Page 32 of Marrying Bluebeard

I sigh, melting back into his arms. Trusting that he means what he says. Because truly, the alternative is too cruel to bear.

21

ADELAIDE

Bertrand leaves again the next day, but not before showing me to the library and helping me locate a book on gardening. He seems delighted that I’ve taken an interest in the grounds and is already boasting how we’ll have the most glorious garden in all of France. When I told him that was highly unlikely, he replied that at the very least I’ll have a convenient place to dispose of his body should I ever have need. I’m fairly certain he was joking.

Rain pelts the window as I sit curled up in the library with my book, shivering. It may be summer, but it certainly doesn’t feel like it. Not in this drafty castle with the wind and weather battering away at the walls outside. “You’re not much help either.” I scratch Whisper beneath her chin as she looks up from her spot on my lap. “A living cat would give off actual heat.” Whisper sniffs, settling her head back down. Clearly my comfort is none of her concern. “I suppose I should just give in and bring this book back to the room where we can read in bed.”

I scoop Whisper up onto my shoulder as I stand. “Let the staff think we’re a couple of lazy lumps. Better than freezing to death in this ghastly place.” It really is a drab room, with its high ceiling, dusty shelves, and outdated chairs with upholstery so faded I’m not sure what color they were originally. The large, unlit fireplace is the final straw, its empty maw mocking me as the room’s chill creeps deeper into my bones. “Perhaps when I’m done with the garden, I should turn my attention to redecorating. That ought to keep me sufficiently busy."

Because the last thing I need is time on my hands. Time leads to thinking and thinking leads to worrying. And I promised myself I wouldn’t linger on last night’s events. Bertrand told me he’d be all right, and I’ve chosen to believe him. I will not second guess his word. No matter how many doubts attempt to break through my mental walls.

I snuggle Whisper close as I cross the room, eagerly anticipating the lush warmth of my bed, but a flutter of white off to the side catches my attention. I pause, scratching Whisper’s head as I casually look over my shoulder.

And find I’m being watched.

A young woman wearing a dated pink dress with capped sleeves and an empire waist hovers in the corner of the room, red curls framing her freckled face. It’s the first time I’ve ever noticed a ghost’s complexion, but the dots are too prominent to be missed, even in the library’s poor light. Whisper lets out a meow of greeting, and it’s all the reassurance I need.

“Hello there.” I take a step forward, hugging the gardening book against my waist. “My name is Adelaide. And you are…?”

The woman presses a hand to her mouth, eyes widening. “It’s true. You can see us.”

I glance around the room, back rigid as I look for others. “I can,” I reply cautiously, unable to shake the feeling that the rest of the “us” she referred to is spying from the shadows. “Can I help you with something?”

“You have no idea,” the woman breathes, floating forward in a rush of icy wind. I stumble backward, and she stops, chagrin coloring her pale face.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to frighten you. It’s just, I can hardly believe you’re here. We’ve waited so long.”

“You’ve been waiting… for me?” I frown in confusion.

“Not you, per se, but someone like you,” the woman explains. “Someone capable of helping us.”

“And by us you mean…?”

“Bertrand’s wives.”

The words are clearly spoken, but I can’t for the life of me make sense of them. Not with the sudden ringing in my ears and the overwhelming sense of dread weighing me down. “Bertrand’s wives,” I repeat numbly. He was a widower, yes. Marguerite said as much. Funny how I could forget such a singularly important detail.

I didn’t want to think about it. Didn’t want to know anything about the woman who came before me. But now that she’s hovering before my very eyes, jealousy is the last thing on my mind. Because I’m almost certain she said⁠—

“Wives. As in, more than one?” My tone is surprisingly calm. As if my world isn’t crashing down around me.

The woman nods.

I swallow. “How many?”

“Six, including you. Seven if you count Celeste.”

“Seven,” I gasp. “But that’s… that’s impossible. He isn’t old enough⁠—”

“Appearances can be deceiving,” the woman interrupts. She gives me a sad smile. “Especially when they belong to those who’ve ceased to age.”

I shake my head. “Impossible. You—you’re playing a trick on me. You didn’t get the reaction you hoped for with all that wailing and moaning, so now you’re making up lies to make me doubt my husband. Well, you needn’t bother, because it won’t work. I trust Bertrand. He would never do anything to hurt me.”

“Maybe not.” The woman’s gaze grows steely as I creep toward the door. “But she will. You have to listen to me⁠—”

A voice cuts through the ghost’s pleas, startling me into dropping the book onto my foot. “There you are, Madame. I’ve been looking all over for you.”