Chapter Twelve
Mr. Brown comes into my room abruptly, but I’m ready for him, freshly bathed and clad in the cream dress.
This one is short-sleeved, with a powder-blue sash around the waist, and the skirt is fuller than the black or the green, and even shorter—though even if it weren’t, the red shoes seem a magical safeguard against any clumsy entanglements with skirts or such things.
I look like a cream puff in this frock. I look young.
I look sweet. I look like a compliant captive.
Maybe it’s a good sign. Should I ask about Aven tonight?
Mr. Brown doesn’t seem to notice my effort and waves me out to the hall impatiently.
I waltz past him with a breezy nod, and continue down the stairs, already in my slippers, all the way to the first floor, making my way to the ballroom, as though I’m confident. At least I know what to expect after my prior performances. It has all become familiar.
Dance, be glared at, go back upstairs.
Mr. Brown sits at the piano and strums out some light notes while I warm up, my focus narrowed to an almost deadly point.
I will dance my best tonight, to show that arrogant demon a thing or two.
My nerves are so tight I worry I’ll just shatter with the first step.
Rolling my neck, I try to stop overthinking.
But if I impress him, that is one step forward.
Again, as the sun begins setting through the windows behind the chair, he enters the room. The demon. Orrin Colehart. The name doesn’t sit right in my mind. He shouldn’t have a name. For God’s sake, he doesn’t even have a soul. To me he will always be just a demon, a soulless, heartless monster.
Mr. Brown stops playing as the demon crosses in front of me. I stand in the middle of the room, one of the three massive chandeliers directly above me, feeling exposed. He sits in his chair, but he does not indicate I should dance like usual.
So I speak, curiosity getting the better of me. “May I ask you something, Sir?”
If he were a fool, he might not notice the hatred-laden resistance in my final word. But he’s no fool. Raising a brow, the demon says, in an equally sarcastic tone, “Yes, Miss Bell?”
I’d like to rip my name from his mouth. The sound of it shouldn’t belong to him. Instead I ask, as politely as I can, “Why can’t your servants see your real eyes? Why don’t they know what you are? They keep insisting you’re harmless, and they can’t hear me when I say certain things about you.”
“You can see my true form. They cannot,” he drawls, indulging me for some reason.
“But…” I stammer here, “It’s a glamour, isn’t it? A disguise? What about the rest of you? Your fangs and tail and all that?”
He gives me such an unreadable look I take a step back. I think I hear Mr. Brown choke down a laugh behind me.
Then the demon says, “This is how I am, and I have no reason to try to hide anything from you. It’s tedious and a waste of time. I don’t have to pretend to try to get something from you. You’re going to do it whether you like it or not. You don’t have a choice.”
I stand taller, anger pooling in my gut, overtaking the fear, and perhaps my good sense. “I do have a choice. I could say no.”
“Then you wouldn’t live long.”
“I don’t think you’d kill me,” I retort, a touch of sassiness bursting through despite the warning in his eyes. “I think you just like to scare—”
The demon moves toward me in an instant, faster than humanly possible, suddenly pressing himself against my back.
The lights go out that same moment, the candles, the sun setting through the windows, everything.
The room—the world—is all black shadows, and I hold back a startled cry as he sets his large hands on my shoulders.
He pushes down slightly, his hair brushing against my bare neck, the hot breath of him too close.
That smell of him, rich and dark. Like the underbrush of the forest at night.
Like wine that bleeds across a white tablecloth.
I can’t see anything, senses shrouded in shadows.
My body yearns to run away, to hide from the nearness of him.
I can’t move. I’m a prisoner under his hands, helpless and small.
“Don’t think for one minute,” he whispers, his voice skittering in the depths of my fear, fingers splayed across my shoulders, “that I wouldn’t kill you if I wanted. You have no idea how much I despise you for stealing those shoes, for what you nearly did.”
My belly flips as his lips brush against my ear.
His voice is so soft, almost kind in tone, but the words he speaks are twisted with hate.
“Don’t provoke me. I would slit your throat right now if you weren’t tied to those slippers.
As it is, your death would be complicated.
Complicated—not impossible—and more tempting than you can imagine.
Remember that before you speak so insolently to me. ”
“I’m sorry,” I whisper back. “I’m sorry I took the slippers.”
Light returns to the world, the sunset slips back into the sky, candles flick back to life, illuminating the room. He is now facing me, a look of boredom replacing the hatred. “I’m still going to punish you for it. I don’t take kindly to thieves.”
“I told you I couldn’t help it! Obviously you know what they can do. You know the power they—”
“By the way,” he interrupts, his voice low, “keep yourself out of my thoughts, and anything else.”
“Excuse me?”
“You were there. You were in the house with me. Somehow, you were.”
As his words sink in, my eyes widen with shock. “You killed that couple last night. I thought it was only a nightmare! How—”
“Just stay away,” he says brusquely. “Don’t give me any more reason to hate you.”
“Ohh,” I breathe, catching how avoidant he is. “You’re ashamed of what you did….”
A laugh. The thought of him being sorry made him laugh. He’s not sorry. Not at all.
Then he is striding away to the front of the room, and I’m left shaking in fright and ire, warring emotions that won’t fade.
How did I get into his mind—in his body—in the dream, like we were one for a few, terrible minutes.
And how did he know I was there? And why, oh why, did he hurt those people?
“You really—”
He turns and stops whatever else I was going to say with a withering look. “I’m tired of this conversation, and of you. Dance and be on your way, thief.”
Once seated, that horrible whiteless gaze sears into me.
I’d like to tear that expression off his face, hurt him like I’ve never wanted to hurt anyone in my life.
But I’m a tabby facing a dragon. I hold myself back, squeezing my hands into my cream skirts.
I remind myself that I have a plan, feeble as it may be.
Get on his good side—somehow. Rescue my sister—somehow.
Aven matters more than anything, definitely more than my wounded pride, even my own mortality.
Sulkily, I glance back at Mr. Brown and motion for him to start. “Play the one from the warm-up, please.” I’m sure I’ve never sounded less gracious.
Mr. Brown nods and his fingers move on the keys. And I dance.
This time, I know I’m better than the first time I performed for my captor.
Better than the second time, the third, the fourth, or even the fifth.
I know every step is perfect. I know I’m on beat—a lively, quick tune that fuels my steps.
I smile pleasantly as I flick my wrists, travel across the empty ballroom, turn and twist and leap.
Each step, thinking three words, directed at the demon leaning back in the chair.
I hate you. I hate you. I hate you.
When I’m through, I curtsey gracefully and stand before him.
He gets up from his seat, locks his eyes on me. He gives me a terse, almost resentful nod, brow furrowed. Then he turns and walks out.
I let my hands fall on my knees as I bend over, catching a breath of sheer relief tinged with triumph. I did it. I danced without provoking his wrath. I didn’t get a chance to bring up resurrection before he stalked off…but it’s a start.
Then Mr. Brown leads me upstairs. I don’t even complain as he pulls me along.
“I don’t know why you’re smiling,” he says with interest as we round the corner to my room. “He didn’t say you danced well.”
“But he didn’t say I didn’t,” I say, victorious.
“You’re a prideful thing, aren’t you?”
“It’s not pride. When you love something, when you work hard at it, you want it to come through. If anything, I’m in awe of the slippers, not me. Still.” I lift up one curl that has come loose from my chignon, despite Jinny’s extra effort, and shove it back into place. “I know I was good too.”
“It’ll take more than one good dance to please him.” Mr. Brown’s voice is ominous.
“Undoubtedly.” I wave a hand, stepping through my door. “He’s dreadful. But I’m not afraid of him.” I lift my chin. Make myself believe it.
Mr. Brown grins. “You should be.”
Then he shuts the door and locks it. However, that doesn’t mean I have to stay trapped in this room at all times.
Lucky for me, I’ve known how to pick a lock since I was seven years old.
Mr. Brown usually stays nearby, but despite manners to the contrary, he’s human—and even he must take breaks to eat and drink and rest. Given the late hour, and the fact he hovered in the hallway outside my room for most of the day, I’m counting on it.
Channeling patience I don’t typically have, I wait for hours, until I’m certain the house is asleep.
At last, I can have a breath of freedom!
Near the midnight hour, I pluck one of the pins from my mass of hair and kneel in front of the lock. Carefully, quietly, I work at it until it clicks. Satisfied, and maybe a bit smug, I stand.
Our father’s cousin—the third guardian we were sent to—may have been a drunk and a gambler, but he knew about useful things—like picking locks. He may not have done anything else for me, but in this moment, I think of him gratefully.