At dusk, Sally arrived at Demitria's room and unlocked the door with a key. As she stepped inside, she noticed most of the furniture had been removed. Standing in the middle of the empty room, she looked around, unsure of what exactly she was hoping to find.
She had simply wanted to take one last look. Tomorrow, she would be heading to the Scarlet Monastery to oversee interrogations and prosecutions, a position she welcomed, as the monastery was beyond Ethenrion's jurisdiction.
A day or two after that incident, the room had been cleared out, leaving only a mirror and two chairs. For a moment, Sally considered investigating who had given the order, but quickly dismissed the thought. She wondered if anything remained in the other small rooms, such as the study or the tea room.
In the back, the study was nearly bare, save for an old bookshelf. Sally recalled the rare afternoons when a breeze swept away the miasma of the Plaguelands, and Demitria would read poetry to her in this house.
As she was about to leave the study, a familiar and detested scent stopped her: blood mixed with a distinctive perfume.
The smell of Ethenrion filled the entire house.
He had been here. No, he had stayed here for some time.
But Sally had never known this.
She recalled a puzzling detail: ever since Demitria had been confined, Sally noticed that the door was never locked when she visited. Why would Demitria do this? If it were to welcome her—a premise absurd in itself—why did their conversations in this house always end so unpleasantly? "Get out," "I don't want to see you again," and other such harsh words. After being struck by these repeated verbal assaults, Sally had been on the verge of abandoning any effort to save Demitria. In the end, her last bit of courage had been ruthlessly discarded by Demitria.
She was trying to warn me that someone else was in the house.
If, on that day, I had not only said I would let her go but also taken action, I would certainly be dead.
Sally returned to the living room and sat in front of Demitria's mirror. The light of the setting sun struggled to pierce through the iron bars on the windows, falling on her long hair draped over her back like a row of silent blades.