There are two Beresfords. This dead one, and the one who rode away on “business.”
Which one did I marry? How long hasthisBeresford been hanging here?
Why do the two Beresfords lookexactlyalike?
My mind supplies a possibility, even though my heart shrieks against it.
They look alike because one is the real Beresford, and one is the thing that has taken his form.
The Beresford in front of me might have been hanging here for weeks, months—who knows how long? His wound looks old, but not corrupted, and like the others, his body has been preserved somehow. Sustained by magic, perhaps.
Yes, there is definitely magic at work here, although I have no idea what kind, nor can I imagine what reason anyone would have to keep a room full of preserved corpses.
I’m panting rapidly, breathing much too fast. Black spots are beginning to bloom at the edges of my vision. I try taking a deep breath, but the pungent odor of the room fills my lungs, and nausea lurches in my stomach.
I can’t throw up in this room. If I do, Beresford will know I was here.
I scramble to my feet, snatching up the lamp as I run for the exit. Somehow I manage to relock the door, and then I race to the nearest guest bathroom and hurl the contents of my stomach into the toilet.
When it’s over, I pull the chain to flush, then sit on the cold, tiled floor with my back against the wall. The lamp gutters as a faint breeze whispers through the room. I don’t know where that current of air came from, and that sets me on edge even more.
My gaze falls to the ring of keys, splayed against the tiles where I dropped them.
Something is smeared on the little gold one, the key for the blue door. It looks like blood.
Fuck, did I get blood on it somehow?
Frantically I inspect my hands and my nightgown. No blood. My bare feet only have a few flecks of dirt on them.
I pick up the key and inspect it. It does look bloodstained, but it isn’t wet to the touch.
Shakily I get to my feet and stumble to the sink, where I turn on the hot water. Running the key beneath the stream doesn’t help, so I take it back to my bathroom and try every kind of soap I can find.
A visceral dread coils in my gut as I scrub the key with one kind of soap after another. At last I detach the key from the ring, take it down to the kitchen, and try the harsher soaps there, along with the sponges and scrubbers that the kitchen maids use forpots and pans. I scour the gold until my fingers hurt. I plunge the key into vinegar, then into various types of alcohol.
Nothing works. The little golden key still bears a scarlet stain.
“Shit,” I whisper, on the verge of tears. “Shit, shit, shit.”
Running back to my room, I use tongs to hold the key in the fire for several minutes. But the stain won’t burn off.
At last I’m forced to admit the truth: the key is charmed or cursed. It has been spelled to react when someone other than Beresford opens that blue door.
There was never any chance of my broken promise going undetected. My husband was always going to find out. This was not only a test, but a trap. A dirty trick.
When he comes home, he’ll ask for the key. The second he sees it, he’ll know that I entered the forbidden room.
What will he do to me? He said it would mean the end of us. Does he plan to send me home? Divorce me? Kill me?
I have several options. I could run to the servants’ house, tell them what I’ve found, and hope that they will help me. But what if they’re involved in this? I’ve heard stories of loyal servants covering up the sins of their lords and ladies. What if these servants are devoted to Beresford and view me as the enemy? I don’t know them well enough to trust them.
I could take a horse, flee to the village, and tell them what I know. They could assemble a group of men to come here and investigate. But if the Valenkirk servants are loyal to Beresford, they’ll defend this place in his absence. People could die on both sides, and all for a cause that I don’t fully understand.
The only person who knows the truth is Beresford himself.
I could run from him—run away from everything. I could take all his money and flee with my mother and sister. I could abandon this region and its people to whatever fate he has planned for them. I could go far away, where he can’t touch me.
And yet, as fucked up as it seems, the idea of him never touching me againhurts.After everything I’ve seen tonight, despite all the dark possibilities swirling through my head, the idea of his death or absence clutches my heart like a physical force, like a fist with sharp nails.
