Chapter 3 - The Early Riser
The first pale streak of dawn cut through the narrow transom window of the third-floor nursery, painting a thin sliver of golden light across the hardwood floor.
Lina woke up the way three-year-olds wake up—suddenly, completely, and with an immediate sense of urgent curiosity about the world. She did not cry. Instead, she blinked her large, dark eyes, threw off the knitted blanket her mother had patched together from old sweaters, and sat straight up in her small wooden bed.
Her pink hair clip was already missing, lost somewhere in the blankets the night before, leaving her wild, dark curls tumbling around her shoulders. She slid out from under the covers, her bare feet hitting the cold floorboards with a soft pitter-patter.
Downstairs, the house was exceptionally quiet. Usually, at this hour, she could hear Lucia moving around the main kitchen, the muffled clatter of porcelain plates, the rich, comforting aroma of brewing espresso and toasted bread. But today, the air felt different. It was heavy, still, and smelled faintly of burnt oil and cold stone.
Lina padded out of her room, her little red wool coat from yesterday still draped over the small wooden chair by the door. She didn't put it on; instead, she dragged it behind her by one sleeve, letting the hem sweep across the polished hallway floor.
She walked past Signor Damiano’s study. The door was cracked open just an inch. She pushed it wider with her small hand, peering inside. The desk was neat, the walnut surface empty except for the silver pen holder. The chair was pushed in. He wasn't there.
"Signor Damiano?" she whispered, her voice echoing softly in the large room.
No answer. Only the low hum of the refrigerator coming from far away down in the kitchens.
Frowning—a small, adorable crease forming between her eyebrows—she turned around and toddled down the grand staircase. She skipped the steps two at a time in that awkward, lurching way toddlers manage, holding tightly to the carved wooden banister. When she reached the main foyer, she didn't see her mother either.
"Mama?" she called out louder, her voice bouncing off the high marble ceilings.
Still nothing. The grand front doors were locked tight, the heavy brass bolts firmly in place. But as she wandered past the grand staircase toward the back of the hall, near the servants' staircase that led down to the service quarters and the cellar, she noticed something odd.
The heavy iron-reinforced door leading down to the basement—a door that Lucia had strictly warned her never, ever to touch—wasn't completely latched. The deadbolt had been thrown by Carlo in a hurry, but the latch itself had failed to catch properly, leaving a dark, narrow gap of about two inches between the door frame and the heavy timber.
From deep down in the darkness below, a strange sound drifted up. It wasn't the scurry of mice or the usual settling of the old stones. It was a low, rhythmic groan, followed by the faint sound of heavy breathing.
Lina stopped. She dropped her red coat on the floor.
Children are naturally drawn to forbidden places because the world is too large and they want to see every corner of it before they are told they cannot. Lina crouched down, peered into the black slit of the open basement door, and tilted her head.
"Hello?" she whispered into the dark abyss.
Down in the damp chill of the cellar, Damiano lifted his heavy head. The blood from his temple had dried into a stiff crust against his skin, and his arms burned fiercely where the industrial zip-ties had cut off his circulation. He thought he was hallucinating. The feverish haze of pain and lack of sleep had begun to play tricks on his mind.
"Lina?" he rasped, his voice cracked and barely audible.
"Signor Damiano?" The small voice came floating down the stone steps, crystal clear and unmistakably real.
Damiano’s heart hammered against his ribs. Panic—pure, unadulterated panic that he had never felt when facing a barrel of a gun—gripped him instantly. If Carlo or the guards came back and found her down here, the monsters would not hesitate.
"Lina," he called out again, forcing every ounce of strength into his dry throat, trying to keep his voice steady. "Listen to me, piccola. Turn around. Go upstairs right now. Find your mother."
May you like
Instead of running away as any sensible person would do, the narrow gap of the door widened as a small hand pushed against the heavy wood. A pair of big, bewildered eyes appeared in the strip of light, followed by a head of messy curls.
Lina squeezed her small body through the gap, stepping off the first stone step of the cellar stairs, her bare feet pattering against the freezing concrete floor.
