Chapter 3 - Cavendish's Legacy

The hall descended into utter madness.

Leo was the first. He shook Philip's hand off his shoulder, stepped up to the long table, and shouted his wish at the ceiling: "I want a hundred million dollars! Cash! Now!"

A gust of wind swept through the corridor—no source, no destination, just a dry wind carrying the smell of old books and pine resin. Then Leo's phone lit up. He pulled it out, opened his bank notification, and saw the string of zeros. One hundred million dollars. Deposited.

His mouth fell open. The corners of his mouth began to curl upward, but the arc stopped before it became a smile—like a video freezing mid-frame. His pupils dilated; saliva began to trickle from the corner of his mouth—thin, foamy liquid that dripped down his chin onto his limited-edition sneakers. He slumped back into his chair, hunched over, pressing the phone screen to his face, his thumb frantically refreshing, refreshing, refreshing. A sound escaped his throat—somewhere between a giggle and a sob.

"Leo?" Philip's voice cracked. "Leo!"

Leo didn't respond. He swiped his phone, let out a muffled chuckle. Saliva dripped onto the screen; he wiped it with the back of his hand and kept refreshing. His skin was turning gray—a gray paler than death, as if something was being drained from within. But he was still laughing. Still refreshing. The phone's glow illuminated his sunken eye sockets; the string of numbers cast a cold blue light across his face.

Margaret let out a scream. Liana stumbled backward, knocking over her chair. Someone in the corner began to pray.

I rose from my chair. I didn't touch Leo, just crouched beside him and stared at those eyes—already losing focus—for a few seconds. I snapped my fingers in front of his face. No response. His world had shrunk to that phone screen with its hundred-million-dollar balance.

"This isn't magic," I said, straightening up and addressing everyone. "There's a price. I don't know exactly what it is yet, but you'd better stop—"

"Look!" Liana pointed at Leo's face and shrieked.

Leo's skin was grayer now. Veins stood out beneath his skin as dark lines—like dried-up riverbeds on a map. But he was still laughing. Still drooling.

The hall fell silent for a few seconds. Some people looked at Leo's drooling face and took half a step back. Others stared at the bank notification and swallowed hard. Then Uncle Sebastian stood up.

He was Leo's father. He looked at his son slumped in the chair, saliva dripping, skin turning gray. He looked for a long time. No tears on his face. Then he straightened his tie.

"A hundred million dollars," he said, his voice as steady as if he were delivering a boardroom presentation. "That's all he wanted. I've paid more than that in tuition for him over his lifetime. That's the best he could do."

He lifted his napkin from his lap, folded it, and placed it on the table.

"I want my shipping company to be number one in the world."

"Sebastian!" Margaret shrieked.

But the words were already spoken. The wind came again—dry, carrying the smell of old books and pine resin, pouring in through the skylight. Something in the shadows along the ceiling seemed to laugh. All the electronic devices in Sebastian's pockets went off at once. He pulled out his phone; the screen was crowded with acquisition confirmations and congratulatory messages. He smiled—the exact same smile as Leo's. Saliva dripped from the corner of his mouth. He sat down, began refreshing the screen, and his skin began to turn gray.

Then more followed.

"I want to be a senator."

"I want her to marry me."

"I want—I want—I want—"

With each utterance, the wind swept across the ceiling once more. With each new wisher, the candlelight in the hall dimmed another inch. The air grew heavier—not in temperature, not in pressure, but in some deeper weight, like standing far underground. I had felt the same weight in the basement of St. Joseph's Monastery. The night my partner died, the air had been just as heavy.

Someone wished for ten billion gold coins. Then coins began to rain from the ceiling—not coins, but gold bricks, one after another, smashing through the table, shattering the plates before him. Before he could even laugh, he was buried beneath a pile of gold. The dull thuds continued for a full ten seconds. When the falling stopped, only one arm remained exposed, its fingers still twitching.

Two kinds of death. A hundred million dollars had turned Leo into a drooling husk. Gold bricks had crushed the man who asked for gold. The pattern was the same—it was fulfilling wishes literally. You ask for money, it gives you money. If what you ask for can kill you on its own, it won't stop it. It follows every word to the letter.

Silence fell over the hall for a moment.

Those who remained regained some composure. No one dared make any more outrageous wishes. But they began to murmur—property, promotions, beauty. Their voices grew more fragmented, denser, like a pack of starving people fighting over the last scraps of a meal. I quickly scanned the room—at least three or four distant relatives were still huddled in the corners, not yet speaking. Counting Ella and me, no more than six of us had yet to wish.

Then their gazes began to turn toward those in the corners who hadn't wished yet.

Margaret was the first to approach us.

She was still holding that corgi. She set the dog gently on the floor and walked up to Ella. Her smile was wider than it had been minutes ago—stretched beyond the limit of normal muscles, as if someone were pushing her cheeks from both sides with their fingers.

"Ella, you should make your wish too. Your grandfather loved you most. If you don't wish, all of us will be trapped here. Can you bear that? All because of you?"

Several other wishers surrounded us. Their eyes were changing color—pupils shifting from brown to pale gold, from pale gold to dark gold, like a coin flipping in candlelight.

"When you were sick as a child, Grandfather carried you all the way to the town," Cousin Liana said, her voice rising half an octave, as if singing.

"When you were twelve and got kidnapped, he sold half the estate for the ransom," Margaret continued, her tone utterly flat.

They took turns reciting these memories, like chanting from a worn-out scripture. With each sentence, they took another step closer.

I stepped between them and Ella. My right hand went inside my coat and found the pouch of salt. The pouch was already torn; salt grains trickled through my fingers, sifting to the floor.

Then all the wishers stopped at once. They all turned their heads, all looking at me in unison—as coordinated as a mirror shattered into pieces, each shard reflecting the same face. Margaret's head tilted to one side, her neck emitting a crack that didn't belong in a human joint.

"Who is he? That man you brought. He's not a Cavendish. What right does he have to stand here? What right does he have to make a wish? What right does he have to touch our inheritance?"

Beneath her voice, another layer vibrated—from deep in her throat.

"He's an outsider. Outsiders have no right to touch what's ours."

"Drive out the outsider—"

The voices came from all directions. All the wishers stood up at once, spoke at once, fixing those darkening golden eyes on me. Their lips moved in unison with the same word, like puppets pulled by the same set of strings.

I grabbed Ella's wrist.

"Stay close. Don't look back. Don't answer anything. Don't wish for anything."

I kicked over the nearest chair and pulled her toward the side corridor off the main hall. Behind us, the synchronized footsteps followed—neither hurried nor slow, like a metronome. Margaret's voice pursued us from down the hall, no longer soft, no longer coaxing. That voice now belonged entirely to the thing, low and pleased, like a cat that had finally seen a mouse poke its head out of its hole:

"You can't escape, Ella. Ten hours. We have all the time we need."