“I have to go,” I say, refusing to let even a single tear fall. “I’ll call you again soon. I love you.”
I barely wait for him to return the words before the phone is back on the hook.
* * *
Sabine, for her part, finds my curiosity deplorable. She huffs and glares and rushes me off to bed or dinner as often as she can, like a tutting, strict mother. Having lost my own mother at a tender age, I find it much more comforting (and even a little amusing) than I think she’d like.
As I told my father I would, I quickly learn the lay of the land. The castle is built on a hill, and at the foot there is a massive stone bridge. A wide green river rushes below it, fed from the white, icy Alps. The town hunkers down there amid the dark, bare-boned trees and grassy knolls: old wood and stone houses, newer buildings built to look ancient, all veined with cobblestone roads. There’s an old church with a white spire, and I can hear its bells every morning and night, and more often on Sundays.
It’s bafflingly idyllic, and leaves me with a strange thought: that Santo Amata must be, to some degree, a romantic.
It warms my blood to think of it. I remind myself that he’s dangerous. Cruel. Wealthy and royal-blooded and fueled by fire and revenge. I remind myself that I am his now, whether I want to be or not.
As much as I find myself comforted by the landscape and the poetry of it all, I find myself lonely too. The castle howls with emptiness, even on nights when the fire is roaring and the sound of glasses and spitting skillets rises from the forbidden servants’ quarters. I miss home. My father. My friends. I miss my little studio, with its walls of windows and stacks of canvases. I miss my sculptures, and the corner coffee store that makes the perfect chai latte, and the park where the pigeons are bigger than house cats.
But this is the bargain I made, and I’m proud of myself for making it. Even if I haven’t paid the whole price—not yet.
A shiver goes through me at the thought. It’s been over a week since Santo left, and he’s beginning to feel like a phantom, a fever dream, conjured picture perfect from some dark, hungry place inside of me. I’m finishing dinner in the private parlor downstairs, where a more modest table looks over the snowy gardens below.
No, I have not paid the whole price. I twist the ring on my finger as the servants clear away the food and bring more wine. Music plays softly from a record player in the corner, a haunting opera ballad that makes my skin crawl, velvet with heat from the roaring hearth.
When will we be married, I wonder? Santo said he wouldn’t force me. But the man must be eager to begin a family.
To put a child inside of me.
I touch my belly, wondering. What will it be like? I’m not entirely naïve. I did grow up in the twenty-first century. But I’ve always been particular about men, and I never found one I liked enough to let be my first.
And now I have no choice. Santo Amatawillclaim me as his. He will take my virginity, and as agreed, I will give it willingly.
But what of the moment itself? Will he be gentle? Ferocious? Will he be coarse and unkind? I’ve only met him twice. I have no real understanding of him. But I do remember the heat of his body, pressed hard against mine. The twin rivers of fear and lust coursing through me at the heat of his skin. Emboldened by wine and wildness, I said things that night I shouldn’t have. What does he think of me? Will it only be duty, for both of us, in the end?
I quickly swallow my wine, and with it, my fears. When I finally head upstairs, the castle is very quiet. Sabine has just shuffled down to the servants’ quarters, and though I see the other maids here or there, snuffing candles or closing drapes, none seem to notice me. Like them, I’m merely part of the house now.
So I let my curiosity propel me right where it shouldn’t.
I stand outside of the forbidden west wing, armed with a candle. I’m in a big sweater and soft pants, but I kick off my shoes quietly to muffle my steps, even though the flagstones are very cold.
I shouldn’t go in. IknowI shouldn’t. But no one here has told me a word of Santo, and I’m certain he won’t. I don’t know anything of the man—the man I’m supposed to marry, the man whose children I’m meant to bear. If this is the only way to learn, I have no choice.
I twist the knob, half-expecting it to be locked and barred from the inside, but it gives easily. The heavy, steel-barred oak door groans as it pushes inward, and I wait for a fear-paralyzed moment for a servant to come running. But no one does.
I step inside.
The darkness is immense and complete, my candle casting only a faint orange halo where I walk. It’s bitterly cold, the walls set deep within the mountain frost. The corridor is lined with sheet-draped statues, their faces and bodies hidden, twisted and grotesque.
With a shiver, I force myself deeper. Candlelight sputters against the walls, flaring across sheet-covered paintings and mirrors. I open doors as I go, cautiously peering inside. Some of the rooms are bare, floorboards thick with dust, windows concealed behind drapes. Others are full of covered furniture.
Finally, the corridor ends. A pair of broad French doors stand before me, similar to those that open up into my chambers.
Suddenly, I realize just how out of place I am here. I don’t know who lived here before, whose hall or rooms or bed this might be. But if it’s forbidden, it must be important to Santo—which means it may give me insight into who he is.
I reach for the door knob.
But before I even make contact, a fist locks around my wrist. I gasp, opening my mouth to shout as I’m spun around and shoved hard against the door.
I drop my candle and it clatters across the flagstones in a spray of hot wax. Santo’s beautiful face is full of rage, his dark eyes glittering and furious.
“What the fuck,” he snarls, “are you doing in here?”
