Page 41 of The Beautiful Ones

“I saw him in the blue room,” I continued. “Cécile saw him in the drawing room. He spoke Swedish—the old dialect my grandmother used. He knew my full name. He knew I count the marks of my contract every Sunday.”

Dinah's face did not change, but one hand closed around the lace collar.

“What did he say?”

“That they have come to collect what is owed.”

The lamp flame sank.

Dinah looked toward the open archway leading to the courtyard. “Do not say that again.”

“What is owed?”

“Some questions are dangerous because nobody knows the answer. Others are dangerous because everybody does.”

I leaned closer, keeping my voice to a bare whisper. “What happened here last summer? The night Commander Vale disappeared?”

The silence in the kitchen stretched, heavy, taut, and fragile. Outside, the cicadas kept up their relentless screaming in the magnolia trees, a dry thrumming that seemed to vibrate through the stone foundation.

Dinah's hands tightened around the blue lace collar. “I told you before, Elin. Some words are not safe to carry. Not in this house.”

“He did not simply leave, did he? Monsieur Lebon was terrified when the messenger arrived. Judge Dewey and Mr. George are drinking themselves blind. And the Fairhavens know about a ship and missing records.”

“Do not say their name in the dark,” Dinah snapped, her eyes darting toward the courtyard. A genuine dread crossed her weathered face. “Those people are not natural. You felt the cold that follows that man. I saw the carriage horses lather and blow the moment they turned down the avenue, though they had not worked hard enough to raise a sweat.”

“Do you know what they are?”

“I know what wrong smells like.” Dinah leaned across the table, lowering her voice until I had to strain to hear her. “And I know what happened the night Nathaniel Vale vanished. It was raining—a terrible, sheet-pouring storm that flooded the lower river road. I was in the washhouse near two in the morning, tending Miss Cécile's fever cloths. I heard heavy wagon wheels coming down the drive. No lanterns. Just a black shape moving through the mud.”

My breath caught. “Did you see who was driving?”

“I saw Monsieur. His coat was soaked through and covered in red mud from his boots to his collar. Reuben George was with him, carrying a heavy iron spade, and Judge Dewey stood under the arcade burning a bundle of papers in the washhouse stove. The next morning, Monsieur ordered the glasshouse locked. Said the iron frame was rusted through and no one was to set foot near it again.”

She leaned back, her hands trembling as she picked up the needle.

“Nathaniel Vale did not run off to Richmond, Elin. He never left Le Champ des Fleurs.”

The realization settled in my stomach like cold lead.

The glasshouse.

The overgrown ruin where blue butterflies swarmed in furious spirals and the air smelled violently of decay.

Before I could ask another question, heavy, unsteady footsteps sounded in the stone passageway leading from the main house.

Dinah's posture changed at once. She picked up her work, her face smoothing into a blank mask of deference. I stood quickly and tucked my tin cup behind the washstand pitcher.

Warren Dewey stepped into the doorway.

He had removed his coat and cravat. His fine white linen shirt was unbuttoned at the throat, revealing flushed skin, and his pale face shone with sweat. He held an empty brandy glass in one hand. When his small, watery eyes settled upon me, a slow smile spread across his thick lips.

“Well, well,” Warren slurred, leaning against the doorframe. “The Swedish maid is up late. Fetching water or looking for trouble?”

“I was returning to my room, Mr. Dewey.”

I lowered my chin and moved toward the back staircase.

Warren stepped into the narrow passage between the worktable and the stairs, blocking my path. He placed his empty glass upon the table with a ringing clack.