Not running. Will go to prison.
No!he wrote in response. Then he underlined it and added another exclamation point.
She grabbed the pen back.If I run, I can never come home. Never see Lydia.
How do you know they won’t sentence you to life?he asked.
It’s not in the sentencing guidelines. I checked. Months ago.
This made him feel even worse. She’d anticipated this—it had hung over her the whole time.Beatrix,he wrote,please,pleasedon’t make me leave you here to bear responsibility for the disaster I created.
She shook her head as she wrote her answer.Remember, you gave me a way out and I said no.
He looked at her sister and saw from her horrified expression that they had not already discussed this. He wrote:Lydia, tell her not to do this!
But Beatrix grabbed the paper before her sister could get to it.My mind is made up. Leave, and keep working on R&D. Don’t tell me where you’ll be. Safer that way.
Lydia jumped to her feet, a grim set to her mouth, and dashed from the room.
He was out of ideas—Beatrix certainly looked as if nothing would sway her. Demoralized and bone tired, he lowered himself onto the bed. She slid next to him, found his hand and laced her fingers with his.
They sat together, shoulder to invisible shoulder, in the charged silence of a room he’d long associated with despair. Time passed. The thought that Garrett might show up while he was still here was not sufficient motivation to make him let go and stand up.
Then Beatrix reached out with her other hand, identified his ear and put her lips to it. The zip down his spine was electric. “Go,” she whispered. “See you dreamside.”
He didn’t think about whether to kiss her. There was no rational thought involved. He simply started doing it, and just like that, they were caught in a powerful feedback loop.
Unclear if he pressed or she pulled or they did both at once, but they were flat on the bed, Beatrix under him, gripping his face. He grabbed at her skirt and ran his palm up her thigh until the stocking gave way to skin and—God, she was unbuttoning his pants—his hand reached her underwear, and yes,this,thiswas how he convinced her that she loved him, that she required him, that she absolutely had to go with him?—
He sprang back, shivering at the abrupt return of sanity. She didn’t love him. She didn’t want this, never mind what she’d been doing under the influence of her Vow. And how did he think fleeing with her against her will would be all that different than what Garrett demanded of her?
He backed off the bed, re-buttoned his pants with trembling hands, and tried not to look at Beatrix as she sat up and put herself back together. Heaven and hell, he’d nearly had sex with her on her parents’ bed not ten feet from a magiocracy audio recorder.
He picked up the pen.I love you, and I will do what you ask.
A tear ran down her cheek. He wanted to say a thousand things to her, but saying anything—having even the hint of a male voice on the recording—was out of the question.
She got up. He trailed her down the stairs, vainly trying to come up with an alternative, and followed her out the back door.
Wind riffled her hair. His chest ached. He took her hand, and for a second, perhaps two, she clung to it with such desperation that he thought she’d changed her mind. But her fingers slipped from his. She stepped inside and closed the door.
He turned, so heartsick he could barely think. What should he do? Stay within sight of the house to watch for Garrett and see him haul Beatrix off? Go to the Sederey farm and escape in his car?
Retrace his steps and confront the wizard?
He crouched on the back steps, pressing his palms to his eyes. Then he stood and set off.
CHAPTER 21
Beatrix leaned against the door for several minutes, outside the unblinking gaze of the camera mounted above her head. She’d passed the point of tears. She just felt numb. Where could he go? What work could he do? He would surely need to disguise himself as a typic—cut his hair, spell it brown. He’d have to hide his ability to use magic. He would, in a sense, be living her life. And her life would narrow to a cell.
Her chest twinged with each beat of her heart. Every part of her he’d touched before he left—her hand, her lips, her right thigh—prickled as if she’d been stung. She had to collect herself and figure out what, if anything, needed to be done before she lost the chance.
Then she finally noticed what should have struck her the moment she came downstairs.
“Ella?” she called. “Rosemarie?”
No one answered.
