Read Online The Eighth Guardian by Meredith McCardle - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Meredith McCardle
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have probably never even heard of.
My eyes are drawn up to a massive crystal chandelier hanging over the table, then to a wooden staircase that curves up to the right. This place can only be described as a mansion, and I’m pretty sure my jaw has dropped open at this point.
“What is this place?” I ask.
Violet’s beside me now. “Annum Hall. This is where we live. Come on, I’ll show you to your room.”
Violet starts up the stairs, but my feet are cemented to the floor. There’s a pair of French doors off to the right leading into a dining room. Inside is the longest table I’ve ever seen, and chairs are lined up uniformly around it. The table is set with china and crystal, and even though I’m too far to really see the place settings, I’d bet you anything that’s real sterling silver.
Holy crap.
This place is out of control. I grew up in a two-bedroom Cape with unreliable plumbing and a measly nine hundred square feet. When I first went away to school, I was impressed with the fact that it had a heating system that actually worked, rooms with polished wood floors, and tables that weren’t duct taped together. I thought that was the big-time.
I see now that’s like bragging about your used Chevy to someone who just rolled up in a Bugatti.
We get to the second floor and keep going up the staircase to the third. There’s one massive window and seven closed doors making a U around it on this floor. Four doors to the left of the window, three to the right. I memorize this detail.
Violet stops in front of the first door on the left. She pulls a key out of her pocket and hands it to me.
“Welcome home,” she says. There’s an air of sarcasm in her voice.
The key is plain silver, like the ones you can get copies of in any big-box hardware store. I’m a little disappointed that it’s not another old-fashioned skeleton key.
I stick the key in the lock and open the door. The room is small, but it has the same plush carpeting as downstairs. I immediately notice there’s no window—no sunlight, no means of escape—and a momentary sense of panic washes over me. I breathe it out. Fear isn’t going to change the situation, only make it worse.
There’s a single four-poster bed centered on the wall straight ahead, a dresser on the left wall, and a desk and hutch on the wall with the door. There’s a closet and another closed door on the right wall. A white duvet clothes the bed, which looks soft and fluffy and more luxurious than anything I’ve ever owned. It sure beats the cheap, poly-blend comforter in my room back home in Vermont or the Peel-issued thick, navy blanket that itches when you lie on top of it.
“This is all mine?” I ask, which—dammit, I totally sound impressed. I don’t want to sound impressed.
Violet clears her throat. “All yours.” She steps in and opens the door on the right. “This is all yours, too.”
It’s a bathroom. It’s painted a very pale lilac and has black-and-white tile, a pedestal sink, and a claw-foot tub. The entire place is sparkling. It’s like the “after” bathroom on a home makeover show.
“I kept it really clean,” Violet says behind me. Her voice is clipped, angry even. “Use it well.”
I turn to look at her. “This room was yours?”
She nods. “Everything here works on a hierarchy. This room belongs to the most junior Guardian. I moved into Indigo’s room, and so on. Red moved downstairs. I know Indigo probably tried to keep his room clean, but he’s still a boy. There’s a boy smell in my new bathroom.” She says it like it’s my fault.
I step back into the room and open the top door to the dresser. It’s full of socks and underwear; and, holy crap, unless they’d managed to go out and find the same hot-pink underwear with tiny black skulls I’d bought like two years ago, I’m going to guess this is all my stuff, which means someone was rifling through my underwear . I slam the drawer shut.
“So this is your room,”
My eyes are drawn up to a massive crystal chandelier hanging over the table, then to a wooden staircase that curves up to the right. This place can only be described as a mansion, and I’m pretty sure my jaw has dropped open at this point.
“What is this place?” I ask.
Violet’s beside me now. “Annum Hall. This is where we live. Come on, I’ll show you to your room.”
Violet starts up the stairs, but my feet are cemented to the floor. There’s a pair of French doors off to the right leading into a dining room. Inside is the longest table I’ve ever seen, and chairs are lined up uniformly around it. The table is set with china and crystal, and even though I’m too far to really see the place settings, I’d bet you anything that’s real sterling silver.
Holy crap.
This place is out of control. I grew up in a two-bedroom Cape with unreliable plumbing and a measly nine hundred square feet. When I first went away to school, I was impressed with the fact that it had a heating system that actually worked, rooms with polished wood floors, and tables that weren’t duct taped together. I thought that was the big-time.
I see now that’s like bragging about your used Chevy to someone who just rolled up in a Bugatti.
We get to the second floor and keep going up the staircase to the third. There’s one massive window and seven closed doors making a U around it on this floor. Four doors to the left of the window, three to the right. I memorize this detail.
Violet stops in front of the first door on the left. She pulls a key out of her pocket and hands it to me.
“Welcome home,” she says. There’s an air of sarcasm in her voice.
The key is plain silver, like the ones you can get copies of in any big-box hardware store. I’m a little disappointed that it’s not another old-fashioned skeleton key.
I stick the key in the lock and open the door. The room is small, but it has the same plush carpeting as downstairs. I immediately notice there’s no window—no sunlight, no means of escape—and a momentary sense of panic washes over me. I breathe it out. Fear isn’t going to change the situation, only make it worse.
There’s a single four-poster bed centered on the wall straight ahead, a dresser on the left wall, and a desk and hutch on the wall with the door. There’s a closet and another closed door on the right wall. A white duvet clothes the bed, which looks soft and fluffy and more luxurious than anything I’ve ever owned. It sure beats the cheap, poly-blend comforter in my room back home in Vermont or the Peel-issued thick, navy blanket that itches when you lie on top of it.
“This is all mine?” I ask, which—dammit, I totally sound impressed. I don’t want to sound impressed.
Violet clears her throat. “All yours.” She steps in and opens the door on the right. “This is all yours, too.”
It’s a bathroom. It’s painted a very pale lilac and has black-and-white tile, a pedestal sink, and a claw-foot tub. The entire place is sparkling. It’s like the “after” bathroom on a home makeover show.
“I kept it really clean,” Violet says behind me. Her voice is clipped, angry even. “Use it well.”
I turn to look at her. “This room was yours?”
She nods. “Everything here works on a hierarchy. This room belongs to the most junior Guardian. I moved into Indigo’s room, and so on. Red moved downstairs. I know Indigo probably tried to keep his room clean, but he’s still a boy. There’s a boy smell in my new bathroom.” She says it like it’s my fault.
I step back into the room and open the top door to the dresser. It’s full of socks and underwear; and, holy crap, unless they’d managed to go out and find the same hot-pink underwear with tiny black skulls I’d bought like two years ago, I’m going to guess this is all my stuff, which means someone was rifling through my underwear . I slam the drawer shut.
“So this is your room,”
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