Chapter 42
FORTY-TWO
I try to forget about the night I left Brother Matthew, but the flames tearing through the cottage drag me back. It’s the same molten glow licking at broken windows. The same roar of wood surrendering to fire. The same smell of smoke that means something’s finally dead and burning.
But this time, there isn’t an ounce of guilt.
I move between the apple trees, checking every shadow wide enough to hide a body. My feet slip on rotting fruit, and I splay my arms to stay upright. Branches catch at my dress as I push deeper into the rows of trees, looking behind every trunk thick enough to conceal a man.
“Rowland!” I call out, my voice carrying across the grounds toward the dark outline of the manor.
What did Rochester do with him? He could be anywhere.
My gaze flicks toward the outbuildings. The stables stand about fifty yards from the orchard, their doors hanging open. I jog across the lawn and enter an enclosure stinking of horse piss and old hay. Empty stalls stretch into the darkness, each one possibly hiding Rowland.
I search through the enclosures, kicking piles of moldy straw that reach my knees. Dust clouds rise with each movement, making me cough. But there’s no sign of an unconscious man.
“Rowland?” I call again, my voice hoarse and hollow, like the trees might answer back.
I move to the greenhouse, the garages, the storage sheds, tearing through the grounds like a madwoman.
By the time I’ve searched all the outbuildings, the cottage fire reaches the sky.
Every muscle in my body aches. My chest heaves like I’ve run a marathon, and my voice is nearly gone from calling his name.
What if Rochester dumped Rowland beneath that cottage? What if Rowland is lying among the corpses, unconscious, and trapped in the flames?
I can’t think like that. I can’t give up hope.
The night wears on, and Rowland isn’t in the tool shed or the chicken coop. Each empty building brings me closer to a truth I don’t want to face. Each search leaves me more exhausted, more desperate, more certain that I’m looking for a dead man.
Legs trembling, I stumble back toward the manor. My chest heaves as I try to catch my breath, but every inhale feels like sandpaper. My muscles no longer throb. Nothing compares to the pain of losing Rowland. Tears blur my vision, mixing with the sweat and grime covering my face.
Up ahead, in the highest point of the manor, a light flickers. I blink away the dirt and saltwater to look again.
My pulse stutters, then kicks into overdrive.
The attic.
I hurry to the kitchen and rifle through the drawers until I find a heavy cleaver. My legs shake so badly I cling to the banister to keep from falling as I rush upstairs. Hope flutters in my chest, but by the second floor my vision grays and every breath burns.
Upstairs, the wall panel that leads to the attic is shut.
I claw at the edges with my fingernails, searching for the hidden lever.
When I find nothing, I throw my body against the wood.
It refuses to budge. I press harder, using what little strength I have left, but the thing’s sealed tighter than a vault.
Rowland has to be inside. There’s no other explanation. I raise the cleaver, aiming its blade at the panel.
The first blow sends jolts up my arms like lightning. Pain shoots through my shoulders, and splinters fly into my eyes. I raise the blade again and strike once more, opening a small crack in the wood.
By the tenth blow, I’ve carved a hole big enough to see the dark staircase beyond. I’m drenched in sweat and my arms shake so badly I can barely hold the weapon.
I squeeze through the opening, not caring about the wood that tears my beautiful dress. It’s ruined anyway from searching through the grounds. The stairs groan under my weight as I climb into the dark, gripping that cleaver like a lifeline.
At the top of the stairs, I lean my head against the door to catch my breath and gather my strength to raise the cleaver. My arms scream in protest, but I bring the blade down, channeling every ounce of rage, every ounce of hope, everything I have left.
The impact jolts through both arms. The door doesn’t even show a scratch.
I raise the cleaver again, putting my whole body behind the blow. The blade bites into the wood, leaving the barest of marks.
“Come on,” I growl, raising the blade again. “Break, you bastard.”
Rowland groans again, weaker this time. Like he’s fading.
“Don’t you dare give up on me!” I scream, bringing the cleaver down again and again.
Chips of wood fly with each blow, but the door holds.
My arms feel like they’re tearing apart at the joints.
Sweat pours down from my brow, stinging my eyes.
I’m half blind, half mad, but driven by determination.
I keep swinging, keep fighting, because the alternative is losing the only person who ever gave a damn about me.
After what feels like hours, I’ve carved a groove in the wood deep enough to fit my fist. Not much, but it’s progress.
It takes another eternity to make an opening big enough to crawl through. By the time I drop the cleaver, my whole body trembles and I can barely stay upright. But I squeeze past the splintered wood into the attic.
The space stretches before me, lit by a single candle that flickers in the draft from my entrance. And there, chained to the far wall, is Rowland.
He hangs from shackles binding his wrists, his head drooping forward so I can’t see his face. Blood covers his chest and arms, and his shirt hangs in tatters around his shoulders.
He looks dead, but his chest rises and falls in shallow breaths.
“Rowland.” I stumble toward him on legs that barely work.
He lifts his head, slow and trembling, like his neck is held together by thread. His black eyes struggle to focus, but when they find mine, something breaks across his battered face.
“Annalisa?”
I rush to him, my knees nearly buckling from the climb. With trembling hands, I assess the damage. Through the blood and bruises and dirt, there’s a gash near his hairline deep enough to make my throat convulse.
He’s conscious. But barely.
“Where else are you hurt?” I ask.
He blinks, trying to focus. “Annalisa, you need to run.”
“I’m not leaving you.” I grab at his chains. The iron is solid and cold, built to hold a man for decades.
“Edward will come for you next,” he wails. “I failed to protect you. He can’t be stopped.”
“I killed him.” The words tumble out between gasps for air. “I locked him in the basement cottage and set it alight. The bastard’s finally dead.”
Rowland’s eyes snap into sharp focus, suddenly alert despite his injuries. “Did you kill him before the fire?”
Something settles in my stomach, colder than dread, heavier than exhaustion. “No, but the door was locked. The fire would have—”
“Edward has survived worse. I’ve seen him crawl out of things that should’ve left him in pieces. He’ll find a way out. And when he does, we’re both dead.”