The corner of Valdemar’s mouth rises. He knows what I’m doing. A tempest is another word for storm, and he referred to Fortunato as a serpent during one of our early meetings.
“Quite the wordsmith. I haven’t heard this particular story, but if I were to advise the townsfolk of anything, it would be not to forget the fair maiden,” Valdemar says.
“The fair maiden?” My eyes narrow as if trying to see beneath his words.
“In stories like these, there’s always a fair maiden,” he repeats.
Pressing my hands to my temples, I squeeze, trying to force my brain to follow what he’s saying. A fair maiden. A woman. But who? The only other woman who was there that I know of was Jacinta.
“Jacinta?” It doesn’t feel right, and I can tell by Valdemar’s face that I’m in the wrong place even when he remains silent, the words unable to form. “No. Not Jacinta. Then who?”
I pace the room again before Valdemar takes my hand and leads me back to the sofa.
“You look tired,” he says.
I glance at him, thinking I must look anything but tired. My brain is wired like I’ve just downed three espressos and chased them with an energy drink.
“Why don’t we go to bed?” he suggests.
I glare at him. “What? Are you kidding me? You’re thinking about sex while I’m trying to work out who killed my brother?”
“Sleep, angel. You need sleep. And so do I.”
“I don’t need sleep. I need answers, and you can’t give me them.” My voice pitches an octave, annoyed at being so close yet still so far from the truth.
“Can’t I? You were so close last night, angel. So close.” He whispers the last two words.
My eyes widen as the penny drops. “Your dream.”
“I’m not certain, but I’ve been wondering if you’ve been crossing into my dreams because, subconsciously, I’ve been letting you, it being the only way I could show you what happened that night.” He takes my hand. “Let’s go to sleep.”
He leads me through the rear door, and we make our way up to his room.
“I’m not in the least bit tired,” I tell him.
“I could wear you out if you’d like.”
I roll my eyes. “Very funny. Seriously, though, I don’t think I’m going to be able to sleep.”
“Don’t worry, I’ll help—and not in the way you think,” he says.
As we reach his room, he enters first and closes the heavy curtains, blocking out the low winter sun. The room softens as if convinced it’s night-time. He lights a candle in the corner that emits a lulling glow, the flicker of the flame hypnotic against the dim backdrop.
“Come.” He beckons me over to his bed.
After kicking my shoes off, I climb on, and he does the same on the other side, so naturally, like we do this every night.
I lie on my side, the soft mattress sighing beneath me as Valdemar pulls me into him.
He strokes my face, pushing my hair from my eyes and smoothing my skin.
“You just need to relax. Shut your brain down. Stop thinking, and sleep will come. You didn’t sleep properly last night, andyou’re so tired. So very tired. You just need to sleep, angel. Sleep.” His heady voice settles in the room, the purr of his vowels and the lull of the consonants convincing me that he’s right. I am, in fact, so very, very sleepy.
And I’m back in the prison visitors’ room, back to when he held me so tightly and I wished, more than anything, that he hadn’t killed my brother because there was no other place I felt safer, no other place I’d have rather been than cradled in his arms.
But he didn’t kill my brother.
He didn’t kill him.
