by Megan Chance
“Nathan,” she whispered in the creepy hoarse voice she’d used in the parlor. “Nathan, my love.”
He started awake, jerking, turning. “Wha—” and then the word broke into a scream when he saw her, and it was the most godawful sound I’ve ever heard. No man should scream that way. He scrambled away from her so hard he hit the headboard and the whole bed rocked and swayed, and he was still screaming, and in that moment I blew out the lamp and the room fell into darkness filled with that scream.
I ran around to the other side; I felt the brush of her skirt against my leg as we passed each other, and I took her place on the bed and said, as if I’d just woken from sleep, “Nathan! What’s wrong? Nathan!”
I grabbed his shoulder and shook him, and he wrenched away from me so violently I heard the thud of him hitting the floor. Then his scream stopped, thank God, and I knew it would only be a moment before one of the servants rushed up here to see what was wrong and no doubt they were all thinking I was murdering him.
“Ginny,” he gasped. “Ginny—”
“Not Ginny,” I told him, pretending to be irritated. “It’s Bea.”
His breath was rasping and loud. I heard him fumble, then the lamp was lit again, and he stood there naked, staring at me as if he’d never seen me before.
“What is it?” I asked. “What’s wrong?”
He was trembling. His eyes were so big they took up half his face—in the lamplight he almost looked like a ghost himself. He knelt on the bed, reaching out, grabbing my chin hard, turning my face as if trying to find her within it. “I saw her,” he whispered. “She was there. Just where you are.”
“Who?”
“Ginny.” He released me and sat on the edge of the bed, burying his face in his hands. “Dear God. Ginny.”
I heard the clatter of footsteps in the hall outside, an impatient knock, the servant calling, “Mr. Langley? Mr. Langley, are you all right?”
He didn’t raise his head from his hands. “I’m fine, Bonnie. Just a nightmare. Go on. Leave me be.”
She hesitated, and the footsteps left again, almost as hastily as they’d come, and I didn’t blame her for not wanting to be anywhere near what had made that scream.
“It wasn’t a nightmare,” he said to me then. “She was there. Her spirit. I could have touched her. Didn’t you see her? She was where you are now. It was you, and then it was her.…” A little gulp, like a half laugh or a sob. “Dear God, I’m going mad.”
I bit back a smile.
“Dear God,” he whispered, and then over and over again, like a meditation or something, so long it started to worry me, and I wondered if I was hearing that snap in his brain I’d wanted, if his mind had just left him. It was more unsettling than I’d thought.
I glanced at the door, wondering where she was, if she’d left already, if she was close enough to hear my screams if I made them.
I began to ease off the bed. “I should go—”
Nathan twisted fast enough to grab my arm before I could move. “You promised not to leave me. Don’t leave me.”
He looked insane. Whatever was churning in his head wasn’t something I wanted to know. But there was desperation on his face too, and in any case I wasn’t going anywhere as long as he wanted me to stay, because I couldn’t get across the room fast enough to keep him from stopping me, and I was naked besides.
“All right,” I said softly. “I’ll stay.”
He released my wrist, but slowly, as if he were ready to grab me again if I bolted, and then he said, “I wanted to tame her. What was so wrong with that?” He turned completely, one fluid motion, on me before I had time to realize that he’d moved at all. He leaned close, ardent, his breath hot in my face, pressing me back against the mattress. “I think she’s jealous of you. It’s why she’s here, I know it. She was always so jealous.”
He smiled, but his teeth glinted in the lamplight, very white, bared like an animal’s. Once again, I thought I heard the snap. I saw something deep in his eyes, the seed of the madness we’d planted there, and I was suddenly afraid. I remembered his scream, the way it had sounded. I had been a fool to push him. I should not be here with him.
“But I’ll protect you from her, Bea. I promise I’ll protect you,” he said, and then once again, chanting it, and I was reminded of the scene in Macbeth with the witches, and something wicked this way comes and what will you do to escape him now? In the lamplight it was easy to imagine him the monster he was. His hands tightened on my shoulders, and he was on top of me, and his arms wrapped around me as if he meant me to be a balm against the fear I saw in his eyes, and in pure defense, hoping it would make him stop, I said,
“Her spirit might be here even now, Nathan, watching us.”
And then I wished I’d never said anything at all.
Chapter Thirty-five
Geneva
The night was well advanced, the moon already falling, as I made my slow way home. The streets were quiet and dark, the shadows of the wooded lots I passed seemed to eke onto the road, stretching out their long fingers. I looked at them and laughed, imagining they withdrew again when they realized they could not touch me.
The excitement of tonight beat its pulse beneath my skin; I remembered Nathan’s fear and his scream, and I thought soon. I would be free soon, but my excitement came from more than that. Acting the part of my own spirit, watching him believe, I’d felt different. Not Ginny Langley but some other, more powerful yet still in some way me, as if everything I was had been distilled to some essence that was also bigger than myself.
As I approached the tent city—dark now, with the canvas shelters subtly glimmering with reflected moonlight—I did not think I would be able to sleep. There was no one about so late. Only one tent showed any signs of life, the one I knew was Sebastian DeWitt’s, but the light was dim, as if his lamp were sputtering out. I could see no movement within, but it reminded me of what was at stake, what she’d said about his asking questions, and although the rest of the camp felt as if it were in the grip of a fairy tale, a sleeping spell, I crept as carefully to my tent as if it were midday. Neither of us could afford discovery now.
I pushed aside the lowered flaps and went inside. Once there, I sat upon the bedroll and took from my pocket one of the apples I’d stolen from my own pantry, biting into its sweet flesh, though my appetite—for once—had been sated by a hearty beef soup and potatoes withered in their jackets and shiny with butter, three gooseberry tarts I’d eaten while waiting for my turn to appear to my husband.
As a spirit. I laughed out loud—too loud. I covered my mouth with my hand to muffle it.
How addictive this was, how I could not wait to have my life again. And this time, it would be as I wanted it. No half measures. When Nathan was gone, I would not settle for little pieces—no, never again.
I woke at a sound, a little cry, and opened my eyes to see Bea standing there. Two thoughts chased themselves before I was fully awake. One, that she was here in this tent instead of with Sebastian DeWitt, and two, that she was white-faced with pain.
I came fully awake and sat up. “Bea?”
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I didn’t mean to wake you.”
“What’s wrong?”
“There’s nothing wrong. Go back to sleep. It’s early. I thought … if you wouldn’t mind, I might sleep here for an hour or so before rehearsal. Did you get something to eat last night?”
I pushed back the blanket and rose. “Something’s wrong; I can see it.” I grabbed her shoulder, forcing her to face me, and she gasped as if my touch hurt her. “Why are you hurt?”
“Ginny, it’s fine. It was worth it. Nathan’s nearly—”
“You mean Nathan did this?”
A grimace. “Of course he did. Who else?”
Grimly, I demanded, “Show me.”
Obediently she undid the buttons at her bodice and held out her arm. “Can you pull the sleeve, please?”
I did, taking the bodice from her, l
etting it fall to the floor when I saw the bruises on her arms where he’d grabbed and held her. She turned for me to undo the skirt, and when I did, and it crumpled to her feet, she lifted her chemise to show me a huge bruise, nearly black, that stretched from her hip to just below her ribs, curling a little to her back.
I lifted my gaze to hers. “Dear God. He’s always had a temper, but this … how did he manage this?”
“I said something I shouldn’t have,” she said steadily, meeting my eyes without flinching. “He threw me against the dresser.”
I stepped back, dismayed past bearing. “He’s never hurt me. Never.”
“He’s not himself. I told you that.”
“There must be another way, one where you needn’t get so close.”
She sighed and let her chemise fall. “It’s all right. It hurt worse the time I fell from the mountain path in Mazeppa. And this will be over soon enough. I can bear anything until then.”
“Bea—”
“I mean it. All this—” She gestured to her bruises. “He didn’t know what he was doing. I tell you, he wasn’t there. I don’t even think he knew me. It will only take one more turn, I think.”
“One more turn?”
“Like winding a watch,” she said. “If you wind it too tight, it snaps. Nathan’s wound very tight.”
“I don’t know if you can afford another turn. Look at you! You can’t go to rehearsal like this.”
She made a face. “I have to. We’ve the show in two days.”
“You can hardly move.”
“It will be worse tomorrow. At least he didn’t hit my face. No one will even know.” She hesitated. “But … this makes things difficult. There’s Sebastian.”
“He’ll never allow you to go back to Nathan when he discovers this.”
She made a little laugh, and then caught her breath at the pain. “He didn’t want me to go back to Nathan anyway. I can’t keep this from him if I’m sharing his tent.”
“What will you do?”
“The only thing I can do. I’ll have to … leave him. For now.”
I felt a little moment of panic, as if it were somehow me leaving him. “He’s not going to let you go so easily.”
“I doubt it will be so difficult as you think.” She closed her eyes. “God, I’m tired. I’d be glad of a rest from Nathan today. It’s going to be all I can do to face Sebastian as it is.”
“Then don’t worry about Nathan. I’ve nothing to do while you’re at rehearsal. Do you know where he means to be? I could appear to him.”
She grabbed my arm so quickly and unexpectedly I let out a cry. “No! I don’t want you near him! Do you hear me? You mustn’t go near him!”
I stared at her in confusion.
“Last night, when he did this … it was you, not me, Ginny. He thought I was you. I think—Christ, it sounds like a mellie, I know, but I think he would kill you if he could.”
“Nathan?”
“Promise you won’t appear to him without me. Promise me.”
“You sound so worried.”
The concern I thought I’d seen in her dark eyes faded. Brutally, she said, “If he kills you, this whole plan fails, and where the hell would I be then?”
Not concern, at least not for me. I was surprised at the disappointment I felt over it, by my sudden realization that I wanted her to be worried for me, that I wanted her to care. Who else did, after all?
“As you wish,” I told her, stepping away. “I would hate to do anything to jeopardize our plan.”
She gave me a careful look, as if she didn’t quite believe me. “See that you don’t.”
Beatrice
Sebastian was gone already, so I was left to walk to the relief tent and rehearsal alone. I guessed he still hadn’t decided what he meant to do with me, and that was fine. If he was distant today, it meant I could be distant back, though the thought of it left a tight little knot in my stomach that drove my hunger away, and I hurt too much to eat in any case.
Ginny didn’t want me to go, but I wanted to be away from her too. I wanted some time to think about everything: last night with Nathan and what I’d seen in his eyes and how much it frightened me; what Sebastian had said to me and how it made what I meant to do so much easier.
I made my way to rehearsal, walking slowly because it hurt like hell to move, and that was going to be a pretty thing to explain to the others when I was hobbling across the stage. When I’d left Nathan that morning, he’d been sleeping, but restlessly. Last night I’d seen something that looked like murder in his eyes—or as near to it as I’d ever seen except those nights onstage when Aloysius was in good form. I hadn’t lied to Ginny—I was afraid that if Nathan ever laid hands upon her “spirit,” he would try to choke the life out of it for good. And it frightened me enough that I’d thought again about ending this.
But every time I did, I also remembered that when it was over, she would be free, and so would I.
And that was the rub, wasn’t it? Because I knew how close we were, and that meant my future was about to change, and there was Sebastian DeWitt to consider, with his strange eyes and the stranger fact that I’d fallen in love with him. But some things you just couldn’t have, and for now, he had to be one of them.
I felt like one big bruise, not just my body, but my emotions too, but by the time I went into the Phoenix, I didn’t think anyone would have suspected I was hurt in any way at all.
The others were already onstage. Lucius and Mr. Geary watched from the makeshift benches; Sebastian was bent over the crate table. Lucius, who was sitting angled sideways, spotted me first. “Ah, there she is! You’re late, my sweet. That’s a two-dollar fine.”
There was no point in arguing it. I had no excuse but for the one I couldn’t tell them, so instead I just went to the stage. Sebastian looked over his shoulder at me, and just that one glance sent me into such confusion—desire and love and fear all tied up together—that I had to look away. And then I was mired in rehearsal, and I had to concentrate so hard on remembering my lines despite the pain that jarred up into my chest with every motion that I had no more time to think of what we would say to each other.
When the rehearsal was over, Lucius said, “Two more nights, my children, and then it’s opening night at the Phoenix!” and we all clapped like dutiful little servants and I didn’t feel the excitement I usually felt at the thought of opening night—and my first one as lead besides. As the others left, I stepped gingerly off the stage, slowly enough that Sebastian, who was gathering up his papers, could ignore me and hurry off if he liked. I was happy to play the coward today, even though there had to be a reckoning before evening.
But, of course, because I wanted him to flee, he waited. He buckled his leather bag and slung it over his shoulder and stood there watching me come toward him, and it was all I could do to straighten my shoulders and keep from clenching my teeth in pain.
When I got close enough to speak, he asked nastily, “Too busy with schemes this morning to be on time?”
My temper flared. “Go to hell.”
“I’m already there,” he said—which was such a fucking writerlike thing to say that I laughed out loud—and then regretted it for the pain.
But I don’t think he saw it. I managed to say, “How clever. You must write mellies.”
“It feels lately as if I’ve been living one.” He sighed and gave me a wary look. “Let’s go.”
“I thought you were angry with me,” I needled.
“I am. But I’m willing to try to understand.”
And, you know, that would have been enough any other time. It was still more than I deserved, and don’t think I didn’t know that. I wanted to let him take me into his arms and back to the tent we shared. But then I thought of what he would see when he undressed me, and so I pushed past him and said, “That’s not good enough, Bastian.”
“Bea—”
He had taken my arm to slow me, a gentle touch, but it hurt so I had to work to ke
ep from crying out in pain. I jerked away. “Don’t touch me.”
He frowned. “What is it? What’s wrong?”
“I’ll be getting my own tent this afternoon.”
He went still. “You don’t mean that. You can’t mean it.”
“Believe me, I do.”
He looked so damned confused that I hated it. He glanced around—only Lucius and Mr. Geary remained, but Lucius was watching like a vulture while pretending not to. Sebastian bent close, whispering in my ear, “What are you so afraid of?”
“I’m not afraid.”
“Then why are you running away from me?”
“Because you don’t trust me.”
“Then show me I can. I want to believe you, Bea. Explain things to me.”
“There’s nothing to explain.”
He let out his breath in exasperation. “I know you’re lying to me. I know it. What I don’t understand is why.”
I made myself think of Ginny. Of money. I made myself think of my own company. The future we’d planned. I made my voice as even as I could. “I think it’s best if we—”
“Don’t say it.”
“—if we part. Until things settle.”
His gaze riveted to mine. “Until things settle? What things?”
“I don’t know, Sebastian. Please. Just … let me go. This has all been so … so much. I need some time.”
They were the hardest damn words I’d ever said, and he did nothing to make it easier. He just looked at me in that way he had—as if I was suddenly illuminated to him.
“Very well,” he said quietly. “You want time. I can give you that.”
I didn’t know what to say. I’d expected more of an argument. Once again, he’d managed to disconcert me. And when he looked away, I felt as terrible as I’d ever felt, and yet relieved too, that he was letting it be so easy.
But then he turned back to me again, taking my chin, tilting my face up so he could kiss me, and it was soft and lovely, like the first kiss we’d shared, and I thought of my room and the whiskey and the apricots and suddenly the taste of them was strong in my mouth and I couldn’t bear it.