Reckless II

by Cornelia Funke

  No. First she had to find the fur dress.

  She could still feel Troisclerq’s hand on her arm. So gentle. So warm. What had he been thinking? That he could seduce her with a big house and a new dress? Had she returned his smile too readily, laughed at his jokes too often? Laughing had been so easy with him. His glance had let her know how beautiful she was. Did he try to kiss her? Yes. The images were coming back to her like the memories of a stranger. He had kissed her. On the train. In the carriage. What have you done, Fox?

  So many doors.

  She tried to open them, but they were all locked. The portraits hanging between the doors all showed women.

  The corridor led to a staircase. Fox thought she could remember it. She was just about to go down, when a servant came up the white steps toward her. It was the same one who’d opened the iron gate. He was so tall that he kept his head bowed between his broad shoulders.

  The room she’d woken up in… the dress… the portraits… the servant in his black velvet coat. It was as though she was lost in one of the games she’d played for hours as a child in the woods.

  “Where is your master?”

  The servant just silently took her arm. His hands were covered in dull brown fur. Lotharaine was full of stories of noblemen who kept enchanted animals as servants, for they were more loyal than any human.

  The house was huge, but they met no one. The door at which the servant finally stopped was made from dark wood; the same wood lined the walls of the dining room the servant waved Fox into. Red lace curtains caught the evening light coming through the windows.

  “Welcome to my home.” Troisclerq was sitting at the end of a long table. It was the first time Fox saw him unshaved. The skin around his mouth and chin had a bluish hue.

  Breathe, Fox. In and out. As the vixen does when death is staring at her.

  Bluebeard.

  There were at last a dozen plates on each side of the table. They always laid their table for the number of their victims.

  Troisclerq smiled at her. He was wearing an immaculate white shirt, as usual. Even during their endless coach journey, he’d always been dressed as though he traveled with a manservant.

  “Do sit down.” He waved at a chair to his left. “The dress looks nice on you.”

  The servant pulled out the chair for Fox. As she sat down in front of her empty plate, she thought she could sense the presence of all the dead girls who’d sat before her on these black velvet chairs. She tried to remember the faces that had looked at her from the portraits.

  Breathe, Fox. In and out.

  She had to find her fur dress. She couldn’t leave without the dress. Troisclerq took her hand. He kissed her fingers gently, as though his lips had never touched anything more beautiful.

  “I usually give my female guests the keys to all the doors in my house, and I ask them not to use one particular key. It’s an old tradition in my clan. You may have heard about it?” He put the key ring on the table. All the keys were all silver-plated except one. That one was somewhat smaller than the others, and its head was golden and shaped like a flower.

  “Yes,” said Fox. “Yes, I’ve heard about it.”

  “Good.” Troisclerq pushed the bunch of keys next to her plate. “Not that you’d need the keys to find out what’s behind each door. The vixen would smell it anyway.”

  Of course. He’d seen the fur dress. Fox tried not to wonder whether it was he who’d taken it off her. She closed her hand around the key ring as if that could prove she wasn’t afraid. The servant poured her a glass of wine. The wine was so red, it looked as though he was filling her glass with blood.

  “This time you caught the wrong girl.”

  She sensed the strange dress on her skin. Done up for the portrait on his wall, Fox.

  “Really? And why is that?”

  The servant filled her plate. Duck. Baked potatoes. She realized how hungry she was.

  “I’ve never been afraid of death.” Fox looked Troisclerq straight in the eyes so he could see she was telling the truth. Those dark eyes with the shadows that should have warned her. But you liked how he looked at you, Fox. You liked how he kept reaching for your arm or touching your shoulder as if by accident. All the things Jacob was avoiding more carefully these days. She carried her longing for him like a secret beneath her skin, but maybe Troisclerq had sensed it, as he’d sensed the dress beneath her clothes, like a trail of blood in the woods, though his hunger was of a different kind. So what? Whatever it was that had attracted him to her, she would know how to die. The vixen had taught her. She lived with death, both as the hunter and the hunted.

  “The wrong girl? Oh no.” Troisclerq was as soft as moss in the woods. “Don’t fret. I always select my prey carefully. It’s what has kept me alive for nearly three hundred years.” He nodded at his servant. “You will give me what I want. Like all the others. And even more so.”

  The servant placed a pitcher on the table. The evening light glistened through the crystal like splinters of a dying day.

  Troisclerq got up and stroked Fox’s naked shoulder. “Fear has many colors, did you know that? White is the most nourishing kind, the fear of death. For most, it is their own death they fear more than anything. But I knew right away that you are different. And that made the hunt even more enticing.” Troisclerq scattered a handful of withered flowers on the table. “I left a very clear trail. I’m sure he’s already on his way. Wouldn’t you think so?”

  Jacob.

  No. Fox would forget his name, so Troisclerq could never find it in her heart. She felt her fear choking her.

  A few white drops materialized at the bottom of the pitcher.

  Troisclerq gently stroked her cheek. “The labyrinth that surrounds my house,” he whispered, “will let only me pass. Everybody else gets hopelessly lost. They forget who they are, forget why they came, and they just wander aimlessly between the hedges until they starve to death. They end up eating poisonous leaves and licking dew off the gravel.”

  Fox splashed her wine into his face. She gripped the glass so tightly that it shattered in her hand. The wine turned Troisclerq’s shirt red, as red as the blood that now trickled down Fox’s fingers. Troisclerq offered her his napkin.

  “He loves you, too, you know. Even though he tries hard not to notice it.” No voice could have sounded more tender. He pushed back his chair. “From here you have a good view of the labyrinth. If a swarm of pigeons rises from it, that means he’s caught in it. I’m not expecting any other guests apart from Jacob.”

  The floor of the carafe was now covered with a milky white puddle.

  Troisclerq walked down the long table. Past the empty plates. Before he closed the door, he said to her, “It may be a consolation to you that the fear will kill you as well. Love is a deadly affair.”

  She wanted to bite his throat. Choke his velveteen voice with blood. But the vixen was as lost as Celeste.

  41

  THE HUNTER’S TERRITORY

  As soon as they entered Champlitte, Jacob knew they’d found the right place. Many of the houses were freshly painted, and the evening streets were glowing under gaslights—a luxury usually found only in the largest cities behind the mirror. Bluebeards made good neighbors. They never hunted where they lived, and they gave money for roads, churches, and schools. The silence thus purchased was their best protection. Jacob was sure many eyes were following him and Donnersmarck from behind the curtains of Champlitte.

  Most Bluebeards lived in remote country houses surrounded by sweeping landholdings. There was only one house nearby that fitted that description. It lay to the south of the town. Jacob turned his horse northward, so none of the good citizens would deem it necessary to notify Troisclerq of their arrival.

  They left their horses in a little wood. Even wolves would leave Devil-Horses alone, and
Jacob had replaced their reins with chains to keep them from freeing themselves. His stallion had actually befriended him and snapped amicably at his hand as Jacob pulled the backpack from his saddle.

  The evening smelled of blooming trees and freshly plowed fields. Everything around them seemed peaceful, a sleepy paradise. But they didn’t have to walk long before they came upon a sycamore-lined avenue where a carriage had left deep tracks in the wet gravel. A little later, an iron gate appeared between the trees.

  The deceptive peacefulness, the locked gate… even the avenue had looked similar when they’d been looking for Donnersmarck’s sister. They’d come too late then. Not this time, Jacob.

  He could have thrown up with fear. He’d lost count of how often during that endless ride he’d caught himself looking around for Fox. Or thinking he could hear her breathing next to him in his sleep.

  “What’s the greatest treasure you ever found?” Chanute had asked him not too long ago. Jacob had shrugged and named a few objects. “You’re an even greater fool than I,” Chanute had growled. “I just hope you won’t have lost it by the time the answer dawns on you.”

  The gate was covered with iron flowers. Donnersmarck silently pulled a key from his pocket. Jacob had once owned one just like it, but he’d lost it, together with too many other things, in the fortress of the Goyl. A key that opened any lock… some worked only in the country where they were forged, but this one worked fine here. The gate swung open as soon as Donnersmarck pushed it into the lock.

  A coach house, stables, a wide driveway between dripping-wet trees, and at its end the house they’d seen from a distance. It was surrounded by evergreen hedgerows.

  The labyrinth of the other Bluebeard had been dead and wilted because he’d already escaped. Jacob and Donnersmarck had hacked their way through it with their sabers. This labyrinth, however, was still alive. Good, Jacob. That means he’s still here. The hedgerows rustled as the pair approached, as though the evergreen branches wanted to warn the murderer they were shielding. Troisclerq. This time he had a name and a familiar face. All the evenings they spent together in coach stations, drunk together, exchanged stories about the jealousy of Fairies and merchants’ daughters, about duels lost and won, good blacksmiths and bad tailors. And he saved your life, Jacob.

  He wanted to kill Troisclerq. He’d never wanted anything as badly.

  A flock of pigeons fluttered up from the hedgerows. Jacob looked after them with apprehension. What if Troisclerq killed Fox as soon as he noticed him and Donnersmarck? Stop it, Jacob. She’s still alive.

  He repeated it to himself over and over. She’s still alive. He’d go crazy if he allowed himself to think anything else.

  I’m sure we’ll meet again.

  He was going to kill Troisclerq.

  42

  WHITE

  Pigeons. Their feathers as white as her fear. Their wings writing it across the evening sky.

  Fox pressed her hands against the window. She whispered Jacob’s name, as though her voice could guide him through the Bluebeard’s labyrinth. He had freed her from a trap before, but back then she’d been the prey. Now she was the bait.

  She was so happy that Jacob had come.

  She wished so badly that he’d never found her.

  Behind her, between the empty plates, the carafe was filling with her fear.

  43

  LOST

  Jacob wished he had a ball of untearable yarn, or one that could find the way on its own if he placed it on the graveled path that disappeared into the hedgerows ahead. But Donnersmarck had searched the Chambers of Miracles in vain for such an item. The yarn Jacob was now tying to a bush at the entrance of the labyrinth came from a tailor’s shop in Vena, and there was nothing magical about it except for the skill involved in spinning common sheep wool into a firm thread. This was going to be their thread of life, their only hope of not losing themselves between the shrubs.

  Jacob carefully ran the thread through his fingers as he and Donnersmarck stepped into the twilight between the branches. The predator had cast his green web very wide. Just a few turns in, they stumbled over a rusty saber. They found bones that had been nibbled clean, rotten boots, an old-fashioned pistol. Soon enough they no longer knew which direction they’d come from, yet their greatest worry was the white flowers growing in the shade of the shrubs. Forgetyourself. No point in crushing them or pulling them out. Their effect just got stronger when the blossoms wilted. Jacob and Donnersmarck tied kerchiefs in front of their mouths and noses and walked on, repeating each other’s names, or places and things they’d done together. But their memories faded with every step, and their only connection to the world they were fast forgetting was a thread of yarn.

  Leaves. Branches. Paths ending in evergreen walls. Again and again.

  Jacob had escaped from places where one lost oneself, but not even the Fairy island had turned his world into such a nothing. He touched the scar on his hand, which the vixen’s teeth had once left there so he wouldn’t lose himself in the arms of the Red Fairy.

  Don’t forget her, Jacob.

  Forget yourself, but not her.

  And again the path ended in the shrubs. Donnersmarck cursed, ramming his saber into the thicket. Left. Right. The very words seemed to have lost all meaning. Jacob rolled up the thread so it would lead them back to the last fork.

  Don’t forget her.

  How many hours had they been wandering like this? Or was it days? Had there ever been anything but this labyrinth? Jacob spun around and reached for his pistol. A man was standing behind him with his saber drawn.

  The stranger lowered his weapon. “Jacob! It’s me!” Donnersmarck. Repeat the name, Jacob. No, there was only one name he couldn’t forget. Fox. She’s still alive. Again and again. She’s still alive. He leaned against the evergreen leaves. The perfume of forgetyourself filled his head with sticky nothingness.

  He stumbled on—and suddenly he clutched his chest.

  The fourth bite.

  No. Not now.

  The yarn fell from his hand as the pain forced him to his knees. Donnersmarck stumbled after the ball of wool and just managed to catch it before it disappeared beneath the hedge.

  The pain set Jacob’s heart racing, yet all he could think was Not now, not here! He had to find her.

  “What is it?” Donnersmarck leaned over him. It’ll pass, Jacob. It always passes.

  The pain was everywhere. It flooded his flesh.

  Donnersmarck dropped to his knees beside Jacob. “We’ll never find a way out of here.”

  Think, Jacob. But how, with the pain numbing his senses?

  He pushed a trembling hand into his pocket. Where was it? He found the card in the folds of his gold handkerchief. It didn’t stay blank for long.

  Do you need my help?

  Jacob pressed his hand to his aching chest. The answer didn’t come easily. A bargain that could only end badly.

  “Yes.”

  “What are you doing?” Donnersmarck stared at the card.

  It filled with new words.

  Anytime. I hope this is the beginning of a fruitful collaboration. Are you ready to pay my price?

  “Whatever you want.” It could hardly be higher than the Fairy’s price. As long as he got out of this labyrinth.

  I will take you at your word.

  Green ink. Nearly as green as Earlking’s eyes. Guismond had sold his soul to the Devil. Whom was he selling his to?

  The pain eased, but Jacob was still nauseous from the smell of the forgetyourself, and he barely remembered his own name.

  The card stayed blank.

  Come on!

  The letters appeared painfully slowly.

  Twice left and then right.

  Twice right and then left.
<
br />   So goes the web the bluebeard weaves.

  On your feet, Jacob! It was a pattern. Nothing but a pattern.

  Donnersmarck stumbled after him. Left and left again. Then right. Jacob let the thread run through his fingers. Right. And right again. And left.

  Through the hedges came the light of a lantern. They rushed toward it, both certain it would disappear again. But the hedgerows opened up, and they were standing in the open.

  The house in front of them was old. Nearly as old as its owner’s ghastly clan. The crest above the door was weathered, but the centuries had not diminished the splendor of the gray walls and towers. Their dark outlines nearly melted into the night. There was one lantern shining next to the entrance, and there was light behind two windows on the first floor.

  Behind one of them stood Fox.

  44

  BLUEBEARD

  No. Troisclerq’s labyrinth could not catch Jacob. Fox wished him far, far away; she was so happy to see him. So happy.

  Jacob was not alone. Fox recognized Donnersmarck only at second glance. She always thought his sister had been a fool for getting seduced by a Bluebeard.

  Troisclerq’s servant dragged her away from the window. She bit his furry hand, even though her human teeth were so much blunter than the vixen’s, and tore herself free. The pitcher was already half-full. Fox pushed it over before the servant could stop her. He grabbed her hair and shook her so hard that she couldn’t breathe. She didn’t care. Her fear was trickling white across the table. Jacob was here, and they were both still alive.

  “So it’s just like everyone says. Not that I would have doubted it.” Troisclerq was standing in the doorway. He went to the table and caught the dripping liquid in his hollow hand.