After the dust settled, a few hesitant steps brought Anya into the thick shadows just beyond the palace doors.
Pale rays of sunlight reflecting off the courtyard's blanket of snow danced across the jagged edges of glass that littered the floor, a graveyard of broken windowpanes. Her feet were silent and quick as she picked her way through them and made her way up the the wide staircase, onto an expansive landing covered with ruined carpet the color of blood.
"Hello?"
Anya called out, cringing as her voice skittered up the faded walls, tangling in the cobwebs that draped nearly every surface like banners of dirty silk.
Silence swallowed her whole. Anya had to strain to hear past the heartbeat pounding at her eardrums, and beyond that there was a vacuum - no wind whistling through cracks, no soft groans of old wood settling in the cold. It was more than a little disquieting, the infinite sound of...nothing. It was as substantial and complete as a solid mass, something to push through or drown in. It made the squish of her boots on the damp carpet sound like the roar of a waterfall.
Anya stilled on the steps, blinking into the darkness, letting her eyes adjust to the change in environment.
Around her, the sprawling palace began to reveal itself in wary increments.
A filthy border of cracked, imported marble slowly emerged from the void, stretching beyond Anya's feet into places filled with secrets. Tattered drapes of heavy crepe or velvet hung limp against the towering windows. Intricate wooden carvings curled in and out of every corner and twined around curvaceous doorways, standing out in crumbling relief against the peeling walls. Everything rested behind a delicate shroud of dust. Through a beam of sunlight Anya could see the particles drifting down from far above her head, settling on her coat like ashes.
It was difficult to ignore that she had already become saturated by the sweet, musky fragrance of decay. The scent had found her when she stepped over the threshold and had settled in her lungs. Every breath she took now tasted of stale smoke and grief.
She moved forward with shaking hands.
After a journey up another grand set of stairs, Anya found herself at the entrance to a large room filled with tarnished treasures. A long table, still dressed in the celebratory linen from a decade ago, had become the final resting place for empty serving platters and drinking goblets, candelabras as tall as young men, gravy boats and fruit stands turned on their sides in repose.
Anya had just tiptoed through the doorway to investigate when she felt a sharp tingle at the base of her spine, something so close to fear that she whipped around to see if she was being followed.
There was nothing. Only a yawning emptiness.
She turned back and tread deeper, drawn closer to the table as the feeling grew and grew until she felt as if she had been shot through with light.
It was these things, these relics that had escaped the black market and the squallor of the city's streets. They were almost... familiar somehow...
Even after Anya swore to herself she wouldn't touch anything, one of those grimy silver platters found itself caught in her grip. She huffed and blew a ragged half moon in the dust. A distorted reflection blinked back at her.
Memory stirred, disturbed by that prickling familiarity. Images swirled in her mind's eye, snapshots advancing and retreating in a swirling kaleidoscope before they condensed into a laughing man with a dark beard...a girl in a dress the color of powdered emeralds...
She blinked again and it was gone.
It didn't return, even when she stared long enough into the warped metal to make her eyes burn. Something like a sob took up residence in her chest.
She replaced the platter and backed away from the table, retreating into the cavernous hallway. Shivers assaulted her as she moved into what appeared to be the grand ballroom.
Nicholas Hall, as it had been known back then, was a universe unto itself where the light streamed freely through frosted windows that reached high as heaven, forming silver pools on a waxed floor scuffed by the dancing shoes of the idle wealthy. The late royal family kept watch from their dull portraits along the walls, eyeing Anya as she descended the steps.
Here, the air felt alive.
This room had been the heart of the palace, pumping music and laughter through the vein-like hallways into every room and chamber. Anya could picture fine ladies in gowns that shimmered under the candlelight dripping down from crystal chandeliers, bejeweled butterflies of every hue that fluttered around handsome men in smart uniforms as they danced and giggled. All around her she felt the fleeting movements of the dead and forgotten.
The residue of joys long past still hung in the air. Even the odor of decomposition here was different - decadent, deep and rich and flowery, like dried roses. When she closed her eyes, she could hear the notes of a soft waltz slinking along the moldings, the vaulted ceilings, easing over her skin like warm satin.
She hadn't realized it, but she was dancing, too.
"Hey! What are you doing in here?!"
Anya jumped like a frightened cat and whirled at source of the male voice. It had come from the upper landing of the staircase that led to where she stood, but whoever had yelled was still painted in shadow.
Instinct screamed and she did what came naturally when fear punted her hammering heart into her throat.
She ran.