Chapter Three #3
He held up a silencing hand. “I never lie, Miss Lockwood. I only use shadows to disguise the truth. This is your best—your only—opportunity to gain your freedom. Should you choose not to move forward after hearing the particulars of the task, I will return you here posthaste. And, believe me, I will take the utmost pleasure in doing so.”
“Prove it then,” I said.
He stared at me as if I’d spoken the ancient fairy tongue.
“Prove that you have the power to take me from here,” I said. “Or am I just meant to accept the word of the man responsible
for my arrest?”
“So cynical,” he said, with something like approval.
“No, cynical is keeping me here for two nights to ensure I understand the consequences of refusing you,” I said. “Prove to me that you
have such power over the King that he would agree to this scheme of yours.”
His brows rose again. Clearly, he’d thought me a feather wit, as malleable as clay, ready to be shaped by his hand. But his
pride had met its match in mine.
“Well?” I prompted.
I could tell I’d surprised him—pleased him, even, which was the more wretched realization. Before that moment, his every smile
had been mocking, meant to disarm rather than reassure. Now, however, it felt genuine.
“As the lady commands,” he said sardonically, reaching into the inner pocket of his jacket once more. He left a folded document
on the table for me and sat back again, crossing his ankle over his knee in a relaxed posture. “A document legally releasing
you into trusted custody, ready to be handed to the prison governor.”
Feigning nonchalance, I took it in hand and turned away, refusing to let him see that I needed to shut my left eye to read
it properly. The elegantly penned lines echoed his claims, but there, at the bottom, was a signature I never would have expected.
“The Earl of Foxcourt?” I said derisively. It was an ancient title, one with connections to the King’s own family. But even
that dissolute rake would have balked at being made to host a criminal under his gilded roof. “He can’t have agreed to this . . .”
A soft chuckle drew my eyes up.
“Oh,” he said softly, “but I already have.”
I saw then what he meant by disguising the truth in shadows—leaving out crucial details or prettying them in such a way I
wouldn’t think to question them.
“Hilarious,” I told him coldly.
“I assure you, Lockwood, there is nothing hilarious about any of this to me,” he answered. “Here are your choices: you can sign that document and leave this place, or I can send you back to your cell, where you will rot for however many months it takes for the courts to bring you to trial.”
“And you will not get your perfume,” I reminded him.
He shrugged. “Neither of us will get what we desire. I must say, I didn’t expect such hesitation.”
“Was I meant to fall at your feet and weep with gratitude?” I replied, struggling to tamp down my temper.
“By all means,” he said, sweeping a hand toward his polished boots. “A little groveling would only help your cause.”
This was . . . My thoughts raced, fragmenting with each hard thud of my heartbeat. I turned toward the fire again, begging
the flames for a third way out of this. But there was only truth: If I refused him, there would be my cell. Branson. A trial
I would not live to see.
Oliver’s words rose again in my mind. Must you be so bloody stubborn all the time?
“You’ve hardly given me a choice,” I said. “I would be trading one prison for another.”
“At least my prison will be gilded,” he said, mildly offended by the comparison.
“And lorded over by the very man responsible for my arrest,” I spat.
“And now for getting you out.” He hummed. “There’s a nice symmetry to it, wouldn’t you say?”
I had quite a bit I could say to that, but I couldn’t bring myself to speak. It was as if I’d found myself on some dark precipice,
and stepping forward would reveal if it was the threshold into a new start, as he’d promised, or a trap I’d never escape.
Either way, I’d be transformed.
Foxcourt held out the document, daring me. I approached slowly, refusing to tear my gaze away from his as I took it.
“I will make your life as miserable as you’ve made mine,” I warned.
He held the document firm, forcing me to tug it free. “I look forward to seeing you try.”
With a final huff, I made my way over to the governor’s desk. Taking a quill, I drew the feather against my lips as I closed
my eye and quickly read through the document one last time. Foxcourt’s eyes fell on me like the warmth of a second fire.
It’s only a perfume, I told myself. It would cost me, to be certain—it was costing me that very moment, knowing this man would control my every act until I saw the task through. But if I could tolerate it, just for that long, I would be free. I could go anywhere. Start again.
The black leather records book caught my eye from where it had been tossed aside by Foxcourt. I reached for it, ignoring the
man’s sound of exasperation, and quickly flipped through to the most recent entries. Satisfied Arabella’s name wasn’t there,
I slammed the book shut and took up the quill again.
The scent of the parchment and ink curled in me, a signature of its own. I wondered if the scent would forever remind me of
this moment—when I had made either the best choice of my life or my greatest mistake.
And so, I signed my name, and my fate.