Twenty
Beau felt like he was climbing into his own grave.
The stone steps that spiraled down into the cellar were narrow and steep. The smell that rose from the cellar’s depths was a mixture of damp earth and old wood.
Spiders, centipedes, and other things with too many legs scuttled over the walls. But the worst thing was the darkness. It swirled around Beau like a dense fog. The weak flame of his single candle did little to dispel it.
But Beau didn’t let the darkness slow him. He flew down the treacherous steps, heedless of the danger. When he’d read Sister Maria-Theresa’s letter, he’d had to muster every ounce of self-control he possessed not to bolt for the cellar door right then and there. It had been agony waiting for nightfall, for the servants to leave the kitchen hearth and go to bed, for the castle to grow quiet. Christmas was only a few short weeks off and he was a long way from Barcelona.
He’d waited to leave his room until he heard the golden clock in the great hall strike eleven, hoping that the servants would be asleep by then, and the beast in its den, wherever that was. He didn’t know when the fearsome creature rose and prowled, but the two times he’d seen it had been just after midnight. Letting himself out of his room with the master key, he’d crept through the castle, expecting to hear footsteps behind him at every turn. By the time he’d reached the cellar door, he was drenched in sweat.
“Hang on, Matti. Just hang on,” he whispered now as he reached the bottom of the stairs. “I’ll be there soon.”
All he had to do was find the tunnel. He’d been in the cellars of the rich. He knew that there would be several rooms containing foods that had been salted, fermented, and sugared, plus a wine vault, and that it wouldn’t take him long to walk through them.
Then he raised his flickering candle high and saw that he was wrong. Arabella’s cellar didn’t comprise a few rooms; it was vast. He was standing at the threshold of the castle’s wine vault, and it was as big as a church. Giant wooden barrels were stacked three high in its center. Casks of brandy, cognac, and port lined its walls.
“Every man, woman, and child in France could get drunk in here,” he whispered. He walked to one of the barrels in the center of the room, wiped away dust, and saw the name of a chateau branded into the wood. With a clutch of recognition, he realized that he knew the place. It bordered the lands of the merchant whom he, Raphael, and the others had robbed, but the chateau was a ruin; it had burned down fifty years ago.
“Must be an old vintage,” he murmured.
Cobwebs kissed the top of his head as he left the vault and made his way along winding passages and in and out of doorless rooms. In one chamber, hams, each as big as a small child, hung from the ceiling, and salamis dangled as thick as vines in a jungle. He grabbed one and stuffed it inside his waistband, like the dagger he used to keep there. He had no idea how long it would take him to get from the castle to the nearest town, and the salami would keep hunger at bay.
In another room, rounds of salted butter sat atop blocks of ice, and cloth-wrapped cheeses lay nestled on shelves. He glimpsed cones of white sugar and slabs of chocolate, pots of honey, candied chestnuts, pickles and chutneys, tins full of costly spices, crates of tea, and sacks of coffee beans.
“There’s enough food here to last a century,” he said as he hurried out of one room and into the next. His words unnerved him. He’d uttered them as a joke, but they weren’t—they were true: There was enough food here to feed Arabella and her servants for a hundred years. Why would anyone need so many provisions?
It was yet another question that would never be answered, but Beau had no time to dwell on it. He guessed he’d wasted a good half hour already, wandering from room to room. He started down yet another corridor, but when he reached the end of it, he once again found no door, no gate, no gaping earthen mouth—just another room.
Panic scuttled through his thoughts like a mouse through hay. Just how big was this cellar? How many rooms would he have to walk through? What if he didn’t find the tunnel and was still down here when dawn broke?
Half walking, half running now, Beau entered another room, this one filled with root vegetables in bins and glass jars of preserved fruits. Flustered, he never saw the turnip sitting in the middle of the floor, perhaps knocked from a shelf by one of the kitchen boys. His foot came down squarely on top of it. It rolled to the left, pitching him to the right. He lost his balance and hit the floor with a bone-jarring thud.
His candle flew out of his hand and landed in a crate of potatoes. It guttered briefly, then snuffed out.
Darkness filled Beau’s eyes; dampness filled his nose. He was lying facedown on the dirt floor. His knees and elbows had taken the brunt of his fall; they were throbbing. Fear’s rancid breath chilled the back of his neck. His candle was gone; he could see nothing. He rose to his feet shakily, took a few steps, and smacked his shin against something hard. As he bent down to rub the fresh pain away, he whacked his head against a shelf. There was a clinking sound, and a second later, a smash. A sweet scent rose.
“One less jar of applesauce in the world,” he said through gritted teeth.
He turned the other way, hands out in front of him, flailing at the darkness. His sleeve caught on something. An instant later, a pumpkin tumbled to the floor.
“Stop. Calm down. Think, Beau. Think.”
Beau took a deep, balancing breath, and saw that all was not lost. If Valmont or Florian came looking for him, he could hide. The cellar was a dark, twisty rabbit warren. He could crawl behind the casks of port or tuck himself under the cheeses. They’d never find him.
And then, tomorrow night, when everyone was asleep again, he would make his way back to the stairwell, head to the kitchen for another candle, and resume his search. He didn’t relish the thought of bedding down with the mice and the bugs, but he’d endured worse.
In the meantime, he was in no danger of starving down here. He could help himself to any delicious thing he desired. As if on cue, his stomach squeezed. He pulled the salami from his waistband and took a big, anxious bite.
That’s when he heard the weeping.