Page 75 of Porcelain Grave

"Right," I snap, my voice echoing in the small space. "First off, take the fucking veils off. And second, do me a massive favour and don't try to freak me out by talking in that creepy-as-fuck unison. Just... don't."

A soft, melodic chuckle ripples through the air. It’s Oana. "Ophelia," she says, her voice smooth as silk. "We were expecting you."

I lean back, crossing my arms. "Course you were. You lot probably see everything in this godforsaken place, don't you?"

At a silent signal, they all reach up and pull back the black veils. One of the witches strikes a single match and touches it to a candle. In a sudden, supernatural rush, every single candle in the tent ignites at once, bathing the room in a warm, eerie glow.

They’re just as I remember when they switch: skin the colour of bleached bone, eyes a piercing, unnatural green, and those fucking shark teeth that make them look like they could rip my throat out if I say the wrong thing.

Then, they do it anyway. They lean forward, their voices merging into one singular, haunting vibration that rattles my teeth.

"Welcome, child of blood and shadow. The veil is thin, and your heart is heavy."

I don't even flinch. After everything I've been through with Rhys, them speaking as one isn't going to make me piss myself. "Yeah, yeah, very spooky. Look, I really need your help. It doesn't have to be tonight—I've got some shit to settle first, some revenge to finish—but soon. I need answers."

Oana’s eyes glint. "You want to speak to her sisters," she says, her voice returning to its individual tone.

I nod, my chest tightening. "Every time they show up, it's just a glimpse. A flicker in a mirror, a cold breeze. They never stay. I need to know how they are... why the fuck they haven't moved on to the afterlife yet." I swallow hard, the image of my mother flashing in my mind. "And once I finish my mum's last request... I need to be sure she's actually gone. That she's finally at peace."

The six witches exchange looks, their green eyes shimmering in the candlelight.

"The bond of triplets is not easily severed by a blade," one of them whispers.

"The trauma of the slaughter left a stain on the soul," another adds, her voice raspy.

"They linger because they are tethered," a third says, leaning in. "Not just by death, but by the love and the horror you still carry."

"We can bridge the gap," the fourth declares. "We can open the door for a conversation."

"But it will require a price of spirit," the fifth warns.

Oana smiles, showing those rows of jagged teeth. "We agree, Ophelia. We will help you find them. We will let you speak to the ghosts of your blood." Then, her expression turns playful, a mischievous glint in her eye. "Of course... the Ringmaster has to know first."

I frown, my brow furrowing in genuine confusion. "Who the fuck is this 'Ringmaster' everyone keeps talking about?"

The witches all stop. They stare at me with expressions of pure, unadulterated disbelief, as if I’ve just asked who the fucking King of England is or why the sky is blue.

"Rhys," Oana says simply.

I blink, my brain stalling for a second. "Rhys?"

The sisters burst out laughing, a discordant, cackling sound that fills the tent.

"Who do you think keeps this circus alive, dragă?" Oana mocks gently.

I freeze. I know Rhys owns the carnival. I know he calls every single shot, controls every breath taken within these grounds, and treats the whole place like his personal playground. But I never thought people had a nickname for him. A title.

The Ringmaster.

I stare at them, wondering if Rhys even knows they call him that. The thought of him—obsessive, psychotic, beautiful Rhys—as the master of ceremonies for this nightmare carnival feels... fitting. And terrifying.

The witches don't laugh this time. Instead, their expressions shift, becoming something more solemn, almost reverent. They lean in closer, the candlelight casting long, dancing shadows across their pale faces, making their shark-like teeth glint with a predatory edge.

"You think you're just a girl and her madman, dragă," Oana whispers, her voice humming with a strange vibration. "But the world outside this carnival... the fringes of the city where the desperate and the damned linger... they talk. They whisper."

I shift in my seat, feeling a sudden prickle of unease. "Talk about what? We aren't exactly putting out press releases."

The other witches begin to speak, not in that jarring unison, but in a layered, overlapping chorus, their voices weaving together like a dark tapestry. They aren't just telling me a story; they're reciting a legend.