Chapter Five #3
“It’s lovely,” I rasped, hating the burn of tears in my throat. “It’s only . . . I’m not really a guest. None of this is real.
You didn’t have to go to all this trouble for me.”
Mrs. Keyes considered the room. “Why not? It suited his late lordship just fine.”
“Lord Foxcourt?” I set my empty cup on the ground by my feet. “This was his room?”
“Indeed” was Mrs. Keyes’s only reply.
The present Foxcourt hadn’t taken up residence? Though I wasn’t sure why that surprised me. A room this joyful would be like
poison to the soulless. I supposed he could have redone it to suit his own tastes, but it would have been difficult to repaint
the walls a dark enough shade of black to match his heart.
Mrs. Keyes wrapped my chest and back in a loose layer of bandages, “to keep the wounds clean as they heal,” she explained,
then helped me restore my shift and wrapper.
“Shall I see to your ankle?” the housekeeper asked.
I sent up a plea for fortitude to God and nodded.
“Brave girl,” Mrs. Keyes said approvingly.
She reached behind her for another roll of bandages on the tray, only for it to slip on the tub’s curled edge. I glanced back
as the housekeeper moved with astonishing swiftness, catching and rebalancing it with a single graceful movement.
I blinked, then blinked again.
“Blast and cannon fodder,” she muttered as she knelt before me. “Now, where was I?”
It would have been less painful to put the iron manacle back on than endure that initial burn of salve on the ravaged flesh.
I didn’t understand the subtle way Mrs. Keyes’s expression shifted, not until she said, “Chaining you like an animal—it is
the cruel way of life that the most deserving of punishment never receive it. Even hell isn’t enough for them.”
Given the King of hell was said to wield a three-tipped scourge of infernal fire, I thought he was likely to have the damned
well in hand, but I appreciated the sentiment.
“The last Lord Foxcourt used to say that pain was a matter of the mind,” Mrs. Keyes said, “that we decide its control over
us.”
“Spoken,” I said haltingly, “like a man who’d never . . . been flogged . . .”
The housekeeper clucked her tongue in agreement. “Pain is necessary and vital, for it reminds us that we yet live, but it must be experienced to be truly known. I’m nearly finished—breathe in slowly through your nose and out through your mouth.”
I did exactly that, clenching my hands into fists and pressing them against my eyes. But blocking my sight only strengthened
my other senses—the smell of my oozing flesh and Mrs. Keyes’s bloodied essence, the taste of the whisky on my tongue, the
sound of the soft snick of Mrs. Keyes finally shutting the tin.
“You’re wrong about one thing, Miss Lockwood,” Mrs. Keyes said as she carefully bandaged my ankle. “There is not a single
one of us who does not understand how very real this is. You are safe here. You will always be safe here, no matter the circumstances.”
How very much I wished that were true. How very, very much.
“Will that one work?”
I glanced at Mrs. Keyes, confused by the question, only to realize that she hadn’t been speaking to me at all.
“Yes, I’ll take some of the others in tonight,” Felicity answered from beside the wardrobe. My gaze landed on the sky-blue
dress she held up, and my confusion only deepened. “The shoes may be a touch tight, however.”
She and Mrs. Keyes exchanged a silent, unhappy look.
“Wait,” I began, rising unsteadily to my feet. “That’s . . . for me?”
“Of course,” Felicity said. Her smile strained somewhat as she added, “It may be some days yet before I’m able to, ah, repair
the dress you arrived in. In the meantime, we have a few for you to choose from. I realize it’s not the right hour for a walking
dress, but it will have to do.”
She was speaking plainly, in our shared language, but my mind couldn’t grasp the words, couldn’t assign them meaning.
My pulse skipped at the sight of the ivory ribbon trimming the open neck and beneath the bust. It was perfectly in line with
the day’s fashion, so often modeled by the ladies promenading in Royal Park or visiting the shops, with a high waist and sleeves
puffed at the shoulder. The fabric looked delicate enough to be torn by my clumsy hands.
As Felicity shook it out, I nearly fell to the ground in raptures when I saw that there were azaleas embroidered along the
bottom of the skirt.
How could I wear this? No—that wasn’t the right question.
I straightened, my exhausted mind finally sharpening. “It’s hours past midnight. Why do I need to dress at all?”
“Because, Miss Lockwood,” came a cool voice from the doorway, “your presence has been requested by your new customer.”
My heart sank at the sight of Foxcourt leaning a shoulder against the doorjamb. As his pale eyes met mine, the urge to clutch
the opening of my wrapper together was overwhelming.
One side of his mouth curled up as he pushed away from the doorframe. But when he spoke again, his expression was the only
warning I required.
“Dress warmly,” he said. “We leave in ten minutes.”