Twenty-Eight

Beau sprang to his feet and whirled around, ready to fight.

But no one was there.

He took a hesitant step toward the middle of the room. He was certain someone had been standing there … right there, in the center of the rug. Was he seeing things now? Running a shaky hand through his hair, he spun back toward the mirror.

The silver glass was alive with motion.

Images danced before his eyes, shadowy, flickering, lit from behind—like pictures in a magic lantern show. He saw a streak of blue again, then bold flashes of crimson, yellow, rose, and green. They blurred together like paints running in the rain, then came into sharp focus.

Beau’s mouth opened in surprise. The cracked mirror showed Arabella. She was sitting at her desk, her head bent, her hair up in a messy twist. Books and compasses, rulers, pens, and paper littered the desktop. She was drawing.

His gaze swept over her, taking in the furrows in her brow, the set of her jaw, the light in her eyes—not hard with disdain as they usually were, but blazing with the intense concentration of an artist lost in a world of her own making.

Behind her, on the bed, lay half a dozen open boxes. Colorful gowns spilled out of them, one more beautiful than the next.

A worried-looking Josette eyed them. “Mistress, your mother will be here soon,” she said. “She will wish to know which gown you intend to wear to the ball, and you haven’t even tried them on!”

“Mmm,” Arabella said absently, roughing in the windows of a building with a piece of graphite.

Josette held up a corset. “Please, mistress, you must—”

“Oh, Josette, stuff the ball!” Arabella said. “It’s a bore and I hate—”

The sound of brisk footsteps carrying into Arabella’s chambers from the hallway cut her off. Her eyes widened in panic.

“Help me put these things away! Quickly!” she whispered, wiping the gray smudges off her hands with her robe.

Together they hid the rulers and compasses in drawers, then jammed the papers and books under her bed. When the door to her chamber opened, Arabella was holding her corset in place as Josette tightened the laces.

“Good morning, Mother … Aunt Lise,” Arabella said, forcing a smile as two women, both tall and imperious, both possessing the same gray eyes and blond hair as Arabella, strode into the room.

“Josette, when you’ve finished here, tell Valmont he needs to change this seating plan for the ball’s dinner,” Arabella’s mother said, handing the maid a piece of paper. “He has me sitting next to a mere baron. What can the man be thinking?” She turned to her daughter. “I just saw the dance master, Arabella. He told me you did not attend your lesson this morning.”

“I forgot. Forgive me, Mother,” Arabella said.

“Oh? And what were you doing that was so absorbing?”

“I was …” Arabella’s voice faltered. She glanced frantically around the room. Her eyes fell on the bed. “I was trying to decide between all of these beautiful gowns!” she said brightly.

The duchess raised a skeptical eyebrow.

Arabella winced. “Mama, what does it matter?” she asked placatingly. “I know how to dance.”

“That corset’s far too loose,” the duchess said, her critical eyes raking over her daughter. “Fix it, Josette.”

Josette quickly unknotted the corset’s laces, tugged at them, then planted her feet and pulled hard. A gasp escaped from Arabella. She pressed her hands to her rib cage as her lungs struggled to find their new shape. Josette reknotted the laces, then stood back.

Beau grimaced. The corset looked so tight, he half expected to hear Arabella’s ribs break. And then he did hear a crack. But it was made by the duchess. Something had broken under her foot.

“What on earth is that?” she said, bending down.

A slender piece of graphite lay on the rug, in pieces. The duchess picked them up. Her face hardened as she realized what they were. She turned her palm over, letting the pieces fall back to the floor, then grabbed the bed skirt and yanked it up. Her sharp eyes roved over the books and papers hidden behind it. She released the fabric and turned to her daughter.

“I should have known,” she said, her voice frosted with anger. “Must I remind you, Arabella, that many wealthy and powerful young men will be at the ball, and that each one is looking for a wife, not a stonemason? You are not a milkmaid, free to come and go as you please. You are a duke’s only child and heir.”

Arabella looked at the floor, her hands fidgeting at her sides. Beau could see that she was battling to contain her emotions, trying to bite back her words, but they slipped out anyway.

“I would rather find a teacher than a husband,” she said. “And I would rather study architecture than try on dresses.”

The duchess’s expression darkened. “Must I alsoremind you that I do not want a repeat of past behavior?” she continued. “In fact, you will be on your very best behavior or there will be consequences.” She snapped her fingers at the maid, then pointed at Arabella’s books. “Josette, take those things downstairs. Tell Valmont to burn them.”

Arabella’s head snapped up. “No! Mama, please!”

“You’ve no one but yourself to blame, Arabella. I warned you time and time again. You don’t need books and compasses to find a husband; you need a sweet, obliging manner and the right gown.”

Josette knelt down, dug Arabella’s books out from under the bed, and carried them from the room. Arabella watched her go. And Beau watched Arabella. He saw her lose her battle for control as her emotions overwhelmed her, like floodwaters surging over a dam.

“Mama, you are cruel! I want to learn how buildings are made. How towns and cities grow. How people live and work and play in them,” she said, her voice rising, “and instead you demand that I waste my time at a boring ball chatting and smiling and simpering at men who are duller than death!”

Two bright splotches of red appeared in the duchess’s cheeks, but her voice—when she finally spoke—was steady. “How dare you speak to me like that.” She took hold of her daughter’s arm and steered her to her mirror. “Look at yourself, Arabella. Look.”

Arabella raised her eyes to the sliver glass. They were brimming with tears.

“Nostrils flaring like a bull’s … face as red as a rooster’s comb … voice as shrill as a hyena’s … bristling like some vile she-boar,” the duchess said, disgusted. “A girl who cannot control her emotions is no better than a beast.”

A raw, painful silence fell upon the room. Lise was the first to break it.

“What a lovely frock, my dear,” she said, picking up the blue gown. “Any man who sees you in it will fall head over heels in love and immediately ask for your hand.”

Defiance sparked in Arabella’s unhappy eyes. “I would rather he ask for my heart first.”

Lise shook her head. She glanced at her sister and with a troubled smile said, “The girl has a fiery spirit.”

“Fires that burn too hot are quickly doused,” said the duchess.

Lise held the gown out. Arabella sighed. She stepped into it, then threaded her arms through its sleeves.

Lise fastened the row of buttons that ran down its back. “No one likes an opinionated girl, Arabella,” she said gently. “Or a loud girl. Or an angry girl. Or a difficult girl.”

“How about a sad girl?” Arabella asked lifelessly.

Lise shuddered. “Those are the worst of all.”

“Then what type of girl shall I be, aunt?”

“A charming girl. A congenial girl. A girl who’s always cheerful, always positive, always smiling. A girl who talks about gardens and concerts and horses and flan.”

“Flan?”Arabella echoed in disbelief.

Lise nodded sagely. “Flan is safe and uncontroversial. Have you ever known a flan to spark a heated discourse?”

“No, aunt,” Arabella said, her shoulders sinking. “I have not.”

After trying on the blue gown, Arabella tried on the rest. The duchess declared the blue to be the most flattering, then swept out of the room. Lise followed her and Arabella was left alone, staring at herself in the mirror.

She seemed smaller to Beau. Diminished. Defeated. The anger had drained from her face and underneath it was anguish, raw and aching. As he watched, she stepped closer, touched a finger to the silver glass, and drew a smile on her own reflection. The small, sad gesture pierced Beau’s heart. Without even being aware of what he was doing, he stretched out his hand and pressed it to the glass, his fingers meeting hers. He forgot that she couldn’t see him, forgot that she was just an image in the glass.

“As it turns out, the duchess was right: There were consequences.”

The voice, coming from the doorway, made him jump. It was the girl.

“The duchess took away most of Arabella’s things, but she found a way to keep drawing. To keep dreaming.” She took a few steps into the room, gazing wistfully at the glimmering city still stretched out across the floor.

“Did Arabella make this?” Beau asked.

The girl nodded. She walked to the dusty draperies and traced the outline of shadow flowers with her finger, and as she did, her pale glow brightened. “At night, she would unpick the silver thread from these panels and use it to create her city. She would work through the small, lonely hours, when everyone else was fast asleep. The only ones who ever knew about it were the maids, but she gave them coins to keep her secrets. She found a way. And it was enough.” Her light dimmed. “Until it wasn’t.”

“Why? What happened?”

The child was about to answer when a wild, earsplitting shriek of rage cut her off. It was followed by a loud thump on the door.

“Quick! We have to hide!” she whispered, trembling now. She grabbed Beau’s hand and tugged him toward the windows.

There was another thump. It was harder. Louder. Beau heard it, and finally realized exactly who, or rather what, was chasing them.

“That’s not Espidra is it, kid?” he said, panic clutching at his insides.

As the words left his lips, the door exploded open with a splintering crash. A second bloodcurdling shriek filled the room. The little girl grabbed his hand again, and this time he didn’t pull free. There were cabinets under the window seat. Their fronts were made of filigreed brass panels. The girl opened one and frantically motioned for him to follow. The cabinets were wide and deep, and both Beau and the girl were able to fold themselves into the dark space. They pulled the doors closed just as whatever had made those blood-chilling sounds stalked into the room.

Beau sucked in a gasp as he saw it, then whispered two words.

“The beast.”

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