Thirty
Arabella watched as Beau dropped a silver spoon into his jacket pocket. “Take it,” he said, flashing her a grin as he turned away.
“All right, I will,” she said. But not yet, she thought, glad he could not see her seeing him. Oh, not yet.
He stood, one hip cocked, his long hair tied back, his face in profile. Her eyes lingered on his nose, with the bump in its bridge, his soaring cheekbones. They traveled downward, taking in the set of his shoulders, the graceful flare of his back.
“I was thinking maybe sometime today?”
“I’m cultivating the element of surprise,” she replied, wishing she could stop time and stay here, in this moment, forever.
A second later, as she pulled the spoon from his pocket, he caught her hand, startling her into a cascade of giggles.
“Got it!” she crowed. “I was as smooth as silk. Silent, too.”
“Silent? You may as well have set off fireworks,” he said, not letting go of her hand.
She looked into his warm brown eyes, so full of surprises. At his smile, so full of promises. And for an instant, for one single instant in an endless century, she was happy.
And then another sound rose over their laughter—as measured, as inexorable as the ticking of a clock. Arabella looked up, and her blood ran cold as she saw who was walking toward them.
The clockmaker.
“No!” she cried, her heart filling with fear. “Please. Not him. Not him.”
She gripped Beau’s hand and started to run, heading for the nearest doorway, but when they reached it, they found that Lady Iglut was blocking it. She wore a gown the color of mustard; its lace collar was yellowed, its hem grimy. Her pallid face was pocked with livid sores.
Arabella spun around and ran for another doorway, pulling Beau after her. But Lady Hesma appeared in it. She glared at them balefully, her arms wrapped around her body like a straitjacket. Her nails, curved and sharp, dug into her sides.
Reeling, Arabella ran for the last doorway, still gripping Beau’s hand, but Lady Espidra stood in it, looking down at the floor. Until she heard them approach, and then her head jerked up and Arabella saw that she had nothing where her eyes should be, just two black, gaping holes.
Arabella screamed. And sat bolt upright.
Frightened, disoriented, she looked around wildly and saw that she was not in the great hall with Beau; she was in her bedchamber. Alone. Gray morning light was pouring in the window. She had fallen asleep in her chair.
“It was only a dream … it wasn’t real,” she whispered, pressing a hand to her heaving chest. Relief flooded through her, but it was quickly doused by dread.
Nothing is more real than a dream, a voice inside her said. And she knew the voice was right. Dreams were powerful. They were mirrors to the soul. In her dream, it had felt like the early days again—days when the child was constantly by her side. Arabella shook the memory from her head. It was dangerous to want those days back. The child was safely locked away and had been for decades. All three of them were. In the thin light of morning, she knew the thief was doomed, just like the rest of them. And there was nothing she could do about it.
Arabella’s heart clenched at the thought. She closed her eyes against the searing pain of it. “This is notmy fault,” she said brokenly. “You are not my fault.”
Oh, but it is, the voice said. And he is.
Arabella got to her feet, desperate to escape the voice. She would go riding. She would have the groom saddle her stallion, Horatio, and gallop through the woods. The wind rushing in her ears would drown out everything else.
She hurried down the curving staircase in a swirl of skirts and ran out of the castle. When she reached the stables, she discovered that the groom was in the hayloft, throwing down bales. She saddled Horatio herself, then headed for the forest, urging the horse into a gallop before they’d even left the stable yard.
The old wives said there was no rider on earth fast enough to outride death.
Maybe not.
But she meant to try.