“But wouldn’t Oliver think it a trap—receiving another manuscript from John?”
She nodded. “That is why he asked Rose to make a second copy, and used a pen name this time—R. J. Stephens.”
“Ahh,” Frederick murmured, recalling the burnt fragment.
She added, “IfMr. Oliver gave it to his publisher, John planned to reveal his true identity then.”
“And if Oliver stole it again?”
“John had kept copies this time, to protect his interests. He’d learned from his mistakes. Rose read it through, and I read a few chapters as well—all I had time for. I recognized John’s words on the page we found under Mr. Oliver’s chair.”
“So you think Johnwastrying to trap Oliver ... and succeeded?”
Miss Lane hesitated. In lieu of answering, she asked a question of her own. “Have you ever readThe Arabian Nights?”
He felt his brow furrow in confusion. “I ... think so. I certainly recall your father describing some of the tales in it.”
She nodded. “He read them to us when we were younger—at least those he deemed fit for children. John’s favorite was ‘The Vizier and the Sage.’ Do you remember that one?”
Frederick thought back. “Not the details. Though it sounds familiar.”
Expression grave, Rebecca handed him the book she’d brought. “Then perhaps you should refresh your memory.”
———
When Miss Lane had gone, Frederick sat in one of the room’s chairs and opened the volume ofThe Arabian Nights Entertainments. He searched the contents until he came to “The Vizier and the Sage Duban.”
He flipped to the page indicated, slid a candle lamp closer, then settled back. As he began reading, the old story returned to him.
Duban was a wise healer who cured a king of leprosy. A jealous advisor or “vizier” told the king that Duban was planning to poison him, so the king sentenced the sage to death. Duban seemingly accepted his fate, and offered the king one of his prized books full of wisdom so that the ruler might heal himself should he grow ill again.
Later, after Duban’s death, the king opened the book and turned through the pages, surprised to find them blank. He continued to flip through the book, separating the sticky pages by licking his fingers, thereby absorbing the poison Duban had spread there. He quickly began to die, realizing in his final moments that this was his punishment for killing the man who had cured him.
Cheery tale, Frederick thought, then stilled as apprehension prickled over him. His heart pounded dully, and bile as sour as vinegar rose in his throat.
Miss Lane had asked him to read this story for a reason. An awful, chilling reason.
Merciful God, please, no.
19
When Rebecca left Sir Frederick’s room after her confession, she’d felt only partially relieved. She had not been able to force out the last words. To admit she feared John may have poisoned Ambrose Oliver.
She had returned to her room with no intention of leaving the hotel, but the relentless inner turmoil that had driven her to confess now drove her to put on her things and walk back to the lodge to confront her brother finally and fully.
As she entered Fowler’s Wood, the last of the waning daylight filtered through the tree branches, dappling the dirt road with shadows. Rebecca had forgotten how early the sky darkened at this time of year—especially in the wood.
Ahead, the road curved around a sprawling yew. Anything or anyone might lie beyond. She shivered. Perhaps she should have started out earlier or hired Robb Tarvin to drive her.
Too late. She kept walking. The farther she went, the thicker the wood became and the darker.
A branch snapped behind her, and she halted, looking over her shoulder. She could see no one, nor did she hear any footsteps, so she continued on.
To encourage herself, she whispered, “Not long now, brave Becky.”
The road curved again, and another branch snapped—closer this time. She drew in a sharp breath and turned.
Footsteps shuffled to a stop somewhere out of sight. Was someone following her?
