He looked at her with that implacable calm she’d already come to hate. “I’m not a ‘nutter’ as you so eloquently put it.”
“You’re holding me captive.” Maggie raised one finger. “Wearing arobe like we’re in some weird roleplay.” She raised another finger. “And, oh yeah, we’re in a fucking castle.”
She shook the three fingers in his direction.
The man rubbed his forehead as if he were the one in distress. If he weren’t holding her in a prison, she might feel a bit of sympathy. “You are at the College of Remedial Magic, Margaret. This is your temporary home—”
“Bullshit.” She walked over to the door and jiggled the handle. Nothing happened. It hadn’t any other time she tried either. “I’m in aprison.”
Feelings boiled inside her—mostly rage with a generous dose of fear. Her captor seemed polite enough, but what would happen if she tried to escape? What would happen if she didn’t give in to his delusions?
“Is Craig here, too?” she asked, finally turning to face him.
“No.” Her captor gave her a pitying look. “He’s in North Carolina.”
“Is he okay?” Her voice broke on the last word.
“You don’t need to worry about him now, Margaret.” Her captor held out a hand as if to invite her toward him. “Let me show you around.”
“Did Leon hire you?” Maggie crossed her arms. Something here was very,verywrong. “He cut my brake lines. Or hired someone to cut them. Was it you?”
“No.”
For two days, she’d been in this room. There were meals, and the room itself was opulent. A thick rug with some scene that looked straight out of mythology spread over the stone floor. The ceiling arched upward, and a thick-hewn wooden beam that could’ve doubled for a telephone pole jutted out of the wall. From it, a metal light fixture—more candelabra than chandelier—hung from the pole. It was very much the ancient castle it had appeared to be from the outside.
How Maggie arrived here—or could depart from here—was another topic altogether. Her balcony door was locked, but through the arched windows she could see a village of sorts nestled at the foot of the hill. There were what she thought were shops or houses, and scattered aroundwere a few taller buildings that seemed to defy gravity. As if this were an actual medieval town, the castle looked down on the village.
She had no idea exactly where the castle was, but the windows were cold to the touch, so she assumed it was somewhere northerly or at higher elevations because it certainly didn’t feel like a Southern climate through the glass.
A sprinkle of snow that morning further clarified that detail.
She still had no idea how she’d ended up here. All she knew was her son was out there somewhere, alone in a forest, and she was trapped in this damnable castle.
Why?
That question plagued her far more than most things. As a lawyer, she understood thatwhywas typically a secret to unlocking a case. Motives mattered.Whywas she here? Understanding that would help her understand how to get out.
Maggie pushed all the unexplained details out of her mind for a moment and decided to try a new approach. “I appreciate the rescue. I really do, but my son is alone out there. His dad is a monster. You don’t understand.” She twisted her hands. “I need to get to my son. It’s imperative.”
The man walked over to the table where a steaming teapot sat. He poured two cups, and then added a dollop of milk to hers and a single sugar cube to his. He sat and met her gaze. “How did the door come off the vehicle, Margaret?”
“I have no idea. I’m assuming you used a winch and chain.” She tried to keep her posture and voice both amiable, but it was a struggle. “I must’ve blacked out briefly.”
“Mmm.” He sipped his tea.
“Mmm?What sort of answer is that?” Maggie snapped. Then she lifted her teacup and sipped, determined to be polite. She’d managed it for years with Leon. Surely, she could do it for a few minutes now.
“What would you say if I told you that you were no longer in the American South?”
“The castle was a hint, Robespierre,” Maggie muttered. “Maybe over here in Europe, castles are all over the—”
“We are not in Europe.” He watched her with an uncanny attentiveness, the sort of doting gaze she’d once wanted from a man. Any man. Preferably one as delicious as this one, but all she seemed to attract were narcissists and delusional losers.
“Film set? Eccentric actor?” Maggie had been wondering where they were, so she had a few ready guesses. “Renaissance faire with a really good budget?”
He took another drink, one that looked like a person tossing back liquid courage, not tea, before saying, “Crenshaw.”
Maggie lifted his cup and sniffed. “That’s not tea. When did you—?”
