I squeeze through the opening, not caring about the wood that tears my beautiful dress. It’s ruined anyway from searching through the grounds. The stairs groan under my weight as I climb into the dark, gripping that cleaver like a lifeline.
At the top of the stairs, I lean my head against the door to catch my breath and gather my strength to raise the cleaver. My arms scream in protest, but I bring the blade down, channeling every ounce of rage, every ounce of hope, everything I have left.
The impact jolts through both arms. The door doesn’t even show a scratch.
I raise the cleaver again, putting my whole bodybehind the blow. The blade bites into the wood, leaving the barest of marks.
“Come on,” I growl, raising the blade again. “Break, you bastard.”
Rowland groans again, weaker this time. Like he’s fading.
“Don’t you dare give up on me!” I scream, bringing the cleaver down again and again.
Chips of wood fly with each blow, but the door holds. My arms feel like they’re tearing apart at the joints. Sweat pours down from my brow, stinging my eyes. I’m half blind, half mad, but driven by determination. I keep swinging, keep fighting, because the alternative is losing the only person who ever gave a damn about me.
After what feels like hours, I’ve carved a groove in the wood deep enough to fit my fist. Not much, but it’s progress.
It takes another eternity to make an opening big enough to crawl through. By the time I drop the cleaver, my whole body trembles and I can barely stay upright. But I squeeze past the splintered wood into the attic.
The space stretches before me, lit by a single candle that flickers in the draft from my entrance. And there, chained to the far wall, is Rowland.
He hangs from shackles binding his wrists, his head drooping forward so I can’t see his face. Blood covers his chest and arms, and his shirt hangs in tatters around his shoulders.
He looks dead, but his chest rises and falls in shallow breaths.
“Rowland.” I stumble toward him on legs that barely work.
He lifts his head, slow and trembling, like his neck isheld together by thread. His black eyes struggle to focus, but when they find mine, something breaks across his battered face.
“Annalisa?”
I rush to him, my knees nearly buckling from the climb. With trembling hands, I assess the damage. Through the blood and bruises and dirt, there’s a gash near his hairline deep enough to make my throat convulse.
He’s conscious. But barely.
“Where else are you hurt?” I ask.
He blinks, trying to focus. “Annalisa, you need to run.”
“I’m not leaving you.” I grab at his chains. The iron is solid and cold, built to hold a man for decades.
“Edward will come for you next,” he wails. “I failed to protect you. He can’t be stopped.”
“I killed him.” The words tumble out between gasps for air. “I locked him in the basement cottage and set it alight. The bastard’s finally dead.”
Rowland’s eyes snap into sharp focus, suddenly alert despite his injuries. “Did you kill him before the fire?”
Something settles in my stomach, colder than dread, heavier than exhaustion. “No, but the door was locked. The fire would have?—”
“Edward has survived worse. I’ve seen him crawl out of things that should’ve left him in pieces. He’ll find a way out. And when he does, we’re both dead.”
FORTY-THREE
Apprehension coils through my insides like a venomous snake. If Rowland is right about Rochester surviving, then he’s already out there. Watching. Hunting. Planning his next move while I’ve been hacking through doors like a madwoman.
I grab the chains securing Rowland’s wrists. The iron shackles won’t budge. There has to be a lock mechanism somewhere, but my hands shake too much to find it in the poor light.
“They won’t open without a key,” he says, his voice stronger now that I’m here. “It’s in Mrs. Fairfax’s pocket.”
