The Spy

Alice's POV

They say every castle has eyes.

Too many to fit in Hunt's estate.

It awakened me hours before the sun revealed itself behind the horizon, hours before the maids initiated their silent pace through the halls. It was the scent of wood polish and the alien lilies still present in the air. But below those chandeliers and silk sheets, something was rotting inside.

Something waits in ambush.

I felt it. Not the fearful kind that makes a frightened girl shiver when she hears the wind blow, but more like a nip at the nape of the neck. A creak or two of unheard footfalls.

I sat up on the bed, slow breathing as I curled my fingers against the bed where I had hidden the Holloway folder, surreptitiously. Still there. Closed. But not safe.

No.

I stood frozen and slid slowly over the window as I opened the curtains wide. Like theatre velvet it was drawn apart. Wrapped in that cloak of morning mist, it still revealed to me the flash of movement at the eastern hedges.

Form.

"Too far."

"Too still", as I might more properly say, "for innocence".

Then I retreated, my heart composed and breath shallow. My mind flashed first to Mrs. Hunt.

The bride had smiled at the wedding like a cobra listening for the flute to start. She'd hardly spoken more than four words to me since. But her eyes had been fixed on me.

Measuring.

Judging.

Owning.

She'd warned me the very next morning after the vows.

"Every Hunt bride learns obedience, dear."

I'd smiled and said, "I never said I was a bride. Just a piece of property signed over in ink."

Her lips trembled. She had not liked that.

And now she might be waiting.

Or had left someone waiting for her.

I dressed hastily; a clingy pullover, trousers, boots, silent clothes. I tied my hair back into a knot at the nape of my neck and slid into the hall like a shadow melting into shadows.

It was dark in the halls, dimly lit by occasional small sconces on the walls. I passed three security cameras-they were dummy cameras. Jermin had told me years ago that he never trusted anything that he hadn't built himself. And even his security, I knew, wasn't built to deflect people. It was built to keep secrets.

A small test might be in order.

I descended the center staircase intentionally, allowing my tread to fall just so that I could be heard. Paused to pretend to look at my watch. Waited.

And nothing.

Then, as I walked into the west hall, I heard it.

The least shift.

Such as a lone foot against velvet carpet.

I love it.

Hooked.

Library. Went slowly now. Stopped to admire the marble bust of some old Hunt ancestor. Pretended to read the plaque. Counted to five.

Then I turned around.

Nothing.

Except the faintest movement by the hallway I'd just stepped out of. A shadow pulling back. A ghost in shoes.

They were good, I guess. But not-good enough to fool me.

And I ran quickly, scooting into the library and shouldering through between the shelves, out into the rear corridor which led to the trophy gallery.

I doubled back from this place.

And he was there.

A tall, dark-suited man. Mid-thirties. Not staff.

He stood with one hand holding a radio, and no earpiece. When I moved into view, he froze.

I tilted my head so my face could make the transition from one of shock to one of laughter.

"I don't believe we've met," I said, voice light.

He stood up straight. "Mrs. Hunt, I-"

"Ah," I interrupted him, smiling. "Then you do know me."

His jaw was set.

"You're not staff," I continued, "and you're certainly not family. So what brings you here? Jermin, or his mother?"

Silence. Staring.

I took one step closer to him. Slow. Measured.

"Because if you don't talk, sweetheart, I can start screaming. Loud. And I'm sure the Hunt security will just love hauling in an intruder at this hour of night.

His hand twitched.

I smiled even wider.

He turned and fled.

I chased him a few steps before stopping, though. I really didn't need to catch him. I had all I needed.

Evidence.".

They did not trust me.

Not that I was surprised, but disappointed, as now the game changed. I was not the only one with pieces on the board. Jermin was watching. Or his mom. Or both.

In my own bedroom, I locked the door and removed the Holloway file again. I read it more methodically this time. I caught something that I hadn't noticed before: a name scribbled in the margin.

Hendrix.

Not a Hunt. Not a Holloway.

Maybe a contractor.

A killer?

A pawn?

I scribbled it down in my notebook, pushed the file back under the mattress, and sat on the edge of the vanity.

My face glared back at me. My eyes were steady, but my mouth trembled. Not out of fear.

Out of rage.

They'd wanted to play spies.

Fine.

Let them.

But they'd forget something:

I played for keeps.

That evening at dinner, I kept my silence.

Mrs. Hunt was swathed in lavender and sipped tea as if she were queen of the kingdom. Jermin sat at head of table, still bare-chested, still serene.

Under candlelight, he looked at me.

"You slumbered in rather late today," he remarked serenely.

I smiled. "I dreamed something odd. A man in black was standing in the garden spying on me. He disappeared when I looked at him too intensely."

Jermin blinked. 

Not Mrs. Hunt. 

"Was it a nightmare?" she asked. 

I took a sip of wine. "No, ma'am. Just. informative." 

Jermin adjusted his position in his chair. 

"You know," I added, toasting my glass, "dreams can be warnings." 

"Or riddles." 

He leaned in. "And sometimes dreams are just ghosts." 

I met his gaze evenly. 

"Then maybe I should start haunting them." 

His smile didn't reach

his eyes.

And mine never kissed my lips.

Let them play their game.

I had just begun mine