“Stop it, Sybil,” I tell myself sternly. “You promised.”
After another long moment, I yank out a drawer of the nearest bureau, drop the keys inside, and slam the drawer. Then I leap into bed and shut my eyes tight, determined to sleep.
But I can’t.
Finally I roll over and wriggle my fingers into my panties, picturing Beresford’s massive, gorgeous body and thick cock. I imagine that I’m a fine lady traveling through a forest, and he’s the highwayman who attacks my coach. Highwayman Beresford finds me so irresistible that he forgets all about the treasure he planned to steal. He’s desperate to fuck me, right there on the road…
But images of golden keys and blue doors keep intruding on my fantasy. With an exasperated sigh, I give up and lie there wide-eyed, plagued by questions.
My husband should be here with me right now. Why did he leave? Where did he go? What does he do to make so much money? What is he hiding behind that door, and why would those secrets ruin our marriage? Is his love for me really so fragile?
If he didn’t want me to use the key, why didn’t he take it with him? Why place it in my hands at all? Maybe it’s some kind of test. The idea of him testing my compliance is almost as infuriating as my curiosity.
“Where are you, husband?” I say aloud. “What are you hiding?”
Flinging off the covers, I leap out of bed. Moments later I’ve got a lamp in one hand and the key ring in the other as I’m hurrying down the hall.
My whole body buzzes with latent panic, and guilt roars in my mind.Why are you doing this? You told him that he could trust you. You’re breaking his trust. You’re ruining everything.
But if whatever is in this room could ruin everything, shouldn’t I know about it? No secret should have that much power over my happiness.
He told me which key it was. Warned me what would occur if I opened the door. And then, when I promised not to touch it, he trusted me completely. He left for his business, whatever that is, and he left me here, counting on me to keep my word.
I’m betraying him, but not because of idle curiosity. He made this such a huge and terrible thing that I can’tnotlook. I owe the truth to myself. I am responsible for my own sanity and peace, neither of which will be attainable while this secret gnaws at my brain.
If I don’t look, I will be endlessly wondering. The vision of that door will rob me of sleep. Every morning, I’ll wake up withthat hallway in my mind. Whenever I open a different door, I’ll see the scratched symbols on the blue surface of the forbidden one. Each time I use the key ring, the forbidden key will catch my attention.
And when Beresford returns, the mystery will pop into my head at the most inopportune moments. While we’re eating dinner, I’ll be thinking,What is behind the blue door?When he’s fucking me, right before I come, I’ll wonder what’s in that room. While I’m playing duets with him on the piano, my questions will fit themselves into every melody:What could he be hiding? What is in that room?
It was unfair of him to extract such a promise from me. I need to know.
I’ll look inside, then re-lock the door so he won’t be aware that I broke my word. Whatever I see, I’ll keep it to myself. Maybe it won’t be that dreadful. Maybe things can continue the way they have been, with cuddles and walks, meals and games, wine and sex, shared baths and sleep.
Maybe he’s wrong, and whatever is in there won’t impact our relationship at all.
I walk faster, afraid that I’ll talk myself out of doing this. If I turn back now, I’ll only go through the entire cycle again in an hour or two. Better to end my mental suffering.
There it is. The blue door.
Halting before it, I hold up the lamp and inspect the symbols again. Maybe there’s witchcraft involved. Maybe he is some kind of sorcerer, and he thinks I’ll be afraid of him. If that’s the case, I can find ways to reassure him that I’m no stranger to supernatural or inexplicable things. I won’t tell him that I peeked, but I’ll subtly build his confidence until he shares the secret willingly, not knowing that I stole it first.
I set the lamp on the floor and sort through the keys until I find the little golden one. It feels oddly warm in my hand, maybe because I’m nervous.
I fit it into the lock and turn it. The click seems to resound through the house, and for a second I feel the terrible conviction that Beresford will immediately realize what I’ve done.
But there’s no way he could ever know.
I take the key out of the lock and drop the key ring into the pocket of my nightgown before pressing the door handle, which swings obediently down.
And I, the disobedient wife, pick up my lamp and open the door.
12
Faces and forms burst from the darkness as I lift the lamp. I almost scream, until I realize that the figures aren’t moving. The faces are expressionless, the eyes vacant and fixed. The heads loll to one side or the other, and the arms hang limp.
The bodies are naked and slack. And the room is full of them.
I inhale sharply, then wish I hadn’t. Instead of the stench of death, there’s a pungent herbal smell in the room, so strong it’s unpleasant. I can’t discern which herbs I’m smelling, though. My brain is occupied with processing sights, not scents.
