Corina lay across Sarah's bed, sleeping in lithe disarray. The boy's leather belt, supple as a snake, curled at her fingertips. On the floor, the boy himself lay facedown. Welts crisscrossed his buttocks and back, purple and swollen. Sarah shook her head convulsively. Corina's signature, inherited from her father. Pain begot pain. Tears welled into Sarah's eyes. She herself had used this boy and thanked Corina for arranging it! She burned with shame to remember how she had cast aside all she knew was right without even a regret, all at the behest of a mushroom. And those tableaux of pain had turned out to be all too real. She had watched Corina hurt him without even raising her voice in opposition! What had she become? Or what had the mushroom revealed about her? She stifled a sob with the coverlet. She had asked to join Corina in her pleasures. Would she have hurt this boy and gotten pleasure from it if Corina had not forbidden her? She did not even have Corina's childhood as an excuse! Sarah clenched her eyes shut.
He might be dead. Should she look? She fluttered, immobile as she gathered her courage. In a rush, she knelt and touched his shoulder. Slowly, he turned his head. He was alive, at least. He stared blankly at her. Then she saw pain and fear rise into his expression. He shrank away from her. He had catered to Corina's sick desires for money, but he got more than he bargained for. And he assumed that she was just the same as her friend. Why would he not? Sarah jerked up and went to the wardrobe, dragging the coverlet, heaved all her dresses out, and hauled them into the next room. She swept them into one of Corina's trunks, donned a random dress hastily, and left a note for Aunt Letty feigning an urgent return to Bath due to the illness of an imagined relative. The landlord could send the trunk. She checked her purse. She would hire a chaperone at the consulate.
Only then did she turn back to the boy. He eased himself up onto one hip, wincing. Sarah's heart stuttered. She thought she might faint from guilt and shame. What to do? She couldn't think. The last thing she wanted was to wake Corina. She would tell Signor Brugelli to fetch a doctor to the boy and face the landlord's scorn and anger. Then she would run for the dull respectability of Bath as fast as she could get there.
Sarah stared at her reflection in a muddy pool lapping at the walls of her villa, filled with loathing for herself. She had run from Corina, from all she knew and feared about herself. At first she hated Corina for drawing her into an "adventure" with such consequences. Guilt had haunted her for seven years, for what she had done, for what she might have done if Corina had given her a chance. If she married, her husband would likely despise her after their wedding night. Oh, she would pay. Perhaps that was why she had never really cared that George did not propose. But in the end she couldn't hate Corina. Perhaps knowing how Corina got so twisted made her forgive. Maybe it was that her friend had saved her from even worse things lurking inside her by refusing Sarah's request to join her that night. Or maybe Sarah had a need to overlook Corina's faults. Blinded by the light, she suppressed all knowledge of the dark. She would never know whether she would have joined her, if Corina had allowed it. Sarah only knew she didn't share her incandescent radiance.
The reason memories of Sienna would not be banished now was clear. After all these years, she had not grown wiser, or better. The dark side in her wanted Davinoff, just the way she had wanted that boy. His hand on her arm, the way she felt sitting next to him in the carriage, all excited her unruly body, and revealed those traits she most deplored in herself. Sarah wiped her tears. How could she banish the danger that Davinoff embodied? The cold of the stone seeped into her, the freshening wind off the mouth of the Severn ruffled the hair away from her face as she choked on her sobs. Her eyes darted over the broken bricks and tiles of the villa as her shame seethed.
She sucked in air. The villa's tiles had seen more pain than she ever would, more terrible deeds than she had ever committed. Their sweep of time made little Sarah Ashton's concerns seem unimportant. She breathed out. One went on, after all. She raised her gaze to the abbey. Those stones, too, could tell tales. The world was bigger than Sarah and Corina and Davinoff.
Her body finally moved of its own volition because the stone was cold and she was stiff. She could not change Corina, or Davinoff. She could not change the past, she thought as she trudged back to the Dower House. It was even doubtful she could change herself. But she had to try. She would suppress ruthlessly all those thoughts that were not from her better self. She would embrace the pure, the virtuous, the clean in life and stop running from Corina's affair with Davinoff. Those feelings that made her blush were moot. He belonged to Corina. There had never been any other possible outcome. She would ignore him, should they ever chance to meet. Her resolve almost covered a feeling of despair. It was more than time to go back to Bath.
"I'm bored," Corina said as she leaned against the stone wall of the cellar, peering at the chocolate she held in one hand. Julien could hardly raise his head to look at her. The fog that enveloped his brain made her words vibrate. "What is the point? I'm not even sure you're suffering. I must have imagined you healing so quickly." She paused. "Still, you take more laudanum than I would have thought." She moved closer and peered at him. "And your condition is a problem."
Julien's head lolled against the stone behind him. The healing of his Companion was gone. It was as weak as he without blood. How long had it been? Corina's image wavered before him.
She stood and put one hand on her hip as she finished her chocolate, her face puckered into a frown. "Of course you are mine, body and soul." Tossing the sweets wrapper away she began to pace, complaining to herself as she did. "But what soul does an addict have? You never really submitted. You're so stubborn! It's your fault I've had to punish you." She stared down at her nails, perfectly pared. "Too bad there is nothing left but to let you die." She looked over at him. "You would probably welcome that. And now the drug prevents you from truly submitting to me." It was a pout.
Julien followed her voice with difficulty. "End it," he managed.
Corina seemed to agree, except for details. "Here at Chambroke? What would I do with you? Reece could take you somewhere—out to the downs, or to Black Heath south of Devizes. Even if someone found you, you'd either die or they would have to give you laudanum, in which case you remain a hopeless addict. No one will believe an addict. Still, it just doesn't satisfy, does it?"
Suddenly a thought struck her. "Wait! All is not yet finished. You may submit to me yet." She whirled and raced up the stairs, screaming for Reece.
The butler did not appear with his cup of laudanum at the appointed time. No one appeared at all. The fog in Julien's brain receded to reveal raw nerves that began to nag at him and then to scream. He sweated until he was soaked, while his throat grew parched and swollen. The pain of his wounds, suppressed so long, now was magnified a thousandfold until he longed for Reece's tin cup of surcease. He was in withdrawal. Still, if the drug was reduced enough his Companion might reawaken. He might be able to escape. If the Companion were not too much weakened by lack of blood. If he could focus enough with all his senses shrieking. If he didn't claw his own eyes out because they itched so. He tried to breathe. Sooner or later, someone must come. And that someone might have grown careless, sure he was still stupid and tractable. It was his only chance.
The clank of the door above thundered in his head. Reece came down the stairs, grinning.
Chapter Ten
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Corina's hand shook as she reached for the handle of the storeroom door. They were but a few steps from the stairs to Davinoff's empty cell. The images of Reece, his neck obviously broken, his wrist slashed, his face white with loss of blood, and Davinoff's empty manacles, trembled in her mind. What had he done to Reece? She didn't know. All she knew was that Davinoff had escaped and she was the person he hated most in the world. She'd been a fool to torture him by denying him the drug for the past few days. They had combed the grounds, the house, the outbuildings. Now the only place he could be was here, close to his cell. Corina knew why he might have ret
urned.
"Do not shoot unless our lives are threatened," she whispered to her search party, consisting of Pembly and several of the stable boys, brandishing their guns. She held up the bottle of laudanum. "He needs this, and he knows it." She gathered her courage and turned the knob.
The door creaked open upon darkness. One of the boys raised a lamp. Corina saw Davinoff standing in the dim corner of the storeroom and her stomach began to chum. Shaking, he leaned on some crates for support. Yes, she thought with satisfaction. She had him now. As the light hit him, her glee faded. His eyes were fierce and malevolent. She had forgotten how evil those eyes could be. For a moment her resolve faltered and she almost ordered Pembly to shoot him where he stood. But glancing round, she saw the stunned look on the faces of the stable boys and remembered the questions she did not want to answer. No, just get the laudanum down him and get him back to the cellar. Silence from Pembly and his boys would cost her dearly, but it was still the way.
"Keep calm," she said, feeling anything but. "Nobody moves." She held up the cup and the bottle where the fugitive could see them. "You cannot do without this." She saw his eyes flash and heard what might be a growl. She could feel his frustration, see him weighing his options. "You have no choice," she said softly. Unstopping the bottle and pouring the liquid into the cup, she then set her lamp on one of the crates without taking her eyes off him. She walked forward, the cup brimming. Its contents sloshed onto the storeroom floor. She set the cup down, almost within his reach, and backed away. "Steady, Pembly," she whispered.
Davinoff looked at the cup for a long moment. Finally, his eyes closed for an instant, in resignation it seemed, and he stretched a shaking hand toward it. Yes, my pretty, Corina thought. Your addiction is the most important thing in your life. Take the cup.
He lifted the vessel to trembling lips and downed it at a gulp. Corina was astounded. The whole cup? Had he been getting so much? Surely that would kill him outright. The fool! With the craving in his body, the drug's effect should be swift. "Watch out, Pembly," she whispered. "He will try to get past us as soon as the shaking stops."
Davinoff tossed the cup clattering to the floor. Then, as he calmed, he stood tall, eyes closed, his face raised to the ceiling. When his head came down, the eyes snapped open. They were red and terrible, glowing out of the gloom. Corina gasped and peered into the corner where he was, but there was only darkness melting at the edges into the dim vegetable cellar, indefinite, obscure. Pembly held his lamp higher but Davinoff was not illuminated. He carried his darkness as he had shouldered his cape, swirling around his form. Only his face seemed to glow out of the gloom, punctuated by those terrible red eyes. They were wild and venomous, searing her with menace. He had healed himself, and she had ignored that fact at her peril. He was not human. She might well die at his hands or fall prey to something even worse.
A stable boy at her back let off his fowling piece. It sounded like the world ending in the small space, but it went wide. Pembly seemed stunned. The darkness gathered. Was Davinoff even there? Suddenly, the blackness evaporated and their quarry became clearly visible. A cry escaped him, anguished, terrible, like a cornered animal. He lunged forward. Pembly was caught off-guard. He fired his weapon, but Davinoff pushed the muzzle aside. The other stableboy's fowling piece went off. Blood appeared on Davinoff's temple as the shot grazed him. He tossed Pembly aside. Corina backed to the door. The stable boy lunged in from the side. Davinoff pushed him away, and the boy crashed into the crates.
Now there was nothing between Corina and the man she had tortured and humiliated beyond endurance. She stood rooted to the spot, frozen in horror. Silently he stepped toward her. Another step, slower still. She was riveted by his animal eyes, red with fury.
On the third step, his knee buckled under him and he fell to the floor amid a crash of tumbling boxes and vegetables. Corina stood with her back braced against the doorway, helpless. It was Pembly who finally dragged himself up, panting. Lansing, belatedly, came clattering down the hall. Corina returned to herself with a start, her eyes still fixed on the horror that had lurked here. What was he? she shouted silently. She ignored Lansing's cries and stared at the creature who had very nearly taken her sanity a moment before.
There was no trace of darkness now. The figure heaped at her feet bore no resemblance to a monster. He was as he had been, shirt in rags, breeches dirty and torn, his feet bare. He still bore the marks of her punishment. Corina looked for evil in his handsome face, but there was none. It was peaceful now, remote. The drug had taken him to its bosom once again.
Had she imagined the whole thing? She looked up and saw the stable boys standing, incredulous. Their eyes said they saw what she had seen. But what exactly was that? "Pembly, get them out of here." She couldn't think. Taking Davinoff to the downs was no longer an option. She could not live in a world where he lived and might take his revenge. But she dared not kill him at Chambroke. Could they kill such a monster at all? Only the drug seemed to keep him in check. Corina turned to Lansing, her vision blurring with tears. "Have Pembly get him back to the cellar," she whispered to the maid, "until I can think what to do." Then she hurried up the back stairs before everyone saw her tears.
Sarah got back to Bath during the second week in December. Preparations for Christmas were evident everywhere. Cards galore invited her and Amelia to parties and routs. There was a note from George explaining that he was excessively busy, but promising her a Christmas dinner to remember at his mother's house and reminding her about the ball Lady Beldon was giving on New Year's Eve. Sarah still remembered the last Christmas dinner with Lady Beldon, who had been suffering from gout at the time. Amelia fretted about which invitations to accept. Parties seemed unimportant to Sarah. As a matter of fact, everything did. Mr. Thorpe wrote to postpone mapping her villa. His sister was ill. She did not care.
She made herself go to the hospital with Madame Gessande, since that was surely an act of goodness. It occurred to her, however, that she went as much because she was curious about the methods used at the hospital and for her friends there, as because it was an act of charity. Even in tending the sick her motives were not pure.
In the coach on the way home, Madame was full of commentary on her rounds. Finally she fell silent. "What is wrong, dear?" she asked at last. "You do not seem yourself."
Sarah started from the window where she was watching the winter streets of Bath pass by. "And who else could I be?" She smiled, trying to deflect the question.
Madame looked at her in that penetrating way that made Madame an unusual person and a treasured friend. "Will you tell me about it?"
Sarah thought she could say anything to her, but she was wrong. "Nothing to tell."
Madame looked hurt. "I won't press you, cherie."
Sarah owed her friend more than obfuscation. But she did not know what she would say until she had said it. "I feel I don't belong anywhere." She paused, surprised that it was true.
There was silence for a moment as Madame Gessande digested this. "That would account for it," she finally agreed. "Amelia, Corina, George, Lady Beldon. They are all very different sorts of people than you are. I should say that you will get past it, that you are not the kind to go dead inside and force yourself to become someone who can belong. But that is the real danger. You have it in you, petite, to take all the pain and doubt, all the dreadful knowledge of the world you will accumulate, and turn them into something more."
"What more, Madame?" Sarah asked, unable to keep the pain from her voice.
"Ah, that I cannot say for certain. Not yet," Madame smiled. "I still wait to make that transformation for myself. We are all alchemists, my dear, trying to turn the iron of our lives into gold. I do know this," she continued. "You must never shut yourself off. You must remain open for the alchemy to work. You must always dare, as a child dares, to embrace new things."
Sarah reached out and took her friend's kid-gloved hand in her own. She said nothing, could say nothing. Madame did not k
now about Sienna, or what Sarah had almost become there. New things were too dangerous when you were Sarah Ashton.
"Now, let me distract you with the gossip that is roaring around Bath," Madame continued briskly. "A Bow Street Runner is making inquiries after Davinoff."
"After Davinoff?" Sarah was startled out of her doldrums.
"About those murders in London. Apparently they think he knows something of value. The Runner has been round to nearly everyone with a drawing." Madame looked over expectantly.
"Well, no one knows where he went," Sarah said, adjusting her muff. Inside, her mind raced. She knew that drawing. Was it really of Davinoff? She might be the only one who knew where he was. What was one's duty in such a case?
"I am sure you are right. And the runner is most disreputable. I understand they often recruit fellows who know the criminal class firsthand. He is only received because he supposedly represents justice, though whether that be true, I cannot say. I expect he has already left town."
But Madame was wrong. Late that afternoon, Jasco announced with distaste that a person claiming to be from Bow Street wished to see her. If the butler saw her dismay, he gave no proof of it, and waited impassively for instructions.
"Where is my aunt?" Amelia would faint dead away if there were a runner in the house.
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