“What’s that?” Oliver asks.
Beatrix looks down. The edge of a scar peeks out from beneath the cool cotton. “I don’t think you want to know,” she says.
“I want to know everything.” He looks just like he did that night in Venice, standing on the Rialto Bridge, telling her he would believe the story she told him.
Her heart thuds beneath the scar. She has never told a soul how she got it. Not even William. He thought she fell from a tree.
She brushes the fabric aside, exposes the raised pink line. It hasn’t faded with the years, frozen in a moment like the rest of her, forever reminding her of the day she should have died.
The first time.
April 12, 1501Lancaut, England
Run.
The forest flashes by in a blur. She can’t stop. She sprints through the trees, weaves between the giant oaks, dodges tangled roots. The underbrush snags on her skirts. Her breath comes in gasps, her heartbeat frantic.
Run.
The whole of Lancaut knew the woods would be empty, that the forester and his son had left before dawn. It has been years since she last spoke to William, but she always knew he was here, sensed his presence beyond the trees. She thought she’d have a day of peace, alone beneath the canopy.
Beatrix had gone farther, deeper into the quiet dark. It smelled of rich earth and rotting leaves and damp. She searched for mushrooms and shivered in the shadows. The underbrush rustled. She turned to see if it was a doe. She had given up on the wolf years ago.
It was a man who stepped from the trees. Such an incongruous sight that Beatrix stood frozen, staring at him. He sneered at her, and her heart leaped into her throat. It was her neighbor, Mr. Brown.
She took a step back. There was movement in the underbrush beside her. His eldest son. With a blade in his hand.
She bolted.
Shouts rang out around her—the man, his sons, more. So many more.
Run.
She’d gone too deep, too far. She’ll never make it. But then she is in her clearing and she knows her way. Her heart leaps. She’s so close.
A patch of damp leaves sends her skidding—her knees crash into the earth.
They are on her in an instant, flattening her, pressing her into the mud. Someone pins her arms. She can’t move, can’t turn her head, can barely breathe with the weight of someone on top of her, his knee grinding into her back.
She catches a glimpse of the knife, its sharp blade glinting in a shaft of late-afternoon light. She thrashes like a wild animal caught in a snare, can’t shake off whoever is holding her down. He wrenches her arm and the bone snaps. She screams.
Someone grabs a fistful of her hair at the scalp and tugs, hard.
The tip of the knife presses into the skin near her temple. Warm blood runs into her eyes.
“Quit messing around.” The voice is softer than she expected.
Rough hands grab at her, drag her to her feet, hold her upright. Keep her still. The widower’s eldest son sneers at her. He looks just like his father.
He steps close. Closer. Close enough to smell his sweat, the staleness of his breath. She spits in his face.
The young man swears and strikes her, a cracking blow across her cheek that sends the clearing spinning. Her arm twists. Her knees give out. They haul her up again.
He presses his knife to her chest. Digs it into the flesh over her heart as he stares into her eyes. Warm blood spills down her skin, but she refuses to cry out. He presses the blade deeper. She squeezes her eyes shut.
“Look at me,” the man growls. “I want to see the light leave your eyes before I cut them out.”
She doesn’t open them. She can deny him this, at least.
