Apparently I won't be given a horse, since not only does Lord Beneviento's home not have a stable for it, but there are bridges that connect to it, despite it supposedly being in a valley of mist. Lady Dimitrescu has already sent ahead the trunks containing my things, with the help from Duke, but I would be set to walk there on my own.

As I tug at the hood now draping over my head – the edges frayed, and color dulled with years of use – I try to make good use of my limp as I trudge down the hill towards the castle gates.

It had already been decided that I would travel through the gate in disguise – lest Mother Miranda shoots an arrow through my skull. And it prevents me from drawing attention from the other villagers either.

Not that I would want such attention from them anyway.

My disguise consists of looking like an old, vagrant woman. The cloak help hide the additional backpack I carry, making me appear hunched. I've tightly braided by hair back so the hood will conceal most of my features, and Cassandra had managed to disguise the sword into an ordinary walking stick.

The middle daughter had been surprisingly upbeat this afternoon. I'd simply associated it with my leaving. And after what had transpired with Bela, I can't say I wasn't happy for the distraction of Cassandra's teasing and attempted unnerving.

Bela had barely said a word to me, other than to wish me luck. I wasn't so much surprised by the eldest daughter's distance, as I was hurt.

Our argument certainly didn't help, but I'd meant every word I had said. Screamed.

If she wants to use me as some kind of slave, then fine. But why bother trying to get to know me? And I don't know if it's because of my getting to know her that I'd even be accepting of such a role, but the idea doesn't disgust me as much as I thought it would.

I've always related such acts to my mother, and how I wanted to be nothing like her. I had found them abhorrent for the longest time until Bela.

I shake my head. Now's not the time to think about it. I should just focus on my walk towards Lord Beneviento's home. I stumble over a hidden rock, but manage to catch myself – and hope that the leering figures watching me from the castle didn't notice.

I can feel their eyes on me as I walk closer and closer to the castle gates.

The very gates that open into the village. My old home.

It never occurred to me until I stepped through the front doors that I would be free from House Dimitrescu.

If I wanted to, I could just sprint straight for my home, grab Lacy, and never come back.

I could do it. I know I'm capable.

If we were to escape from this village and into the real world, there's no way they would be able to catch us. Not with the world's advancements in technology. I've only caught a brief glimpse with my father being from the outside; but it made me confident enough that if we left – as he had entertained the idea – we would be free. They'd never be able to find us.

But in the end, I can't do it.

I wouldn't do it. And maybe that's why the Mistress and her daughters trust me enough to walk alone.

I suppose I should be flattered.

As I approach the gates, I take a deep breath as the stones rumble and grind against one another, powered by whatever mechanism lay within them. They slowly begin to open, and when I catch glimpse of a leave-covered dirt road, I assume my role of vagrant and bend forward.

I grip my disguised sword in a convincing – somewhat truthful – manner. I truly do need it since the medicine Sandra gave me, the castle healer – gave me will wear off by the time I arrive. By then, the trek to the manor will be an annoyance.

The gates open, and a breath of air hits me hard enough I have to grip my hood. Once it's passed, I begin to make my way over the threshold. Peeking through the edge of my hood, I can see some people staring, some having stopped about their business to look – in fear, and in wonder – of whom might be emerging from the gates.

It brings an odd thought to my head: I can never recall seeing Lady Dimitrescu coming down into the village, despite the powerful grip she holds as one of the lords.

Well, it wasn't important then, and it isn't important now. I steady my breathing as I emerge past the gates and immediately turn left towards the town's Circle.

Much like town squares, the Circle is where the gates for the three other Lords are. I've seen Duke set up shop there more than a few times, but the townspeople stay as far away from the Circle as possible. Since none of them have ever returned from either location.

No one pays much attention to me – most probably see me as some kind of lamb for the slaughter. That Lady Dimitrescu got bored with me and sent me on to another one who would enjoy my torture and breaking.

I do my best to hobble along, just to get that trek over with since the medicine is close to wearing off. And I'll be damned if I'm caught injured by another demon-creature.

I clutch the key Lady Dimitrescu gave me to my chest, remembering her instructions. It's simple: once you arrive at the gate, you open it and walk through. Close it behind you, and remember to stay on the path. Talk to no one, and don't even think about running away.

I resist the urge to touch the coagulated cut beneath my chin. The Mistress's reminder of what may happen in the least, if I try to run.

I'd be lying if I said the desire wasn't there; especially when I come to the road that leads to where my old home was. To the hollow, gaunt woman who lay inside it, likely sprawled across the bed while one of her nightly partners uses her for his pleasure. Then to the road that leads out of sight, towards Luiza's house; where my bouncing little sister is probably playing tea, or aiding the old woman with her baking.

Would she even recognize me? When I had left those five months ago, I was nothing but skin and bones and dread. What would Lacy see if I'd knocked on the door right now?

But it is them that force me to keep walking; their lives that make me turn my head forward, focusing on my intended destination.

I do my best to avoid the crowds – to avoid people in general – biting my tongue when a person does bump into me, and spits at my feet for not looking where I'm going.

Within ten long minutes, I've arrived at the Circle. The crowd has since dissipated, even the rats don't seem to come here much. I quickly check my surroundings before removing the hood from my head. I tuck a piece of loose hair behind my ear, adjusting my back from the odd weight.

I get a few satisfying pops before I pull out the key, making sure it matches with the intended gate. With a click of metal and sliding of the secure bar, the gate is open.

And I'm met with foliage.

The only evidence of a trail ever being there is carved out by the leering walls of rock that create the valley. Everything else has been swallowed by overgrown bushes and trees. Even with the autumn setting, some bushes still retain their color and leaves, the skeletal remains of the shed branches entwine together to create a cage of bark, allowing only golden darts of sunlight to pass through them. The other colors would've been beautiful were it not for the restricted light.

I step through the gate before my hesitation makes me look back. Before I can catch the attention of another villager because of my lingering.

I do as I was ordered and lock the gate behind me, leaving little to no trace of my being there.

Only now I'm trapped in the valley's cage. The rock walls and meshing foliage give a feeling of claustrophobia, and I find myself suddenly prowling more than walking.

There is only one way in, and one way out, with little to no place to hide. If something were to come charging at me, I have a better chance at bolting in the opposite direction than to try and risk climbing the rock walls. Perhaps the branches could help, but I'd still need to find secure footing. No sense in breaking my other ankle.

I stalk along the path for a while, my hand within casual reach of my dagger, while the other continues to use the sword as a walking stick. Rows of trees and thick underbrush emerge on either side of me. The farther into the woods I go, the denser the surrounding forest grow. Overhead, the interlocking patchwork of hanging boughs worked to transform my pathway into a darkening tunnel. Through the lacework of limbs, thick clouds inch by.

It's less than five minutes before my right foot brushes against something. It's more so the sound that makes me look down.

At first, it's a pile of leaves, but as I use my good foot to brush them away, that familiar sound of broken pottery resonating again.

But when I peer closer, I have to clap my hand over my mouth.

It's a bone. A human femur bone.

And next to it, a jaw.

I back up against the opposite rock wall, folding the sword close to my vibrating chest. Oh gods, what am I getting into? The only silver lining is that they are bones – so this person has been dead long before I was even born in this village.

The small, square tombstone sitting just behind it has its face rubbed off, and I don't bother to see who they were.

I continue on my way, my feet near silent with the cushioning of leaves. Pushing aside more dry twigs and barbed branches, I can see the path widen a bit up ahead. Eager to get more air into my lungs, despite being outside, and because I haven't heard much of the likes of a predator since my arrival, I pick up the pace.

I can make out the shapes of several gravestones surrounding the base of a large oak tree. Some sets in trios and duos around the space, and continuing further into the fog. And my heart drops to my stomach when I see small childlike figures hanging from the overhead branches.

Little dolls hanging by their necks.

Whatever path I had taken, it wasn't the right one. It couldn't have been if it ends up with me walking through the Beneviento family graveyard.

Some of the gravestones appear well cared for; dolls placed, if not laying next to them, small urns overflowing with flowers and greens; their colors vibrant and lively in the autumn season. The gesture off-set by the dolls dangling lifeless in the branches a few feet above my head.

Checking the map I had been granted, I'm apparently in Potter's Field – whatever or whoever the hell that is. As I continue forward, more dolls emerge, all dangling by their thin necks, all lifeless and still as the stone walls around me.

I keep walking, my breath the loudest sound in my ears.

The only sound.

I frown, at last admitting to myself that something has felt odd since I'd entered through the gate. Only now, I can place my fingers on what.

I listen to the lonely, hollow clap of my feet.

Quiet.

Everything around me stands really still and really . . . quiet.

As though every rock and tree and creature are holding their breath at my approach – either in fear, or anticipation.

The breeze that had greeted me outside the forest has vanished somewhere between there and here, and I look up now to find the tree limbs motionless, their leaves immobile.

Or are those leaves at all?

A black shadow moves in one of the trees, and I register the silhouette of one huge black bird. It makes no sound, though it seems to watch me from its perch.

One of the leaves at its side moves. Another bird.

Soon, with a ruffle of feathers, I notice another one and, on my other side, another.

One of them breaks the silence with a caw, the sound falling harsh on my ears, rasping and raw.

Spooked, I pick up the pace, glad that my body has since adapted after the two years of starvation. I'm not the best runner, but I can keep going if I need to.

And right now, I need to.

The smell of fresh water reaches my nose, and I pick up my pace; stalling only to peer into a baby's tram and finding pieces and limbs of another doll. On our trek back to the castle this morning, Bela had told me that Donna's father had been a doll maker, but never pushed anything further than that. I had been too exhausted to ask further.

I follow the smell of the water towards an opening in the crevice of the valley, and come upon the bridge that I had been told about.

Or rather what's left of the bridge.

The structure itself is no more than knotted rope and a few well-placed boards of wood. Either ripped by nature or broken by use, I'd sooner bet my life on swinging through the trees.

Peering out over the edge, I can more bridges connecting across the way, veiled in fog, and most looking worse for wear. Looking down . . . it is a far drop, but I'm pretty sure this is the same river Bela and I had dived in just this morning. Had we let it carry us, we might have been brought here.

On the other side, the shadow of pine trees waver in the fog, their tips sprouting up like the spires of the castle. Denizens of the fog, sentries guarding the entrance to the estate, the rock wall opening wider into an unknown fray.

I suppose I should be relieved that the ropes reach higher than me, creating some sort of safeguard into a deadly plunge, but the open holes and jagged boards do little to ease my nerves.

I take one, careful step after another. The wood groans beneath me, swaying under me with each step. I make it about halfway when I'm startled by a piece of board that falls beneath me. Not the top board, where my foot is, but beneath the bottom of the bridge, losing yet another piece of foundation.

With quickened feet, I finish the rest of the way, welcoming the familiar outline of picket fences, and an ornate iron gate.

Still the woods, rock, and wine around me are silent.

I'm about to consider turning back, or even climbing over it. But at my approach, the gates open on silent hinges.

And from the haze, I hear it. Someone calling my name.

"Erika," it drawls. And up ahead, I see a shadow.

My breath begins to saw in an out of me as my mind, my heart, and my soul immediately recognize the silhouette of my father.

I stand frozen like a deer, an inch away from the threshold of the gates, staring at the figure. From I can see, his hands are folded at his front, like he always did, his head angled to the side in what I've always known as pride and admiration.

My throat tightens, my heart pounding.

This . . . can't be real.

Dread is oil in my stomach, and my instincts are screaming for me to run. That this is some trap. To turn back and forget all about this stupid plan –

Again, I hear it – that siren's call in the voice of my father, "Erikaaaaa,"

I take a step forward.

I can see the smile in the figure's voice as it – as he, says, "Hello, my sweetheart. You look so beautiful. You have grown."

It turns as it says this, continuing further into the haze.

"Dad?" I whisper, my voice hitching.

I jog a few paces forward, but am only met with a hiss of running water and more haze. The rocks have since lightened, revealing more trees and foliage with a wooden fence on my left, and black iron on my right. Indications of human structures, so I continue to follow, trying to calm my heart as it picks up pace.

Signs of human life begin to appear with an oil lantern posted next to an actual form of a path, and I quickly come upon another gate leading into . . . I can't even tell with this haze. But statues start to sprout up too, giving me a bit of a jump.

More and more structures emerge from the haze, as do some plants that I cannot believe are still alive this far into the season. A shed comes up on my left along with another lamppost on my right and . . . and a garden.

I pause by the wooden picket fence, looking at the tent structures made from wood and wire. Some of the blooms still vibrant with life, while others have succumbed to the changing elements. The fencing on my right is bent and leaning, more headstones emerging like weeds.

I nearly tumble when my feet descends faster than I expected, and I find myself on a short flight of stone stairs.

A snap of a twig has me whipping my head, but finally, a breeze saunters its way past me, stirring up some leaves and dirt and pollen.

I follow the stairs down, but freeze when I behold what it's leading me to.

A gravesite.

I can see the silhouette of a large, noticeable headstone, one made to look different. One made to catch the eye as it sits upon a small hill of smaller stones, overshadowed by the gnarled branches of a weeping willow.

Slowly I creep down the rest of the stairs, a gnawing feeling in my gut telling me that I shouldn't be here. But still I go closer to the small hill, eyes widening at the array of dolls left about the tombstone; at the many vases of flowers to accommodate the ones that already grow here. I've never seen anything like them before, but they look pretty with their yellow and green coloration.

I stop short of the hill's stone border, leaning over as far as I am able to read the nameplate.

Most of the first name has been cracked off. Or perhaps, broken off; leaving only the last initial:

"– a Beneviento, 1987-1996"

My heart sinks.

A young child. Only a few years older than Lacy. I don't know what might've happened, but for someone to die that young . . . that has to be hard to recover from. I'll have to note that when approaching Miss Beneviento. If I can ever find her.

I take a glance at the words etched into the headstone:

Free from the binds

of flesh she now walks

the valley of death.

Perhaps a bit morbid but who am I to judge. I'd be lucky if I could attain such freedom.

I round about the hill towards an eye-catching bride red door just on the other side of the hill. Maybe this is an entrance to her home, since I don't see any others around here, and this is the end of the path in sight. And the pollen is so thick around here it's tickling my nose.

A sneeze punches its way out of me as I approach the red door, looking for any sign that would give me a notification to alert Beneviento that I'm here. The structure itself seems more like a mausoleum, but what other choice do I have?

Then I hear a click.

But the door doesn't do anything. With my good foot, I push at the doors, and indeed, they swing open on their own.

"What is going on?" I mutter to myself, every inch of my body covered in goosebumps.

Stepping inside, I notice candles on the floor; more at the other end of the short hallway to reveal an elevator.

I'd be more hesitant if I didn't want to just get the fuck out of this valley.

Maybe this is why some of her 'playmates' never returned. Because they just couldn't find their way back.

Examining the elevator, its lights are on, and the gate looks firm. Seemingly functional.

Pressing the button, the gate opens silently safe for a charming ting. I step inside and hit the up button, praying to the Black God that it just takes me there. I'm not helping myself with all the things that could go wrong in this tiny place.

Brick and stone surround me for the longest minute of my life. The lights flicker once or twice, but thankfully stay on. When it comes to a stop, I'm met with more stone.

In my brief panic, I whirl around and find the other side of the elevator has opened up to a corridor of moistened stone, and the smell of fresh water. The hiss of the waterfall is now louder, and I wonder if for a moment I'm losing my mind.

I'm not the best with typography, but going up in a mountain side . . .

I swallow against the burning in my throat. Nevertheless I step outside and jog through the short hall. More rocks overhand above me along with vines and roots and trees.

I smell carnations first—then feel the tickling of mist. A veil of mist from a waterfall nestled in the crevice of the sweeping, endless snowcapped mountains.

And everything is, open.

Open, airy, and . . . calm.

It's, beautiful honestly. Castle Dimitrescu always felt, intimidating and overbearing, a dark shadow looming over the village. Watching almost every move and forever reminding us peasants that were are but mere flies.

But this . . . A secluded manor situated over the cliffside, far beyond the village walls, perched atop one of the gray-stoned mountains. It was beautiful in its serenity and simplicity despite the sheer drop off mere inches to my left.

Hopefully Mother Miranda won't be able to find me here.

I stick close to the rock wall on my right as much as I can, ignoring the urge to look over the edge. To jump.

The front gates have been left wide open, and flanking the stone to the door are two more gardens sprouting with more of that same flower I'd seen on the hill at the gravesite.

The two-story home reminds me of a luxury cottage with its black and beige exterior, its wrapping porch coming stomach-droppingly close to the waterfall. Compared to the castle, this house should be a breeze to navigate. If granted, I might just have the whole place memorized by tonight.

Not a scream, not a shout, not a plea to be heard.

I turn around, still fearful of someone or something pouncing on me from behind or above. Or even below.

And that apparition I saw of my dad . . .

I try not to think about as I approach the front door, I take a steadying breath as I raise my fist to the dark, oakwood door, and knock.

The roaring of the waterfall occupies the silence before I hear someone fiddle with the locks on the other side.

The doors open inwards, and I take a peek at mahogany wood enveloping much of what I think is a foyer –

Suddenly the jagged, porcelain face of Angie springs into my view, earning a yelp of surprise as I startle back, my hand going for the dagger strapped to my waist.

The porcelain doll cackles like a crow, her mouth moving stiffly. "Well hello, Erika!" The puppet drawls in an incessantly high voice. "How nice to finally meet you! I've been dying to see you."

I peer around the door and find Lord Beneviento, hand in the doll's back, and a mourning veil covering her face. I recall seeing her at Lady Dimitrescu's ball, and she had a mask covering her face then too. I wonder if it's related to that gravesite.

"You've already met me." I say to Donna, ignoring Angie.

But the doll wouldn't have it, as she shoves her face towards mine again and giggles, "No silly. I haven't seen you. I was left here alone while she went to have fun!"

Donna and her doll step aside to let me in, and I adjust the straps of my pack as I step inside, the home notably warmer than the outside.

The foyer is small but cozy, with stairs leading up to the second floor. There's a hallway to my immediate right, and a smaller one with a room closed off, the wall bordered by windows. I can see a door at the back of the foyer, leading deeper into the house, all of it done in darkened mahogany wood. A portrait of Miss Beneviento hangs along the right wall, her darkened eyes and lashes merging to look as though her eyes are black – the eyes of a demon. Furniture is tastefully scattered about with bits and trinkets and knick-knacks of the dollmaker's life. At the center of the room, perched atop an ornate green rug, a table sits next to a rocking chair; a basket of yarn and knitting needles relaxed atop it. The entire place smells like a midsummer dream - salted pear, fresh nectarine, and seaside lily.

Angie pushes near my face again and gives another skin-crawling laugh, "We're going to have so much fun while you're here, Erika! I can't wait to introduce you to all my friends!"

I debate ripping that damned doll from her hand and smashing its head against the wall, but I'm not stupid. I am in her home, on top of a mountain in the middle of absolutely nowhere, it seems. No one would be coming to rescue me—no one was even here to witness my screaming.

I peer towards Miss Beneviento, only to find the fabric of the veil. Her features hidden, and her body stiff. Not very talkative when she's got this thing around. Or perhaps it's just the comfort of her home.

I shove away my irritation at the amusement forever carved at the corners of Angie's lips, and instead direct to Donna, "What would you have me do tomorrow, Lady Beneviento?"

"Well let's see," Angie interjects, her arms rising into a contemplative expression. I bitterly run my tongue over the front of my teeth. "The garden could use some tending to. Oh, and the workshop needs some sweeping done. So many woodchips. Oh! And, of course, we can't do anything without a proper meal! Let's just start with a tour tomorrow, and then we'll scour for where you'll be most useful!"

I lean around Angie and direct to Donna once more, "My Lady, with all do respect, I –"

Angie suddenly bursts into manic laughter again. "Ooooh, My Lady," she taunts. "How oh-so proper of you, Erika!"

My answering snarl is enough to make the Lord take a step back.

"F-For now, clean yourself up. Rest." My rage flickers as the doll's head looks at my outfit, at my hair. "Take the stairs on the right. Your room is the down the first hall, the door on the right."

"Not a dungeon cell?" I'd suspected I'd be given a room, per Bela's request, but I still try to prepare for the worst.

But Angie turns, head tilting. "You are not a prisoner, Erika. We made a deal with Lady Dimitrescu, and I am honoring it. You will be my guest here, with the privileges of a member of my household. None of my friends are going to touch you, hurt you, or so much as think ill of you here."

I glance about the space, knowing what friends she's speaking of, but not seeing any. Perhaps they're deeper in the house, or in the workshop.

So I turn give a terse nod and aim for the stairs, heading for the dim hallway above.

I've reached it, not daring to breathe too loudly, when Angie's amused voice says below me — muffled by whatever room Donna had gone to at the opposite end of the room, "Well, that went well."

My room is . . . a dream.

After scouring it for any sign of danger, after learning every exit and entrance and hiding place, I pause in the center to contemplate where, exactly, I'll be staying for the next week.

Like the downstairs foyer, it's done in dark wood with the walls painted a pale brick red, and sheer beige curtains flutter in that soft breeze entering by the ajar windows. The large bed is a mauve-and-ivory concoction, with pillows and blankets and throws for days, made more inviting by the detailed carvings and dark rimming along the headboard. A matching vanity and dresser occupied a small nook in the corner, framed by those glass windows that reach from floor to ceiling. Shortened in comparison to the castle, but still taller than me.

My three trunks seemed to have made it here in once piece, but I still carefully ruffle through them in case some doll managed to climb inside. I'll make to unpacking those later.

Across the room, a chamber with a porcelain sink and toilet lay behind an arched wooden door, and the bath is tucked into a little alcove set by a window, overlooking the expanse of the waterfall, and the long, long, long drop just beneath it.

This room is fit for . . . an ordinary person. With the dark hardwood floors, silks, and simplicity, it's much blander than Castle Dimitrescu yes, but after months of living in that gold filigree and constant details, I'd be lying if I said this room – this house – wasn't easier on the eyes. I tried not to think what Donna's chamber was like, if this is how she treats her guests.

Guest—not prisoner.

Well . . . the room proves it.

I set my pack on the end of the bed, unzipping it to have the rest of my clothes spill out from within. I do my best to refold the ones that had gotten ruined, and my lower lip trembles as I begin to sort them through the drawers of the dresser.

I pause once I've filled the first drawer with my undergarments and intimates, my eyes starting to fill with tears and my nose beginning to clog.

It's only for a week, I tell myself. I'll be back in the castle before I know it.

But why am I even crying to begin with?

I snatch up the stack of nightclothes, storming to the dresser and shoving them inside. Then I go back for the shirts and chuck them in the next drawer. My breath comes faster and faster. I manage to empty the pack, tossing it next to the dresser and watch it deflate.

I don't realize I am weeping until I grab the first bit of fabric within the trunk stacked at the top the pile — a short-sleeved turquoise nightgown — stomp my way into the bathroom where I draw myself a bath. I detangle my hair and pour an absurd amount of oil and soap into the water before stepping inside it, nearly slipping. I scrub myself pink, my skin tingling and raw, and more sobs escape from my throat.

I still don't know what for. Because of how I'd left things with Bela before I left; because I'll forced into a new environment at the behest of her mother; because of the crazed priestess that is now hunting for me head.

Or . . . or because I actually miss her?

I'll only be here a week, I repeat to myself. What's the big deal?

I climb into the big, fluffy bed, the sheets smooth and welcoming, and can barely draw a breath steady enough to blow out the lamp on my left.

But as soon as darkness envelops the room, my sobs hit in full — great, gasping pants that shudder through me, staining my pillow and dredging up a sense of hopelessness and sorrow that I hadn't felt since I left Lacy. And now I've been forced to leave Bela.

I don't know who I miss more.