Chapter Fourteen
That night I dream again, from inside his point of view.
Like last time, I am aware of what is happening, aware that it’s not real for me.
Aware, this time immediately, that I am merely a passenger inside his body, carried along for the ride.
He doesn’t seem to notice my presence yet, which explains why he’s doing…
what he’s doing. Body tightened with emotion.
I can feel it, his sadness, his guilt. I gaze down through his perspective.
He holds a golden locket in one hand, opened to show a lock of butter-blonde hair on one side, and on the other, a fresh-faced milkmaid sort of young woman. Though the miniature portrait is rendered in black and white, I imagine her hair the same color as the curl opposite, her eyes a kind blue.
Deep inside him, the ache of grief fades to make way for the fury. He snaps the locket shut with a sharp sigh. And I think…I dream…that he sighs again, but this time, it is threaded with something like anguish. And it is rounded with the shape of my name.
Damn it, Corliss…
I awake suddenly and sit upright, back in my own body, my own being, my name echoing in the atmosphere. Unsettled is too small a word for what I just saw and felt. Who was the woman in the locket? And why was I a part of…whatever that was?
Soon after breakfast, I learn he’s left for business. “Business” being vague enough to be concerning, but I can’t help wondering if he is just avoiding me. If he knows I saw him.
If he knows I felt his heartbreak.
Three nights after I tried to escape—during which time I hadn’t seen him at all—I’m informed that I will once again be dancing.
I know he was only gone briefly for his “business” due to some offhand comments his staff made, but he had not called me down to dance despite being home in the evenings.
He was avoiding me! That’s fine with me.
I’m not exactly eager to see him and return to our strained routine.
Mrs. Minthy is quieter than usual as she helps me into the copper tub—which has taken up a permanent spot in my room—before my dance-to-be, though her touch is gentle as she washes my hair.
Finally, I end the silence. “Is everything alright? You seem bothered.”
“It’s been a day, that’s all,” her murmur is tired as she rinses me.
“How so?”
“Oh, just normal issues with the staff, plus our cook is all in a tizzy because our order was late and half-missing. I guess there was some trouble in town.”
“What kind of trouble?” I ask.
“The grocer was attacked last night, the delivery boy said, and his store was robbed.”
“Mr. Links was attacked? How awful!” I frown. “Is he alright?”
“He’ll be fine, the boy said. Though he was beaten pretty bad by some rowdy sailors, apparently.”
I sit up in the bath, sloshing water about as her words settle on me. “Are the other stores okay? Do you know about the beauty apothecary? My sister works there!”
She nudges me down, tips back my head, but doesn’t reply to that, as if she didn’t hear. “Don’t worry, Miss Corliss. Anyone who comes here to steal will find Mr. Brown with a revolver waiting for them.”
Or worse, I mentally tack on.
When she’s done helping me, she calls for Jinny, then leaves the two of us.
“Are you tired, Miss?” Jinny says as she twists up my hair into an elegant bun and double-wraps a blue ribbon, like a headband. I wear the cream dress again—sash reattached.
“A little.” Tired of this place. Tired of this game. Tired of feeling like prey. And what about Sélie, alone in the cottage? Is she safe? Is she eating well? Is she sleeping enough?
Then I’m being escorted downstairs—the first time since I shoved Mr. Brown. This time he has me go ahead of him. He gives me a broad grin. “Ladies first.”
Please don’t push me, I implore him silently.
I hold the banister extra tightly just in case. He doesn’t lay a hand on me.
Once in the ballroom, I warm up as usual, though my nerves are in tatters, after that last confrontation with the demon.
Worry over that demon woman—not to mention worry over Sélie, in town, all alone—plagues me.
I move lightly in the red shoes, marking out steps to a routine carefully.
It hardly matters. He’ll find fault with me no matter how perfectly I dance.
And he already warned me about spying on him from my dreams. What will he say about it now, if he knows I know about the mystery woman in the locket?
He would detest that I saw his vulnerability.
What if I try to show him through my dancing how I feel? How sorry I am for all of it? How I wish he could forgive me and help me?
Without warning, he appears, standing in the doorway. His gait is smooth as he goes to his chair and takes his seat, draping himself casually across it. Tonight he is clad all in black, a shirt with buttons that shine like his eyes, trousers, and boots so glossy the lights gleam in the leather.
He rakes his fingers through his long hair and says simply, “Dance.”
I stare at the tattoo peeking out from under one cuff. One band for every life. So many deaths, they’ve blurred into one another.
Breathe, Corliss, I remind myself. I have to focus.
At least the demon hasn’t come to teach me a lesson, I don’t believe.
Unless he’s waiting for me to finish the dance first. One last performance before I die?
Or he hands me off to that creature to torture.
I let out an involuntary shudder, yet I begin.
I’ve performed many routines for him—light and lively, short and fierce.
Tonight, I choose a slower dance, focusing on my technique even more so than usual.
The red shoes carry me, lift me, lead me, pull me.
I stretch from my toes all the way through my fingertips, body long and straight, leg pulled up to the ceiling in a striking développé.
I let myself fall, let myself collapse and unfold.
It’s a swan’s routine, a butterfly, a doe.
It is something gentle and beautiful, something easily harmed.
In a way, it’s a plea. I can’t hurt you back. Please don’t harm me. Please don’t hate me anymore.
All through it, his face is impassive.
When I complete the dance, the air around me is taut.
“Go.” He jerks his head, dismissing me. Something like weariness dragging his mouth down. There is no humor in his gaze, no softness, no kindness. His face holds a fatigue I’ve never seen before. Whatever business he was off doing has taken something out of him.
Aven, Aven, Aven, her name echoes in my heart. Reminds me. Gives me courage. One last try. I search for any humanity. The other night, I felt it in him as he stared at the portrait of the sweet-faced woman. Where is it now?
“If I asked you for a favor,” I manage in a brave whisper, out of nowhere, the words coming out of their own accord. “What would it take for you to grant it?”
“I’m not in the business of granting favors, thief.” His voice is icy, cruel.
“But—please, can’t I explain—”
He growls, “I won’t say it again. Go to your room. Now.”
I feel something inside me break, one final time. One last hope destroyed. I open my mouth to plead but snap it shut. It’s hopeless. Just as I feared.
I don’t care how risky it is. I’m going to escape, for real, and I won’t try running out the front door.
I plan to be successful, because I’m certain death will be my punishment if he catches me this time.
I’ll get Sélie out of The Pins, get us both somewhere safe until the demon is bored trying to track me back down.
I’ll do whatever it takes because I can’t stay at the mansion any longer.
And I’m fucking tired of playing by his rules.
After my door is relocked, I yank the sheets off my bed. I rip two of the sheets in half, creating more length. Then, using the sailor’s knot Darius taught me years ago, I begin tying them together.
I don’t rush. I won’t be able to make my move for hours, but, thankfully, the time passes quickly. Everyone must be asleep by now.
I leave the enchanted slippers on the bed. Give them one last caress. Afterwards, I take off the dress I’m wearing and hang it up in the wardrobe. I will take nothing with me I did not come here with. All the less reason for him to pursue me.
With sure and steady hands, I knot one end of the sheet-rope to one of the bedposts, then I carry the other end to the window.
I stand there for a long moment, debating whether or not to tie one end to my waist and shimmy my way down the side of the building, but decide I’m not confident in that method.
Truth be told, I’m not confident in any aspect of this, but it’s all I have now.
I slip the sheets down the side of the house, hoping nobody is looking out a back window, and that the demon is asleep—does he even sleep?
—in his bedchamber. Mr. Brown and the other staff are probably sleeping in the servants’ wing on the other end of the third floor.
I hope that is the case, anyhow. It’s certainly late enough. The sky is dark, night has come.
After the end of the sheet is left dangling over the ledge of the window, I wait, in case someone comes and pounds on my door. But nobody does.
It’s time.