Chapter One
Change of Direction
Rue Chamberlain’s House
I should leave. But I don’t. I have no reason to remain in this room. Yet I do. I stand there, staring down at her.
“What am I going to do with you?” I wonder aloud.
Kane may be a loathsome twit, but honor among reapers or something like that. I decide the path of least resistance makes the most sense for all involved. I will do what I can to make her crossover as smooth as possible. I only hope she’s amenable. Because if she resists …
My fingers tingle at the thought like they can feel the weight of my blade.
She will rue the day, I think to myself on a smirk, then take in the room around me.
You can learn a lot about a person from their bedroom. Their passions and proclivities are on full display in that most sacred of sanctuaries. Rue’s room screams of one thing—stories.
Glancing around, I notice all of her books.
They are everywhere. Books on tables. Books under tables.
Books in stacks beside the heater. Some with broken spines, others pristine because as any good book lover will tell you, there really are two hobbies—reading books and collecting books.
I scan the titles, looking for themes and genres that might give me a glimpse into this fast-fading soul.
The variety of subject matter speaks of a voracious mind, a tireless consumer of tales.
The one through line I feel among all the dusty pages and chaotic stacks?
Love. Rue adores literature. It permeates the room.
I stop when I spot one in particular, the familiar font making the bottom of my stomach drop out.
North and South by Elizabeth Gaskell.
I’ve seen this edition before. I inch closer as a more haunting realization dawns.
It can’t be, I insist in my head, even as I reluctantly reach for the book.
I not only recognize this edition; I know this exact copy. Same worn leather. Same bruised corners that speak of much use. Same pages, still dog-eared, even after all these countless years. I finger the edge and open the book to the first flagged passage.
“ ‘I know you despise me; allow me to say, it is because you do not understand me.’ ” I read the words aloud, remembering them in her voice.
Madeleine.
England, 1861
I stab another pitchfork full of hay and offer it to the expectant horse. “You’ve worked hard today, girl. Eat up.”
The mare nickers softly, her large, dark eyes filled with trust as she takes the hay from the fork. I’ve worked hard today, too, but at least one of us is getting taken care of. The appreciation I can hear in her soft whinnying helps soothe my tired muscles a bit anyway.
That’s the refrain that loops in my head as I continue to shovel shit from the stables while the rain from the storm outside serves as a calming melody.
Well, as calming as it can be in this stable. The stench coats my throat. My hands are blistered and raw from the pitchfork, and my back aches from bending over the muck all day.
The lady of the house made sure I understood that this morning.
“The stable boy is getting above himself,” she said, loud enough for me to hear through the kitchen window. “He thinks he’s worth more than the horses he tends.”
She’s right. I’m not worth more than the horses. I’m worth less.
So, when I hear the stable door creak and recognize the giggle that follows, my stomach twists into a knot.
Not her. Not now.
Madeleine rounds the corner, rain-soaked and grinning. Her golden hair is plastered to her face, and the hem of her dress is muddy.
My heart stops.
“What are you doing?” I snap my gaze away from her and turn back to the hay. I can’t look at her. If I look at her, I’ll forget my place. “You shouldn’t be in here. The staff will be looking for you.”
“Oh, come now, Tommy.” Her voice is light, teasing. Everything I’m not. “Take but a few minutes to play with your friend. Besides, I want to pet the horses.”
Friend. The word cuts like a four-letter insult.
“I’m not your friend, Maddy. And you shouldn’t be with me without a chaperone. We’re fifteen now. People will talk.”
“We’re not alone. We’re among the animals.” She opens her arms wide and giggles while spinning on the ball of her shoe.
She’s so breathtaking and free.
“You know what I mean,” I grunt, trying to ignore the heat in my cheeks. “Just go.” I hold up my hand to stop her from coming closer. “Please.”
She pouts, her lip pushing out in that way that makes me want to do something stupid. “Let them talk. What do I care for the rumors of fools?”
Because she’s not a fool. She’s everything, and she has no idea that standing here with me is dangerous.
“The wrong person sees you without a chaperone in a position with the stable boy, and you can kiss all titled prospects farewell.”
“As if I care about prospects,” she huffs. “What woman would give up her freedom and friendship simply because some might spread gossip?”
“Just go, Maddy. Leave me be.” My words come out harsher than I intended. I see her face drop, and the light in her warm blue eyes disappears.
I hate myself for it.
“ ‘I know you despise me; allow me to say, it is because you do not understand me.’ ”
I look at her sharply. “What?”
“The book I’m reading. Elizabeth Gaskell, North and South.” She smiles again, but it’s different now, softer. “That’s one of my favorite passages. I thought it seemed appropriate.”
For a moment, I can’t move. Can’t think. She’s quoting books to me. She sees me. Not the stable boy. Me.
Oh, Maddy, how wrong you are. You are the one person in this life I do not hate. The only person, besides my father, who makes this existence bearable. The only light in a world that’s been dark for all the short years I can remember.
“Books,” I say, turning back to the hay, desperate to occupy my hands before I do something foolish. “What use do I have for books, Maddy? I work. That’s all.”
It’s what I’m supposed to say, what a boy in my position is supposed to believe.
“There should always be time made to explore the feelings in one’s heart,” she replies.
“Please go. Back to your life. I have to finish here.” The coldness in my voice is deliberate, necessary.
I watch her smile fade, and then she turns and walks out of the stable.
Rue Chamberlain’s House
“How did you manage to get your copy of this book back into my hands, Maddy? You always were the cleverest girl,” I whisper, secretly expecting a response.
A torrent of long-lost memories pours forth. My head and heart are consumed with the overwhelming feeling of it all. The passion and power of us.
Ash and Maddy.
Forever.
But nothing lasts forever, does it?
Only pain.
Only ever the pain.
That is all that lasts, all that lingers, all that remains.
My fingers tremble as they stroke the letters, as though each spot of ink holds an ocean of memories. Unbidden—and I thought impossible—a single tear jumps off my cheek and lands on the page, blurring the words.
Visions of that old stone prison, of the stench of that place, and the crippling feeling of regret overwhelm me. I slam the book closed in my hand in a futile attempt to shut out the past.
The smoke and the screams echo inside me while the one thing I cannot remember continues to haunt me. Madeleine’s last words.
England, 1869
“Special delivery.”
The smooth, baritone voice echoes off the stone wall of the prison, grating against my nerves.
Alister Sullivan approaches my cell; the refinement of his posh attire does nothing to hide his slumped shoulders and sallow, waxy complexion.
He stands outside my cell, a sinister grin plastered across his face, which suggests he’s about to unleash even more terror upon me.
He’s the architect of this nightmare: the false charges, the imprisonment, the theft of the life I could have had.
By the look of smug satisfaction on his face, he seems to enjoy my pain.
“What are you doing here?” I ask, my voice steady and unwavering.
“It’s mail day, Thomas. And I am its faithful messenger.” He leans against the bars, oozing an unsettling joy.
“What are you talking about? Where are the guards? Why is no one around?” I demand, sizing him up, searching for any weakness.
“I gave the staff a much-deserved break. They work so hard, don’t you think, Tommy? Tough work, keeping the animals caged. Honorable work.”
“Fuck you, Alister.” The use of Maddy’s name for me in Alister’s nasally voice deepens my growing rage.
“Now, now, Tommy. That’s no way to speak to me. I come bearing a message, one meant only for you. The first is from Madeleine; the last is from me. Both forged in fire.”
My stomach twists, but I force myself to stand tall.
He casually produces a cigar from the breast pocket of his jacket.
He then takes a friction match and strikes it against the stone wall creating a flame.
He lights the cigar with deliberate flair.
The flame flickers in his cold grey eyes as he savors the moment, sucking on the cigar to bring it to life.
He exhales a puff of smoke that extinguishes the match, then lets it drop to the floor.
That’s when I note the faint discoloration on the stones outside my cell. Then I clock the familiar smell.
“What is that, Alister? Is that—” I choke on the word, a surge of dread tightening its grip around me, but I refuse to show any weakness.
“Coal fuel, my boy.” His voice drips with glee. “Some clumsy sod seems to have spilled it all down the hall.” His thin-lipped grin deepens, a crack forming in his mask of civility. “Ah, well, I’m sure it’s perfectly safe, as long as no one is reckless with fire.”
The threat hangs heavy in the air, and I meet his gaze with defiance. “Stop this, Alister. This isn’t funny.”
“Oh, on that, we most heartily agree, Thomas.” His voice turns dark, each word wrapped in malice. He reaches into the inner pocket of his coat, pulling out a thin, folded piece of parchment like a magician revealing a trick. “A message from my Maddy—your love, it would seem.”
My Maddy. The possessiveness in those two words makes me want to tear the bars from their mooring. If only love were strong enough to bend the will of iron.
“She is, Alister. My love. There’s a world of women out there, waiting for you, but Maddy is mine. She always has been. But you know that already. Let me out of here, and we can discuss this like gentlemen.”
“I have nothing to discuss with the likes of you. You petulant ingrate.” Each word is a lash, a reminder of what I am in his eyes—less than human, not worthy to breathe in his presence.
He hands me the letter, which I snatch from his fingers and pull through the unforgiving bars of the cell.
He snivels as I unfold the paper and hastily consume Maddy’s words. I will myself not to cry. I don’t want to show this man any weakness, nor do I want any moisture to cloud my vision as I pore over her writing.
Whenever I receive her letters, I feel the most connected to Maddy. If I wished earnestly enough, I could almost pretend she were with me, saying these words to my face, our hands intertwined, our hearts bound together.
I struggle to focus on the words with the smell of fuel growing stronger. As I am finishing the final paragraph, Alister’s voice breaks me out of the moment.
“I never wanted to kill you, Thomas. I am not a violent man. But you’ve forced my hand.
I thought some time in this cell would rehabilitate you, that you’d remember your place and we could all go about our lives.
But you couldn’t leave well enough alone, could you?
You just had to keep meddling in my affairs and playing with my possession. ”
“Maddy belongs to no man. She is free.”
“Oh, how wrong you are, boy.” The insult cuts deeper than I wish it did. “She is mine. Mine to own and mine to breed.”
At those words, I lunge for the bars, trying to grab him through them. My fingers grasp at air—at nothing.
“Temper, temper, animal. Don’t waste your energy on me. You’ll need it in a moment to find a way out of this cage. Failing that, you’ll need it to scream.”
“You’re a monster. Fuck you.”
His expression hardens, all pretense of civility vanishing. “If I’m a monster, Thomas, it is only because you made me this way.”
“Maddy has never belonged to you. We were meant to be together—forever. Fate decreed it. You took away our chance.”
“And now I’m taking what you have left. Your sad, pathetic life.”
He takes another long drag from his cigar, eyes the glowing tip, then removes it from his mouth and flicks it toward the fuel-soaked stone floor.
The effect is instantaneous.
Flames erupt down the hallway, fire spreading, dancing off stone and consuming the straw and wood in its path. The heat hits me like a physical blow. Screams start from the other cells as prisoners realize what’s happening.
We’re going to burn alive in here.
I don’t scream. I won’t give Alister the satisfaction. I don’t scramble for escape.
What’s the point?
The bars won’t break. The guards aren’t coming. This is how I die.
So, I sit with the crumpled paper clutched firmly in my grip. As the heat overwhelms me, as the inevitability of my end draws near, as the flames kiss my skin and sear my flesh, I sit and read.
Allowing Maddy’s final words to cool my soul as my body begins to burn alive. For now—the pain. Forever—my love.
The smoke is thick and the pain excruciating. My vision blurs, and when the flames finally take me and my body gives out, my soul is free.
Her words burn with me.
Lost to the fire, death, and time.
Rue Chamberlain’s House
I look over to the peacefully resting Rue, then back to the book in my hands. I open it to the other folded page.
“ ‘But the future must be met, however stern and iron it be.’ ”
I smile sadly as I continue my one-sided conversation with a ghost from my past. “How right you are, Maddy. How right you are.”
Then I close the book and toss it unceremoniously onto the edge of the bed.