by Kat Ross
“Perhaps we should return now?” Brother Florin asked behind her.
“Soon.” She pressed on, eyes scanning the walls and floor for any signs of dried blood.
Something nagged at her. If Brother Karol had only come at the end of the summer, how had he known about the hidden passages? She supposed it was possible he’d discovered them on his own, but more likely someone told him. Except that Brother Florin said they were never used anymore.
Then the corridor widened and reached a dead end. A secret chamber, empty save for the scuff of footprints in the dust.
“I suspect this is the room where Prince Michael hid himself during the wars of the mid-seventeenth century,” Brother Florin said behind her. “The monastery was besieged and sacked, though thank the Saints they didn’t try to burn the church.”
Vivienne raised the candle high. There was a tiny window high up in the wall that allowed some air and light, but no sign that the chamber had been used for nefarious purposes. She was about to concede defeat when she saw something glinting in the dust. Florin had turned back to peer into the passage. She strode forward and bent down to pick it up. When she stood, he was watching her with a strange expression.
“Did you find something?”
The thin gold chain dug into her palm as she closed her fist.
“No.”
“I thought I saw you pick something up.”
“Brother Florin, I’d like to go back now,” she said evenly.
“Of course, of course.” He turned toward the passageway. She saw his shoulders stiffen. The candle fell to the ground and rolled away, guttering out in the darkness of the passage.
“Forgive me,” Florin mumbled, crouching down and groping for the candle. “I sometimes get the palsy in my hands.”
She thought of his quill scratching against the parchment, hour after hour without pause.
Vivienne drew the iron blade from her bodice, her own candle casting a wavering pool of light.
“Brother Florin, I’d like you to turn around and face me now,” she said firmly.
He half turned to her, but his features were cloaked in shadow.
“Is something the matter?”
The hair on her neck stood straight up. His voice was perfectly normal, but every instinct screamed at her that something fundamental was changing, slipping away….
Vivienne took a step back, putting more distance between them. “I have a knife and I won’t hesitate to use it,” she said coldly. “Now, I want you to go over to that window and stand with your back against the wall.”
He raised his hands, which were not shaking at all.
“I think there’s a misunderstanding, Lady Cumberland—”
“There’s no misunderstanding. Go!”
He turned and walked past her. Every nerve ending tingled, but Florin did as she ordered.
“Now turn and look at me, please.”
He spun around, his eyes throwing back the candlelight.
And Vivienne heard Father Gavra’s voice.
“Lady Cumberland, are you in there? I see a light.”
Candles were moving down the passage.
“Stay back,” Vivienne warned in a loud voice, her eyes locked on Florin. “It’s not safe. Get help, Father, quickly!”
Florin simply stood and watched her, his face blank as stone.
The footsteps halted and she heard a low argument in the passage. Then Father Gavra appeared, his face pale against his dark robes. Brother Constantin hovered behind him.
“You should have gone with Lord Cumberland,” the abbot said, and his accent sounded different to her now. Softer. “I gave you a fair chance.”
Vivienne exhaled softly. So that’s how it was. Well, so be it.
She held up the gold chain, her own face grim. It had been a birthday present from Alec. “Where’s Anne?”
“Safe.”
Vivienne bit back a sob of fury. “Liar.”
His brown eyes flashed with sudden anger. “I wouldn’t lie about that.”
“You lied about everything else!”
“Not everything. I did go to Oxford divinity school.” He studied her. “Where’s your bonded?”
The words gave her a chill.
“Go to hell.”
He rubbed his eyes, and for a moment, she saw the weary young abbot, trying so hard to shepherd his flock through peril.
Vivienne heard more footsteps and backed deeper into the room, trying to keep them all in view. Constantin stepped aside and made room for Brother Karol. He looked entirely recovered, just another fresh-faced novice.
Father Gavra glanced at him.
“There are men coming up the road from Mara Vardac,” Karol said. “With shotguns.”
“Merde.” A deep sigh. “Ah well, we tried, didn’t we?”
Suddenly, Vivienne felt … strange. She reached for the wall, but it seemed too far away.
“Are you all pricolici?” Her tongue was thick and heavy.
Father Gavra ignored this question. He walked toward her and she shrank back, but he only slipped an arm around her waist, easing her down to the floor. Vivienne gave a slow blink and gazed at her hand. The knife was gone. She didn’t even remember dropping it.
“Did he send you here?” Gavra demanded. “Where is he?”
She wordlessly shook her head. It was like a horrible dream.
“I put too much,” he muttered.
“It’s time we leave this place.” Through the fog, she recognized the harsh voice of Constantin. “I told you we should have gone yesterday after—”
“Not now.” The words were spoken quietly, but Constantin cut off.
Father Gavra seemed lost in thought. He had the look of a man who was calculating something. Then he gave a small, terrifying smile.
Vivienne slumped back. She felt pressure on her wrist, the one with the cuff, and she wanted to scream in revulsion, but her voice wouldn’t come.
A whisper in her ear. “Tell your bonded D’Ange sends his regards.”
10
The wind moaned like a banshee as the party from Mara Vardac galloped up to the gates of Saint George’s. They were locked tight.
“How will we pass through?” Father Cernat shouted.
“We must pray they aren’t all pricolici,” Nathaniel shouted back. “If the brothers know help has come….” He pulled out his revolver and fired two shots into the air.
They waited, huddled against the heavy buttress, and then torches appeared, moving across the cloister. He recognized Brother Grigori, the monk who had greeted them before, along with two others. Grigori lifted the heavy crossbar and the gates swung wide.
Nathaniel slid from the saddle, one hand gripping the reins in a frozen claw. Within the walls, the wind had died some and he could see unbroken snow covering the cloister except for the footprints of the men who had just let them in.
“Where are they?” he demanded.
The brothers glanced at each other but said nothing.
“Forget your blasted vows of silence,” Nathaniel roared. “Where’s my wife?”
One pointed back at the refectory.
“And Karol? The pricolici?” Cristian’s eyes shone with fury.
“He was in the infirmary,” Nathaniel replied. “Follow me!”
He swung back into the saddle and they galloped across the yard. The monastery was dark, with no sign of anyone about. Cristian burst through the infirmary door first, his cousins on his heels, all of them with shotguns ready in their hands, and Nathaniel heard a wordless shout of anger. He pushed inside. The room was empty, Brother Karol gone, his ropes frayed.
The father of the dead children muttered something in Magyar and then a shadow skittered through the torchlight at the edge of the room.
It was only a rat, but the men were wound tight as bowstrings.
Nathaniel heard the thunder of shotguns firing, the flashes blinding inside the chamber. He felt a sudden agony in his leg that knocked him back against
the wall.
“Stop!” he shouted. “For God’s sake, it was a bloody rat!”
The guns quieted, the stink of powder heavy in the air.
Nathaniel sank down against the wall, praying they hadn’t come too late.
Gunshots shattered the haze. Then a long silence. She dreamt of Alec, dreamt he was trying to scream her name but no sound came out….
“Vivienne!”
Her eyes cracked open.
The voice was muffled by stone, but she recognized it now.
Nathaniel.
My dear Nathaniel.
“Vivienne!”
She pressed chilled fingers against the wall. Whatever was in the brandy seemed to be wearing off, though she still felt awful.
Her first effort was a sad croak. How dry her mouth was, like she’d been chewing cotton. Vivienne coughed and tried again.
“Nathaniel…. Nathaniel!”
This time he seemed to hear her.
“Where are you? I can’t….” The rest was lost.
She gathered her strength and tried to stand. Failed. “There’s a secret door in the pantry. It leads to a passage!”
A long pause. She’d almost given up hope when she caught a faint reply.
“I’ve been shot, darling, but I’ll send someone straight over.”
Long minutes passed and then she saw candles coming down the narrow passage. It was the innkeeper’s son and Father Cernat. Andrei helped her to stand and they led her, stumbling, through endless twists and turns and finally out into the cold air of the cloister. The storm had eased and a few stars winked down as Vivienne emptied her stomach in the snow.
Father Cernat brought her a cup of water and she drank deeply.
“Did you pass anyone on the road?” she asked, feeling some strength return.
He shook his head. “And the gates were sealed behind us. No one has left.”
Relief flooded her. “They must still be here then. We’ll mount a search.”
She felt like death warmed over, but it didn’t stop her from enlisting Cristian and his brothers to comb every cell of the monastery, every outbuilding down to the chicken coops. But the men who had drugged her were gone without a trace.
Vivienne found Nathaniel in the infirmary. He lay on one of the beds, his leg resting on a pillow and a tightness around his eyes. They warmed with relief when she ran to him and took his hand.
“Who shot you?”
“It was an accident.” He looked her over. “Thank God they didn’t harm you. When I discovered the truth, I was so afraid, Vivienne.”
She gave him a reassuring smile. “I’m fine. A little woozy, that’s all.”
And then she told him all that had happened in the secret chamber — or almost all.
“But why did Karol attack the false abbot if they were all pricolici?” he asked weakly.
She could see Nathaniel was exhausted and in a great deal of pain.
“I’m not sure yet. At first I thought he wanted us to leave, but then….” She trailed off.
The door opened and Father Cernat entered, a queer look on his face. “I just spoke to Father Nicolae.”
“He’s unharmed?”
“Perfectly so. And he denies knowing anything about the men you describe.”
Vivienne felt a flash of rage and tried to bridle her temper. “Please explain to me how that can be possible. We were here for two full days.”
Cernat shrugged, though there was something in his eyes. “He did admit that the brothers buried in the cemetery were also killed by the pricolici some months ago.” A cough. “Father Nicolae claims it was the man named Adrian.”
She frowned. “The one lying dead in the infirmary?”
“That one, yes.”
None of it made sense.
“What about the other monks? We have to question them—”
He shook his head. “They will not break their vows.”
Vivienne swore softly. “I want to see Father Nicolae,” she said. “Right now.”
The old abbot was in his study, hands folded serenely, as if he had been waiting for her to come.
“May I sit?”
He made a small gesture at the chair.
Vivienne sank down, her back straight. “You know who they are.” It was not a question.
“What is it you want?” he asked mildly.
“I want their names. Everything you know about them.”
He leaned back with a sigh. “And if I told you? What would you do with the knowledge?”
“Find them.”
He shook his head. “That would not be wise.”
Vivienne wanted to seize him by his long white beard and shake him like a terrier with a rat. She clasped her hands to keep them from trembling. “Why not?” she asked tightly.
“Those men were not sent by the Devil.” The abbot sighed. “Go back to London, Lady Cumberland.”
“And the poor children’s father?” she said with a scorn she could no longer conceal. “What will you tell him?”
“I’ve already spoken with him. He knows that justice has been done.”
The abbot raised a finger and a brother appeared in the doorway.
“Please escort Lady Cumberland to the guest house,” the abbot said. “Our interview is concluded.”
Vivienne rose and strode to the door. She spun back and stared at him.
“If not by the Devil, then by whom, Father?”
He gave her only a gentle smile.
Vivienne refused to be packed off to the guest house, curling up in a chair in the infirmary as Nathaniel slipped into a fitful doze. When she heard his breath deepen to sleep, she finally broke down, sobbing as though her heart would break.
Alec, she thought. Oh, Alec. What have I done?
Outside, the blizzard was howling again.
Part II
“The Prince of Darkness is a gentleman.”
–King Lear
11
Anne watched the light bleed from the sky. From atop the tower, she could see an expanse of pewter water on one side, dense old-growth forest on the other. Waves beat against a shingled beach far below. It was a spectacular view, framed by sheer white cliffs that looked as if they’d been sliced off with a sharp knife.
Anne barely noticed.
The sun slid below the horizon. Time slowed as the world teetered on the cusp between night and day.
Not long now, she thought.
The first stars appeared in the east. The wind picked up, skirling around the walls and dragging cold fingers through her hair. Anne stood immobile as a statue, her eyes fixed on the tiny stretch of road visible from the tower. It cut through the forest and was hidden by the trees except for a single bend a quarter mile away where the road topped a rise.
The dusk thickened. The moon began to rise. Anne watched, not daring to blink.
And then….
A mounted figure sped around the bend. It leaned low over the horse, a dark cloak unfurling behind, there and gone in a heartbeat.
Anne stepped back from the waist-high crenellated wall and ran down a winding flight of stairs to the chamber below. It had a mullioned window with two missing panes. A moth-nibbled rug covered the floor. The western side of the ceiling leaked and she had dragged the bed to the opposite wall so it wouldn’t drip on her when it rained.
A cloudy standing mirror caught the outlines of her reflection as she passed, a young woman with reddish-brown hair and hazel eyes that seemed to stare straight through you. A cameo with an ivory rose dangled from the velvet band around her neck. It was a delicate thing. Anne couldn’t be certain what it was made of because if she touched the rose with the intention of removing it, she fell into a deep and dreamless sleep.
For the first two weeks of her captivity, she had learned this lesson again and again. She’d tried reciting pi to fifty places and allowing her hand to act of its own accord, creeping toward the talisman like a cat stalking a mouse. Tried loud singing and quiet meditation
. Each time, she would wake in her bed with no memory of touching it and no idea how much time had passed.
Days, perhaps.
It irritated her that she woke in her bed rather than on the cold stone floor. It meant someone had put her there.
The man on horseback.
Without the wretched cameo, Anne would have torn the tower down to its foundations and strode off in search of the nearest train station, but the talisman blocked her power and left her weak as a mortal. Oh, she’d managed to push the heavy bed across the room so she wouldn’t be rained on, but the task made her grunt and sweat.
Finally, Anne had conceded defeat and tried to climb to freedom. The tower was smooth stone, but the privy adjacent to her bedroom had a small window that led to a narrow ledge, which in turn followed the peak of a roof to a second square tower. Her captor was no fool, however, and exploration revealed that those windows were locked and shuttered from the inside.
Jumping was out of the question, she’d dash her brains out on the courtyard far below. So she’d torn up the old-fashioned gowns he left her and used the strips to make a rope, but it wasn’t long enough. She’d still break both legs, maybe worse.
At last, Anne decided her only chance was to discover what her captor wanted and to outwit him. The problem was that he refused to show himself.
He came to the tower every day. She could hear his stealthy movements as he laid the dining table in the evening. Anne knew it was a he because she could smell traces of him when she entered the room afterwards — his starched linen shirt, the polished leather of his boots, and beneath that, a faint animal musk, not exactly unpleasant but not normal, either.
Pricolici.
Her own stupidity had delivered her into his hands like a motherless lamb. Just thinking about it made Anne want to murder someone, preferably him.
Tonight she aimed to seize her chance.
One more curve of the stairs and she stood before a wooden door so ancient it was nearly black. On the other side was a makeshift dining room, the last chamber she had access to — when her captor permitted it. It had a table and four chairs and a sideboard on which he would leave lit candles in the evening, though never on the dining table itself.