Page 50 of Marrying Bluebeard

Nails claw at the tender skin of my neck, and I pull my hands away with a startled jerk when I realize they’re my own. Stop it, Adelaide. You can’t think of it right now. Focus on your current situation. The past will keep. Taking a deep breath, I force myself to look down and catalog what I have on—which isn’t much. A collared white dress shirt brushes the top of my bare thighs, and I lift the sleeve to my nose without thinking. Sandalwood with an underlying hint of spice. Bertrand’s cologne. Something tugs at my heart, something that feels an awful lot like longing.

I frown. None of that, either. He’s the one who got you into this mess in the first place. Cuddling Whisper firmly against my chest, I push up to my feet, listing to the side as a wave of dizziness makes the room spin around me. I count to ten and breathe as it gradually comes to a standstill. Taking careful steps across the floor, I tiptoe over to the desk where I spy a piece of parchment with a note scrawled on it and—my stomach rumbles a cheer—a covered bowl with a spoon placed beside it. The savory aroma of beef and vegetables fills my nose as I lift the cover, and I forgo the manners Marguerite drilled into me as a girl as I lift the bowl straight to my lips.

It tastes like Heaven.

Another long sip and I at last relent and pick up the spoon, which I use to ladle delicious mouthfuls as I read the accompanying note:

Adelaide,

If you’re reading this, I have no doubt you’re feeling frightened and confused. I hope to be back before you wake, but should that not be the case, please know that you are safe here. The home you’re in belongs to an honest farmer named Jacob Bastin, who rents this room to me in case of unforeseen emergencies. Celeste—the woman in the tower—does not know of its existence, nor do any of the castle staff. Please sit tight and trust that I'm doing everything I can to take care of you.

Bertrand

Sit tight. Trust me. Ha! The parchment crumples in my fist, and I throw the wadded note into the fire. He must think me a fool if he expects me to sit around in this room waiting for his return. And I’m to trust him? This, from the same man who married me when he was, in fact, already wed to another? And to a monster, no less. He claimed to love me, but how am I to believe it when faced with the cold truth? Our marriage has been nothing but a chain of lies, and I, for one, am finished playing the naive wife.

I head straight for the door and grasp the knob, only to mutter a curse when it remains firmly shut. The bastard locked me in. Seething, I check the curtained corner, swiping the fabric aside as I search for another way out, but the only things concealed there are a chipped, porcelain toilet and washstand.

I make use of them both, relieving myself before pouring water from the pitcher placed on the lower shelf into the empty basin and using the sliver of soap to scrub my hands and face. It smells faintly of rose petals, and I find myself bracing my hands on either side of the stand as I stare hopelessly into the mirror.

What am I going to do if he takes me back there?

Flashes of dark, curving stairs leading to bloody walls dance through my mind as a silent scream builds deep inside my chest. Only the brush of fur weaving through my ankles keeps me from releasing it, Whisper’s weight against my legs tethering me to the present.

He says he’s going to take care of me, but what if this is all some sick game he and the white-haired creature play with their victims? The romantic in me refuses to believe it, but the more cynical side is too loud to be ignored. If I’m stuck here, I should at least try to defend myself.

But with what?

I bite my lip, hands on my hips as I examine the room in consternation. The fire poker? Perhaps, although I suspect I’ve grown too weak to deal any substantial blows. Something in the desk, maybe. I start pulling out drawers and rifling through their contents. Stationary, wax, pens… I pause over a slender letter opener. The silver is tarnished from age, but the blade looks surprisingly sharp. Almost dagger-like. My fingers curl around the handle, the cool metal fitting snugly in the palm of my hand. A shiver runs down my spine as I slide the drawer shut and perch on the edge of the settee, gaze locked on the door.

And now we wait.

33

BERTRAND

The sun is already well into the sky by the time my meeting with Monsieur Moreau, my garrulous solicitor, is finished. His thin lips purse in annoyance as I snap a sharp “good day” on my way out of his office, but my nerves are too shot to care. Adelaide will surely be awake by now, locked away in the room like a prisoner. I hate myself for doing it, but I couldn’t risk leaving her on her own. For a woman cursed to spend eternity in a lonely tower, Celeste has more eyes in the village than one would expect, and I glimpsed Griffon holding a hushed conversation with the carriage master this morning as I skulked past. It seems I’ll have to enlist Jacob to secure a carriage as well as traveling clothes.

As soon as I’m clear of the town, I sprint through the open fields, the dose of Celeste’s blood I drank earlier giving me wings. The loose pants and work shirt Jacob lent me to help blend in flap in the wind, and I tear the brown leather cap from my head before it flies off completely. Jacob’s farmhouse rises up behind a hedgerow of untamed brambles, and I leap over it in my haste to be back. The man himself waves at me from the side of the house, where he is on his knees, diligently weeding his vegetable garden. I’m fairly certain I wave back, but in all honesty it’s hard to be sure when all I can think about is Adelaide waiting inside.

What must she think of me?

Certainly nothing good.

I slow my pace as I enter the house, heart pounding as I make my way upstairs. The walls of the narrow stairwell leading to the attic room feel as though they’re pressing in on me with each nerve-wracking step. I pause as I reach the landing, listening for sounds of movement inside the room, but all I hear is the caw of a crow outside and a hint of uneven breathing.

She’s awake and waiting.

It’s time to face my judgment.

Bracing myself, I turn the key in the lock and open the door. My gaze immediately lands on Adelaide seated directly in front of me on the settee. Her hair falls around her shoulders in a tangled disarray, her round eyes and strained expression reminding me of a deer staring down a hunter’s barrel. She’s terrified, and it’s entirely my fault. I search for something to say, anything that might offer a modicum of comfort, but before I can string two words together she springs from her seat and charges with a guttural shriek.

One hand strikes my chest, the other freezes inches from my heart, knuckles whitening as it clutches a silver blade. The tip presses lightly against my shirt, and I hold Adelaide’s gaze as she stares up at me in confusion.

“Why?” she whispers. “Why can’t I do it?”

Her lip quivers, and it’s all I can do not to kiss it. Instead, I lift my hand and lay it gently over the fist still holding the knife against my heart. “If it will make you feel better, then we can do it together. Although, I’m afraid the results won’t be as permanent as you hope.”

A tear slips from the corner of her eye, and I pray that she does stick the blade into my heart. Anything to dull the painful ache radiating from its center. But she doesn’t, and the makeshift weapon clatters on the floor as her arms fall listlessly to her side. There’s a long pause as she searches my face for answers I’m loathe to give.