A violent summer storm batters the crumbling Saint-James estate. Arabella drinks absinthe in her darkened parlor the wind clawed at the shutters like a madwoman locked outside. Rain slapped the windows in angry bursts, and thunder cracked over the Saint-James estate with the hunger of something ancient waking from a long sleep. Inside the parlor, bathed in green absinthe glow and the warm flicker of gaslight, Arabella Saint-James sipped from her glass and didn't flinch.
The bottle sat open on the low table beside her half empty now, or half full, depending on how one chose to measure sins.
Lightning flashed, illuminating the ruined grandeur of the room: faded wallpaper curling at the corners like old skin, a piano no one had played in years, the chandelier draped in cobwebs instead of crystals. The scent of rain pressed against the glass, mingling with absinthe and mildew.
Arabella sat barefoot in a high-backed velvet chair, legs tucked beneath her. Her white dressing gown made of silk, barely clinging to her frame fluttered slightly at the sleeves as a gust forced its way down the chimney and scattered the ashes in the hearth.
Behind her, the portrait of Elias watched her.
The eyes, she knew, had been painted last. Too dark. Too knowing. He'd insisted on having it done the week before he drowned. The week he told her: If I ever leave, it will be through you.
She threw back the last of her drink.
Something howled in the distance, it doesn't sound like the wind. It's too high and sound human.
Arabella stood slowly, her body a cold ache of old injuries and older nights. She crossed to the window and parted the heavy curtain with two fingers. The swamp at the edge of her estate pulsed with shadows. Lightning licked across it. And there, down where the reeds kissed the water's edge, she saw something move.
Another scream sounded the second time.But this time it's shorter, not of panic but pain.
She let the curtain fall and walked away.
She did not hurry. Not even when the third scream came.