Sixty-Eight
“It will be dark soon.”
Beau stopped sawing and looked up. Camille was standing there, wrapped in her blue cloak, the handle of a willow basket looped over one arm.
“I brought you supper.”
“Thanks,” he said, returning to his work.
Florian and Henri had gone inside an hour ago, but Beau had not returned to the castle since he’d learned the truth about Arabella early that morning. He didn’t want to see her. And she must’ve felt the same way, for she had not joined him in the gatehouse, choosing to send advice and instructions through Valmont instead. He’d worked, only stopping to take a drink of water or eat the sandwich Rémy had brought at midday. The work, his wounds—they were taking a toll. Exhaustion smudged dark circles under his eyes, pain etched lines in his brow, but he refused to rest. Resting wouldn’t get him across the moat. It wouldn’t get him to Matti.
Rega kept him company now, amusing herself by throwing rocks at the moat monsters. He didn’t mind her being near, for he was consumed by anger. At Espidra and her gruesome court. At Valmont, Percival, and the other servants. At Arabella. Most of all, he was angry at himself. For believing things he had no business believing. For wanting things he had no business wanting.
He’d been a fool to think Arabella might care for him. He’d known love once. Long ago. It smelled like rosemary and clementines. It tasted as sweet as San Juan cakes. It felt as warm as the Catalan sun. Losing it had made him a feral thing, lonely and guarded and wary of traps, and that’s how he would stay.
“I fixed a plate of chicken for you,” Camille said, trying again to make conversation. “With roasted potatoes, gravy, rolls …”
Beau was about to ask her if she could just leave the basket when Rega turned around sharply and sniffed the air. She dropped the rock she was holding and ran out of the gatehouse, looking as if she’d just smelled a week-old corpse.
Camille watched her go. “She hates the smell of roast chicken. They all do.” She turned back to Beau. “The work’s going well?”
“I’m getting close,” he said. “Should be done in a few days.”
“Ah,” Camille said. She lowered her head.
“Is something wrong?” Beau asked, glancing up at her.
Camille set her basket down. Her eyes were bright with emotion. “You don’t care about anyone, do you? Except yourself.”
“Whoa. Where did that come from?” Beau asked, sitting back on his heels.
“You love her.”
“Who?”
“Oh, please.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Why are you so angry?”
“Maybe because she trapped me here?”
Camille made a noise of disgust. “She didn’t trap you. She told you as much.”
“I don’t believe her.”
“Well, you should. Because she didn’t do it.”
“Oh, no? Who did, then?”
“I did.”
Beau snorted laughter.
Camille jutted her chin. She crossed her arms over her chest. “I stole Percival’s key from his room one night when he was bathing,” she said. “I opened the gatehouse door and returned the key before he finished. Later that night, I took the plow horse from the barn, harnessed him to the windlass, and raised the portcullis. A few hours later, you and your friends rode into the courtyard.”
Beau studied her face. He put his saw down. “You’re not lying, are you?”
Camille shook her head.
“Damn it, Camille, why?” he shouted.
“Because my baby daughter is a clockwork figure, and my husband, too!” Camille shouted back. “Because I want them back! Is that a good enough reason for you?”
The look in Camille’s eyes—a mixture of sorrow, rage, and fear—was so raw, Beau had to look away.
“I’m sorry, I am. But I can’t pretend—”
“But you’re not pretending. You love her, but you won’t admit it. Because you’re a lone wolf, right? Love is for fools, and you’re no fool. You’re too tough, too shrewd.” She gave him a smile, one that looked like it had been soaked in vinegar. “I have news for you: You’re not tough. You’re a coward.”
Beau raised his hands. “Hold up, Camille …”
But Camille did not hold up. “You think love is for weak people, but you’re wrong. Love is for the strongest. The bravest. The fiercest.” She looked up at the gatehouse ceiling for a moment, blinking her eyes. Then she looked at Beau again. “When I was eleven years old, my mother got sick. Cancer.”
“That’s rough, I—”
“Shut up and listen,” she said. “The disease was a monster with knives for teeth, and it devoured her. My God, how she screamed. And when her throat was too raw to scream anymore, she bashed her head against the wall until her blood ran down the plaster. She cursed my father, a good and gentle man. She called him names I would blush to repeat. All because he could not stop the pain. Nothing he had—not brandy, not wine—could help her.”
Camille swallowed hard, then continued. “My father was no doctor; he didn’t know what to do. Sometimes he blundered and made things worse, and then he would hold his head in his hands and weep. He tried so hard. He held ice to her parched lips. He kissed her hands. He held her and sang her lullabies …” Camille’s voice quavered. “And at the end, when her eyes were two black pits, and her face was just a skull with skin stretched over it, he told her she was beautiful, the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. He told her how happy she had made him. How proud he was to be her husband. He promised to take care of us and told her she mustn’t worry. He was scared to death. He was angry and lost and heartbroken, but he smiled, and he kissed her cheek, and he told her it was all right to go.” Tears slipped down Camille’s cheeks. “That … that, Beau,is love.” She wiped her face with her palms, then hurried out of the gatehouse.
“Camille, wait …” Beau said, starting after her.
But she was already gone.
He was sorry. Sorry for Camille. For her mother and father. Sorry for her child and husband and everyone else inside the clock. But she was wrong. He couldn’t help them. He couldn’t break the curse.
He felt guilty, too. Remorse settled in his bones like a sickness as he remembered how awful he’d been to Arabella. He hadn’t believed her when she’d said she hadn’t trapped him. He’d yelled at her, accused her of something she hadn’t done, and then stormed out.
Beau turned from the archway and got back to work. There would be others. He would build this bridge. For himself, yes, but for them, too. That’s how he could help Camille and her family, Valmont and Percival, all of them. That’s how he would make amends to Arabella. Other men would cross the bridge, and one of them would fall in love with her.
He picked up his saw again. His hands were blue from the cold. His body ached. And there was still so much to do. He would have to lay the plank across wobbly pilings. He would have to brave moat monsters as he did it. And then, if the bridge held, if he made it across to the other side, he’d have to brave storms and wolves as he crossed the mountains.
But he would do it. He would face all those monsters, and more, rather than face the one thing that terrified him above all.
His traitorous, treacherous heart.