Then she was gone, the door locking behind her with that terrible finality I’d come to dread.
I collapsed onto the bed, the chain clanking loudly against the frame. The gag muffled my sobs, turning them into pathetic whimpers that couldn’t possibly express the magnitude of my grief and rage. My father, my kind, gentle Papa who had taught me to read and educate myself, to find my mama’s magic in herbs and wisdom in books, had been murdered so Gaspard could possess me.
And now I was chained in the murderer’s house, waiting for him to return and claim his prize.
The thought crystallized something inside me. A cold, hard resolve that cut through my tears and silenced my sobs. I would not be a victim. I would not spend my life chained to the man who had orchestrated my father’s death. I would escape or die trying.
But first, I needed a weapon. I wiped my tears with the back of my hand and forced myself to think clearly despite the gag in my mouth.
Papa’s hunting knife.
I’d hidden it in my satchel when I first arrived. Margaret had taken the satchel that first night, but I’d seen her place it in the bottom drawer of the dresser, apparently forgotten in the horror of what followed. Or she left it to me on purpose, knowing what I tucked inside.
Moving as quietly as the chain would allow, I slid from the bed and crossed to the dresser. The drawer opened silently, revealing my small, pitiful collection of possessions. There, wrapped in a scrap of cloth at the bottom, was the knife.
I clutched it to my chest for a moment, feeling closer to Papa than I had since watching him cross that bridge. Then I moved with renewed purpose to the bed, where I began methodically tearing a strip from the bottom sheet. The fabric was strong but thin, perfect for my needs.
Working quickly, I tore several long strips, then braided them together to create a makeshift belt. The knife I secured to this belt with more torn fabric, testing it carefully to ensure it wouldn’t slip free. When finished, I tied the belt around my waist, positioning the knife at the small of my back where it would be hidden by the fullness of my skirts. The spot my dress often remained after he ripped them.
I wasn’t naive enough to believe I could overpower Gaspard in a fair fight. He was twice my size and trained in combat. But I didn’t need to overpower him. I just needed one opportunity, one unguarded moment when he wasn’t expecting resistance from his docile prize.
The distant sound of hoofbeats reached me through the open window. Voices called out greetings. Dogs barked excitedly. Gaspard had returned.
I smoothed my skirts, making sure the knife was completely hidden, then sat on the edge of the bed to wait. My hands trembled, but my resolve didn’t waver. I was no longer just Isabeau Dubois, the inventor’s daughter. I was now also the daughter of a murdered man, and I carried his weapon at my back.
Let Gaspard come with his hungry eyes and grasping hands. Let him think me tamed by his chains and gags. Let him believe I’d accepted my fate as his possession.
I would wait. I would watch. I would find my moment.
And when I did, I would make him pay for what he’d done to Papa, to Margaret, to Margaret’s daughter, and to countless others who had suffered under his cruelty.
That’s when the raven landed and cawed again. My eyes couldn’t handle looking at him as I waited for Gaspard. When I didn’t give him my attention, he cawed again, moving inside the bars to be in my room.
I grunted at the creature from the gag being in.
The raven hopped down, gliding to my shoulder. His eyes bore into mine, and I felt like he was seeing more than just my flesh. He found my soul. I was slightly mesmerized by the beautiful bird.
Until he bit my neck. And flew off before I could even clutch the tender flesh. Why did he bite me? I didn’t get much time to ponder that.
The front door slammed open below. Heavy footsteps crossed the entrance hall. A man’s voice, his voice, called out for Margaret. Called out for news of his prize.
The bite forgotten. My fingers traced the outline of the knife through my dress. I closed my eyes and whispered a promise to Papa in my heart.
A damsel in distress I was not.
seven
Isabeau
The heavy thud of boots on the staircase echoed like a death knell. Each step brought Gaspard closer, each creak of old wood marked the shrinking distance between us.
My fingers traced the outline of Papa’s knife at my back one final time, committing its shape to memory before I folded my hands in my lap like the obedient pet he expected me to be. The gag stretched my jaw painfully, but not as painful as knowing my opportunity for escape was arriving before I was ready.
The raven’s bite still stung my neck, a strange counterpoint to the raw flesh beneath the iron collar. Perhaps it was a sign, predator recognizing predator. Only I wasn’t the predator in this scenario. Not yet.
The footsteps paused outside my door. My heart hammered against my ribs so violently I feared he might hear it through the wood. The metal of the key scraped against the lock, and I forced my shoulders to slump, my eyes to lower, presenting the picture of defeat he so enjoyed.
The door swung open, revealing Gaspard in all his imposing glory. His hunting clothes were still caked with mud and what looked like dried blood. The smell of the forest clung to him—pine sap, sweat, and something darker, something dead. His mouth curved into that familiar smile that never quite reached his eyes.
