He offers her his hand. “Haven’t you always wanted to dance with a madman in the rain?”
It hits her then, like the lightning racing across the sky. The glint in his eyes isn’t mischief. At least, not entirely. It’s joy. Joy and life and something wild that lights his face when he looks at her. If madness makes you feel like that, she wants to be mad, too.
She lays her hand in his, and he pulls her into the storm. She squeals as the cold rain pelts her, and he laughs. Not at her. With her. Her dress clings to her skin, and she shivers against the sudden chill. William pulls her closer. His hands tell her body where to go, move them together,in time to the music in his mind. She forgets all about Isabella’s wedding. Forgets Alice’s sharp words, her mother’s nagging, her father’s disapproval. Forgets the suffocating stone of abbey walls. She looks into William’s eyes, loses herself in the dance, and forgets the whispers.
This is a bad idea. Reckless, even. She should be keeping her head down, like Isabella. Behaving herself, like Alice. But she is going to Tintern in the morning. What does any of it matter now? Taking William’s hand is easy, and dancing with him is an escape. She is light in his arms, free in this clearing, and she wishes it would last forever.
William leans in, closing the distance between them.
Her heart leaps.A terrible idea. Maybe that’s why she likes it so much.
His lips brush against hers, soft and tentative. Warmth surges through her, despite the chill rain dripping down her neck. But then he steps away. “I’m sorry, I—”
Beatrix lays a hand against his flushing cheek. He looks down at her, looks into her mismatched eyes, and words fail him. She lets her hand drop, trail down to his chest. His heart thuds under the wet shirt clinging to his skin, pounds along with her own. She leans into him and tips her face toward his. “I’m not.”
Their lips meet, and this time his kiss is sure. Dizzying. His arm slips around her back and he pulls her close, until even the rain can’t come between them.
He breaks away and tips his forehead against hers. “You are trouble, Beatrix Atwood.”
“And what does that make you?” she whispers.
“Doomed.”
June 15, 1605London, England
An empty stall is not the most dignified place to die. It smells of manure and horse piss, warm dust and the faint, grassy sweetness of hay. The straw bedding pokes her through her dress and prickles against her skin, but beggars can’t be choosers. It is warmer than an alley and quieter than the docks, and if the elixir proves to be nothing more than river water, it is the softest bed Beatrix will find tonight, her money spent on a fool’s hope.
She settles herself in the straw, flattening it down as best she can without disturbing the neighboring horses. Perhaps they think she is a giant bird making her nest, because they pay her no mind. She pulls her handkerchief from her pocket and carefully unwraps her treasure. The depth of the dark green glass is lost in the barely lit stable, the miniature bottle shining black in her hand.
Maybe she should have asked the man for particulars. He said his potion would save her mortal soul. But can her soul be mortal when her body isn’t? If it was mortal, it must have left her long ago. Maybe she has no soul left to save.
She pulls out the stopper and inhales the vaguely herbal scent. If the man’s elixir works, will she live out the rest of her days, never knowing which one will be her last? Or will it kill her right here, right now, in this stinking stable?
There’s only one way to find out.
Beatrix lifts the bottle to her mouth. Hesitates with the smooth rim of the glass pressed against her lips.
Did the water really come from the Wye?
Did he visit the abbey at Tintern?
Does Lancaut still exist?
She tips the bitter liquid into her mouth, swallows it down in a single gulp, and waits to feel something. Maybe to feel nothing.
She lets her head fall back against the planked wall with a hollow thud. She didn’t trust the man, didn’t believe a word he spoke. She still gave him far too much money, still drank his potion.
She only has hope to blame for that.
For everything.
September 18, 1502Lancaut, England
Beatrix smooths the sapphire-blue skirts of the wedding dress that was Alice’s first, then Isabella’s, and now—to everyone’s great shock—hers. William sits on the low stone wall surrounding the church, the cool breeze ruffling his sandy-brown hair. She leans against him, lets his warmth take the chill out of the September air. She gazes down at the River Wye, carving a slow, winding path through the cliffs below them. William only has eyes for her.
“Do you like it?” he asks, nodding to the ring sitting on her left hand.
She was so nervous during the ceremony she barely looked at it, but now she takes it all in. The narrow gold band is engraved with delicate acorns and drifting oak leaves. It reminds her of the clearing in the forest. “Yes, it’s beautiful.”
