Chapter Nine #2
“To Sélie Bell at the Boutique d’Apothicaire,” I say quickly. “If she’s not there, to our cottage, which you obviously know the location of, having been a party to my abduction. Please.”
He gives me a curt nod. “Fine. I’ll see what I can do.”
“Fine.” I echo his cool tone and traipse back into my room. I did my best. I’m relieved he’s even considering taking it. I hardly dared hope. Now it’s just a matter of him gaining permission from his employer…who will probably say no. I cling to hope—and that it lasts.
The butler closes the door. Locks it. Moving on, I continue my inspection around the room, memorizing the other details: a chamber pot tucked away discreetly and a heavy bench at the foot of the bed, upholstered in a rose-and-thorn pattern.
I open the wardrobe, unsurprised to find it empty.
I have nothing except the wrinkled chemise I’m wearing, still damp.
And my ballet slippers, or, I correct irritatingly, his ballet slippers, which are with him, probably.
They weren’t brought upstairs with me. I don’t dwell on my disappointment over that realization.
I assume he’ll allow me to dance in them at least, for I have nothing else.
Finished with my path around the room, I go to the table and lift the top of the domed tray—which someone must have brought just before I was hauled up—the smell wafts out in a cloud of fragrant steam.
There’s chicken fried to a perfect golden crispness; potatoes dripping with butter and parsley; and some sort of fruit tart with a dollop of cream.
The meal is still hot. My stomach growls, and I reach out before snatching my hand back. Suppose it is poisoned?
Yet, surely the demon could have just killed me in the ocean.
Or in the carriage. Or ripped me to ribbons in the room downstairs.
I wish I could forget some of the more gruesome descriptions of demon-induced deaths in the fantastical stories Sélie loves so much.
I shake my head to clear the images, the sick feeling dissipating the longer I look at this delectable-appearing meal, the longer I inhale its scent.
He probably wouldn’t poison me, reason reassures.
As I devour the meal in mere minutes, I realize not only is it the best food I’ve ever tasted—even better than Aven’s cooking—but I have my appetite back after weeks. I finish every bite as nightfall arrives, and the room grows thick with shadows.
With my belly full and the sky going blue-black, already spread with stars, no candles lit, my eyelids grow heavier by the minute.
I snap them open, senses jolting with revulsion, realizing I almost nodded off in my chair.
I’m tired, but I can’t sleep here. The demon’s face flashes in my mind.
I shudder, and it’s half from fear, half from fatigue.
I’d like to rest, but what if he comes up here?
I push up from my seat. In the dark, I wander the room, searching for something I can use for protection, grateful for the meager cast of light coming in from the moon.
I spy the knife from the dinner tray and grab it, gripping the engraved handle with reassurance.
After reluctant consideration, I set it down.
I don’t want to sleep with it—suppose I accidentally cut myself?
It’s not like a knife would do much against a demon anyhow.
He could peel the skin from my bones as I stand, probably with just his mind alone. Still. Anything is better than nothing.
I finally spot a large candleholder pushed to the back of one bookshelf, much more substantial than the delicate brass holders set around the room.
It feels solid in my hands, probably iron, although it’s difficult to tell given the lack of light.
I hide the taper toward the back of the highest shelf.
Holding my new weapon gives me a tiny sense of security.
If only I had light, to see more, to think through a plan to survive this place, to stay awake so I’m not so vulnerable.
He can probably see in the dark, like an animal.
I shiver, just envisioning those inhuman eyes.
If only I had a matchbox.
Despite searching through all the drawers again, there’s nothing helpful to be found.
I have no way to light the candles on the side table, nor the gas lamp atop the mantel, and despite my resistance, my eyes grow heavier yet.
I stare longingly at the grand bed, the curtains pooling around it.
If the demon is going to kill me, my being awake or not surely won’t deter him.
Besides, it’s unlikely he’ll harm me, at least as long as I’m his entertainment.
I’m probably safe, I tell myself. I partly believe it.
I climb into the bed and pull the covers over myself. Then I slide the heavy candleholder under the pillow next to me, so I can easily grab it if I must. Finally, I can’t stay awake any longer.
I let my eyes shut.
Nightmares assault my mind all night, bits of scattered violence, screams in the dark, my entire being stretched taut with fear.
A wolf chases me. I run as fast as I can until I outrun it and then, hours and hours later, when I think I’m finally safe, I fall to the ground, retching.
Instead of vomit, only blood, black and congealed, pours from me.
When I look up, the wolf is waiting. It leans over, ripping into me.
The pain tears into my very soul, and I find my feet dangling out of his mouth, bloody stumps of my ankles wrapped with red ribbons.
I dream of Aven as well, just her sad blue eyes, staring at me, white face shining through the darkness. I wake with tears pouring down my cheeks, sweating everywhere.
The soft blue of barely-morning light streams in through the uncovered windows. I made it through the night. I’m alive. I’m still here. This, at least, was not a nightmare.
I hate to do it. But, finally, I let myself do what I couldn’t yesterday—cry.
Because there’s a strong chance the demon won’t be able to help me return Aven—or, much more likely, that he’ll have the capability but refuse.
Because Sélie is alone, and my foolishness did that.
And because I’m here, trapped like a rat.
Because even though I tell myself not to be, I’m scared out of my damn mind.
Stop crying, stop crying, I tell myself, though of course, I don’t listen.
The muted sound of something like hammering stirs me, and moments later, a sharp knock on the door jolts me awake.
I must have fallen asleep weeping. I scrunch up my face and crack open one sensitive eye against the brightness of the room, the fully risen sun shining through the open windows.
My head pounds from nightmares and crying.
I don’t even manage a “yes” or “who is it?” before the door unlocks and opens.
On the other side, not the brutish butler or the dreadful demon, but a skinny maid.
I don’t know her, but something about her hair is familiar, the exact shade of carrots.
I wrack my brain as she wheels in a cart.
Ah. She resembles the maid I saw that day I snuck in, Jinny.
Close enough I presume they must be sisters.
I climb out of bed as she approaches, fully aware of my stale mouth, tangled waves, and wrinkled chemise. She doesn’t seem to notice my disheveled appearance. I stand waiting for her to say something. To acknowledge that there’s a hostage under her nose.
“Hello,” I finally rasp, my voice half-lost, as though I had been screaming. Then I remember, I was screaming plenty, in the carriage.
“Good morning. I’m just here to bring your breakfast, Miss.” She sets the trays on the table, lifts up the domed lids, and pulls out one of the chairs next to the table for me, avoiding my eyes. “Come on and eat, now, while it’s hot.”
“No. Thank you.” I fold my arms over my chest. I’ll eat later. Maybe. My stomach growls in betrayal, loud enough for the maid to hear.
She says kindly, “You may as well eat your meal, and enjoy it slow for all that. He”—she doesn’t need to say who he is—“is off on business, so you won’t be seeing him until this evening.”
“I won’t?” A warm wave of relief rushes over me.
“No. So dig in, Miss.” She gestures to the food.
“You can call me by my name.”
The cap perched on top of her bright hair doesn’t move as she shakes her head firmly. “Oh, no. That just wouldn’t do.”
“Why not? I’m no lady, and I’m a prisoner.
I can’t leave the room.” I laugh bitterly, and she blinks, face blank, as though I hadn’t said a word.
Something like understanding settles over me.
I stare hard as she tidies the room, and, I notice gladly, sets a matchbox beside a candle.
Still, she makes no indication she heard me.
“Unlock my door,” I demand, more out of curiosity than a real attempt to leave—I know I need to stay put for Aven’s sake. “I’m trapped here.”
She gives me a glassy smile and motions to the table. “Your food, Miss?”
Interesting. Either she can’t hear me when I speak of certain things—most certainly the demon’s doing—or she’s very, very good at pretending.
Reluctantly I sit, letting my eyes take in the sight of my hearty breakfast: thick porridge with currants and cream; toasted sourdough bread with butter; tiny pots of honey and jam; sliced orange cheese; fresh fruit; coffee and tea; lumps of dark sugar cubes; sugar as white as snow; and more cream, in a miniature silver pitcher.
My mouth waters despite myself. How can I be so hungry again after that big meal last night, and in these circumstances?
Resentfully, I spread jam on the toast and take a bite. It’s delicious.
“The food is good,” I say, with a touch of sullenness. “Thank you.”
She bobs and walks over to the bed, tugging the bedsheets off into a pile. “It’s my pleasure, Miss, to bring it to you. The man of the house does like good food. I’m sure he’s happy to share the same bounty with his guests.”
“Does he lock all his guests in their rooms?” I raise a brow as I pour myself a cup of coffee. Again, she doesn’t seem to hear me. At least this soothes me somewhat. She seems an innocent in all this. Maybe I have someone here I can trust.
“What’s your name? And how well do you know the man of the house?” I try.
“It’s Hana. And not well, I’ve only just been hired. Although already I know he’s a fine man, handsome and rich.” She flushes a little at this assessment and backs the cart toward the door, as if embarrassed for speaking so plainly. Or lying so plainly.
One word she said echoes. Handsome? With those horrifying eyes? If I ignored the eyes…I might call him beautiful. But how could you ignore them?
“Wait,” I call. “The handsome man of the house, what color are his eyes? I forget.”
She turns. “Green, Miss, like the sea during a storm.”
“Right.” I nod. “Of course.”
Then Hana shuts the door behind her. I hear the cart retreat down the hall, followed by the door being locked from the other side. I frown. The butler must be lurking out there. I stand from my chair, walk around, pacing the room, thinking hard.
Green. But how? I wrack my brain for an explanation.
He must be using magic to manipulate his appearance. Maybe to keep people from seeing things that are there, or, to make people see things that aren’t.
This would account for not only the demon appearing normal in front of most others but also for the bird woman and bleeding man I saw in town. Nobody else could see them, because they weren’t real. Perhaps even the crow perched on Bricksbee’s sign was fake.
Or maybe, I ponder with a fearful pinch in the middle, they were real but simply hidden to everyone else, invisible to everyone but me.
Either way, this demon’s magic is powerful.
Powerful enough to keep his staff—butler excluded—from knowing I’m being held captive.
Powerful enough to make them trust him, see him in a different light.
And if he can do that, what else can he do? What else will he do?
I can’t fret about that now. I have time to figure out how to get on his good side and persuade him to help me, and I should do that rather than worry.
However, I’m too exhausted to think clearly, despite getting at least some sleep, plus I’m famished.
I ignore the tea but finish almost everything else Hana brought for me.
It’s as delicious as the meal last night.
If I keep this up, I’ll soon be as round as a dumpling. Maybe that is the demon’s plan. Maybe he’s just lying in wait, to devour me whole.