

It was too warm for a fire tonight, which was just as well. A fire would only make the shadows dance and enhance her worrisome nightmares. Patricia leaned over the side of her bed, hand fumbling with the curtain. She finally managed to reach her bedside table, fingers wrapping around the elaborate drawer handle. It protested loudly as she yanked it open, and Patricia flinched. The sound made her imagine a wailing ghost, searching for something to eat.

“Stop it,” she told herself sternly, repeating it like a mantra, “stop it, stop it, stop it.” She was old enough to know there was nothing to fear about the dark. It didn’t make any sense to worry about things that weren’t there, just because she couldn’t see well enough to prove it to herself that she really was alone.

Patricia snatched a large key from the drawer, deciding to simply leave it open for now. No reason to close it and listen to that awful sound again. Nanny Irene would scold her for being so silly. Then again, nanny Irene would also sing a pleasant song and read a story to calm her to sleep. She wouldn’t be doing that any more.

Key in hand, Patricia pulled her feet over the side of the bed, feeling about for her slippers with bare toes. The new rug beneath her bed was soft and thick. She couldn’t make out the shapes in the dark, but she knew her feet were pressing into dark green vines and flower patterns. Finding her slippers, she stumbled in the narrow moonlight drifting through her bedroom window. Key in hand, Patricia gradually made her way to the heavy bedroom doors. 

Everything in this house was so very solid and strong. Too much so, maybe, but so were her parents. Tomorrow morning they would break their first fast together, and the thought terrified her. Perhaps more so than the dark. She often wondered whether she would be able to live up to the many expectations of being a future duchess.

“Thank you, nanny,” Patricia mumbled to herself, pushing the doors open with no small effort, key tightly gripped in one hand. Merciful light from the hallway sconces bathed her. Everyone was asleep now, no one would know of the skeleton key nanny Irene had left her.

Visiting the library alone was strictly forbidden to both Patricia and her sister. Their father worried they might draw in something or make a fire with some precious books. She would never. Father simply didn’t know Patricia well enough.

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She swiftly made her way down the hallway, warm air tickling her ankles and brushing at her silk nightgown. It wasn’t far to the library, simply past a few doors and around the corner from the winding staircase below. Idly, Patricia wondered how many candles they went through weekly, eyes roaming over the sconces lighting her way. It must be awfully expensive.

The simple thought of perusing a book or two tonight was already calming her nerves. The distraction would be welcome. Happily, Patricia stuck the skeleton key into the lock at the library doors, and firmly twisted it. She loved to hear the comforting sound of the lock thumping, and these doors seemed so much lighter than the ones leading to her new quarters. The difference between a familiar room and a strange one, she supposed.

Unfortunately, the library was dark. She shouldn’t have been surprised. Patricia frowned, a little nervous about leaving the doors open in case someone did happen to wake and see the evidence of her crime. Yet she couldn’t handle any more darkness right now, so she hurriedly shuffled into the room towards a large desk at the very center. She fumbled through the drawers, finding a flint, striker, and stubby candle. The sooner she was able to light it, the sooner she could close the doors. There wouldn’t be much time, judging by the size of the candle, but more than enough to grab a book or two and slip back to her room.

This wasn’t like her. Patricia was a very good girl. She never lied, never cheated, never did anything to draw attention to herself. Guiltily, she would admit that she didn’t always do the right thing because it was right, but because she was afraid. She was afraid of being caught or looked down on, afraid of letting everyone down. Fear guided most choices Patricia made. If her mother even knew–Patricia had to cut off those thoughts before they got any further. Guilt and fear were a vicious spiral. Nanny Irene often told her that.

“Got it!” Patricia exclaimed in a fast whisper, having struck the flint and striker a few times to light the candle successfully on the desk. She snatched up a metal holder and shoved the candle on top of it to protect her hands from dripping wax. Slipping her fingers through the ring, she rushed back to the doors to close them. No sign of anyone yet, thankfully. Her heart didn’t need to beat quite so rapidly anymore.

This was the bravest thing she had ever done. The irony that all she was doing was sneaking a few books did not escape her, and Patricia couldn’t help but chuckle. She was so very silly. Was this her first step into adulthood? Her very first rebellion? Maybe it would be the only one. Or maybe it would become a habit until she was caught. She struggled to conceive of anything else she may want to do. Hurriedly, Patricia sought the comfort of the many bookshelves lining the walls and running through the room. She wouldn’t have time to pick a subject, she’d just have to grab something. Fiction, nonfiction, literature or textbook. It didn’t matter. The words were what she needed. 

Words would guide her to sleep, replacing the images of disembodied hands reaching for her in the dark with something more mundane. Words were comforting. Words were a distraction. A blessing. She’d much rather dream of diagrams of flowers or insects than ghosts and monsters. For a girl so disinterested in fairy tales, she had an exceedingly powerful imagination.

The light of Patricia’s candle guided her, a beacon to something wonderful. Sleep. Restful, deep sleep. Her fingers danced over book spines, some dusty and some cracked. A few freshly read judging by the evidence of how clean they looked. Father had a particular fondness for religious texts, Patricia noted. She’d always known this, given that he had been a member of the empire’s church once upon a time. It was still surprising to notice just how many of them he’d collected recently. She knew these shelves intimately. It was impossible for Patricia to miss anything new or amiss.

With wax collecting slowly at the base of her candle holder, Patricia browsed a little more leisurely than she’d originally intended. In her safe space, her haven, her nerves had gradually calmed. She could truly be herself here, where the only rules and manners were dictated through grammar and not the people around her. Perhaps she could afford a little more time than she’d originally planned. She scanned the shelves, the light still a little too dim to make out much, and she wasn’t going to chance bringing her tiny flame too close to her father’s treasures. She used her hand to guide her, hoping perhaps something interesting would grab her attention. 

Something did.

It was warm, far too warm for a book. Warmer than it might have been even if she’d left it on the fireplace bricks. It almost burned. Patricia recoiled quickly, her nerves immediately tightening again. This didn’t seem right. Her forgotten fears slipped back into her mind, making her back rigid.

“It’s a book,” she reminded herself, reaching again towards the hot spine and quickly snatching it from the shelf. Reason told her that perhaps she’d held the candle too close to it without realizing. Reason also told her she was really stretching for that answer.

“The Story of my Death,” she read slowly, struggling to make out the words on the cover. They’d worn down over what must have been a very long time, flakes of thread in the binding pulling away from the title as if someone must have obsessively roamed a hand over this cover again and again. Patricia gnawed on her bottom lip, not even noticing how much the light in her candle had begun to flicker. It died with a hiss.