by Barb Hendee
And that’s when the first jolt hit.
As a second one hit, Céline felt herself being swept along a tunnel of mist again, and she lost all sensation of anything besides speeding along through the mists swirling all around her in tones of gray and white.
The mist vanished, and an image flashed before her.
She saw a room with gray stone walls. She was standing beside a bed, but she could see only one side of it.
Sybil lay there sound asleep. Her chocolate brown hair was spread out like a curtain across the pillow, and she was covered in a yellow-and-red-checked quilt. She looked so peaceful, so deep in slumber.
Céline began to relax at the sight.
Then…two slender hands wearing long black gloves came in from the side of the image, reaching down toward Sybil.
On instinct, Céline cried, “No!” and she tried to knock the hands away. But she wasn’t really there. She was only an observer, and she could do nothing. The black gloves continued to move. One of them settled on the side of Sybil’s face and the other on her throat.
Céline wanted to scream, to fight, to stop this, but she was locked inside the vision, just watching.
The hands didn’t grip down or do anything besides touch Sybil’s face and throat, but the flesh on Sybil’s cheek began to move, rippling of its own accord. It began to shrivel.
“No,” Céline choked.
Beneath the black-gloved hands, Sybil’s face continued to shrivel, to wither, sinking in upon itself until her face was nothing more than a dried husk. Inside the vision, the black gloves pressed harder on her cheek and throat. It went on and on as Sybil’s body seemed to shrink beneath the quilt.
Céline could feel herself choking in horror.
“Stop it!” someone ordered. “Come out!”
Strong hands had ahold of her arms, shaking her once, and the small room vanished. She found herself back in the great hall, staring up into Lieutenant Jaromir’s alarmed eyes.
“Let go of her,” someone else said, someone familiar, and Céline saw Amelie standing behind Jaromir.
“Amelie,” Céline whispered.
Anton was striding toward them, and half the hall was staring. The music had stopped. Perhaps realizing how this must look, Jaromir let go of her.
“Pardon,” he said.
Reality was rushing back to Céline as she tried to recover from the nightmare she’d just witnessed. Sybil was on her feet, frightened. “What did you see?”
Céline fought for control. The poor girl. The event in the vision had to be changed. Sybil had to be protected.
“Oh, I do beg your forgiveness,” Céline heard herself saying, astonished at her own self-control. Somehow, she smiled reassuringly at Sybil. “Sometimes my sightline into the future becomes crossed, and I see my own.” She moved closer to Sybil. “I saw something unpleasant, but it had nothing to do with you. Please forgive me. I think I sought too many visions, too quickly, in a short span of time. Perhaps I might rest?”
Sybil’s fear vanished, replaced by concern. “You saw something unpleasant for yourself? I’m sorry.”
She was kind.
“It’s all right,” Céline answered, still smiling but casting her gaze toward the small chamber at the bottom of the hall where she’d spoken to Anton that morning. She could feel his eyes upon her. “I just need to rest.”
With that, she began walking, head still high, toward the small chamber, hearing two sets of footsteps behind her.
“I will go and attend to the seer myself,” Anton announced. “I fear she has overtaxed herself. My Lady Karina, have the musicians play on.” A third set of footsteps sounded.
The walk felt long, but Céline finally reached the chamber, made her way inside, and collapsed in a chair. Jaromir, Amelie, and Anton followed her in. She didn’t see which one closed the door.
“What?” Jaromir demanded instantly. “You tell me what in the seven hells just happened out there.”
“She’s not your dog or one of your soldiers,” Amelie told him. “Don’t give her orders!”
They both sounded far away.
“Both of you stop!” Anton ordered. His voice softened, but the circles under his eyes looked black. “Céline, what did you see?”
“It’s her,” Céline whispered. “Sybil. She’s next.”
“What does that mean?” Jaromir asked.
“She was asleep, in a bed,” Céline went on, almost feeling as if someone else spoke. “Gloved hands…like a woman’s or a slender man’s, came in from one side and touched her. She just shriveled away, like those girls on the table in the cellar. I couldn’t do anything to stop it. I just had to watch.”
“Who?” Anton demanded, sounding far less soft now. “Who did this?”
“I don’t know. I only saw the gloved hands…black gloves.”
“You must have seen more than that!” Jaromir insisted.
“Leave her alone,” Amelie said, but she looked puzzled, as if wondering about Céline’s game here.
“No, I didn’t,” Céline said quietly. “I only saw the gloves, and I saw her die.”
Jaromir sighed and turned to Anton. “What do you want to do?”
Anton stared at the wall for a few moments and then said, “Tell her parents the truth and place her under guard.” His eyes locked with Jaromir’s. “I’ll talk to her father. You get a room set up.”
“Yes, my lord.”
CHAPTER 5
Less than hour later, Amelie found herself inside a guest room, watching as Céline inspected the bed—which looked like a simple bed with a plain white comforter. The room sported no hearth or window, and it felt overly small with Anton, Jaromir, Sybil, and both Sybil’s parents also crowded inside.
Inna was hovering in the doorway, her mouth set tightly.
“All right,” Céline said, turning from the bed. “I think this will be safe.”
“Why do I have to stay in here?” Sybil asked, sounding frightened. “Why can’t I go back to our own apartments?”
“Because you are safer here,” Anton answered. “Lieutenant Jaromir will stand guard.”
Amelie had no idea what the game was, so she kept her mouth shut. Apparently, Sybil’s father was Anton’s second cousin, a middle-aged minor noble named Lord Cirren. The family had apartments inside the castle, and Cirren held a place on Anton’s council. The man’s mouth was set tighter than Inna’s, suggesting he didn’t approve of this entire situation, and his wife, Lady Edith, wouldn’t stop wringing her hands.
Earlier, Anton’s words about notifying the girl’s parents and placing her under guard had sounded sensible: clean and simple.
Reality was proving a tad messier.
“You told me your vision was about yourself,” Sybil accused Céline, “not about me.”
“I know,” Céline answered, standing straight. “I didn’t wish to alarm you until I’d spoken with Prince Anton and heard his decision in the matter.”
Amelie held her tongue. What was Céline up to? Yes, she was making herself appear useful, but it seemed dangerous to actually pick out a girl and claim she would be the next victim. What would happen if someone else were killed? Céline would look a complete charlatan.
“This is absurd,” Lord Cirren sputtered. “Anton, I can keep my own daughter protected.”
Anton shook his head. “No. She’s safer with Jaromir.”
“But she can’t stay in here alone,” Lady Edith insisted, coughing twice as she spoke, “with soldiers at her door, on the word of some…forgive me, my prince, of some gypsy seer you hired.” She paused, looking at her daughter, and Amelie could see love in the woman’s eyes. “I will sleep in here with her.” She coughed again, but Sybil’s expression melted in relief at the prospect of her mother remaining.
“No,” Anton said. “You need to be in your own rooms, where it’s warmer.”
Was Lady Edith not well?
Anton wasn’t finished. He looked to the doorway. “But I agree that Sybil s
houldn’t be left alone. Inna, will you sleep here with her?”
Inna’s eyes flashed hatred at Céline, and she opened her mouth as if to spit out her opinion of these proceedings, but then she looked to Anton. “Of course, my lord.”
“Everyone else to bed, then,” Anton said. He was pale and exhausted. “Jaromir, you’re in charge.”
Céline was still standing by the bed, staring at its white cover, and Amelie moved to her. “Let’s go.”
Céline relented, allowing herself to be led out into the passage. Amelie was finally getting her bearings here and knew their own room was just down the corridor. As they left, Jaromir began giving orders as the room behind them was being secured.
However, once they’d stepped inside their room, Amelie closed the door and looked at the four-poster bed with its extra blankets and at the dressing table with its fancy damask covered chairs. A freshly lit fire burned in the hearth, and she took a moment to ponder how all this had come to be. So much had happened in such a short span of time.
Someone—probably Helga—had closed the shutters over their single long window. The fire in the hearth provided yellow light. Helga had probably built the fire, too.
Céline walked to the bed and sank down, her expression bleak.
“What…,” Amelie began, not certain how to word this. “What exactly is the plan here? What are we going to do if another girl is murdered in the next few days? How are we going to find the killer before someone calls you a fake?”
Céline looked at the floor. “Amelie, I’m tired. Could we discuss this in the morning?”
Frustrated, Amelie took in her sister’s weary face. “All right, but I can’t help if I don’t know the plan. You need to tell me what you’re thinking.”
She took off her breeches and boots, leaving on her long, faded blue shirt—which reached halfway to her knees. Then she unlaced Céline’s borrowed gown, and Céline let the dress fall to the floor, so that she wore only her comfortable cotton shift. They both crawled under the piled covers, and soon the bed felt warm.
Neither spoke for a while, and then Céline said, “Lady Edith needs a rose petal syrup for her cough. If I had access to the herb garden and the apothecary’s equipment, I could make her a vial.”
“You really want that shop, don’t you?” Amelie whispered.
“Yes, I do.”
Céline said no more.
Still troubled, unaccustomed to feeling shut out of her sister’s plans, Amelie burrowed deeper into the covers, listening to Céline’s soft breathing.
But sleep would not come to Amelie. Her body was too tired and her mind was too busy, which was never a good combination. Doubt often came to her in the night, and she couldn’t help wondering what she and Céline would do, where they would go, if they failed here.
Time crept by, and she still couldn’t sleep. She just lay there, thinking and worrying.
It must have been halfway to dawn when the sound of a loud cry down the passage made her shoot up from the covers, looking toward the door. The cry was followed by shouting and pounding.
“Céline,” she said, but her sister was already awake.
Diving from the bed, Amelie grabbed her breeches. She was pulling them on while Céline ran out door wearing nothing but her white cotton shift.
“Céline!”
Buttoning her breeches, Amelie ran, and they both came upon the sight of Jaromir unlocking the door of the room where he’d placed Sybil. He had two soldiers standing guard with him, but Amelie didn’t recognize either one. The pounding from inside continued.
As he got the door unlocked and shoved it open, Inna came rushing out, gasping for breath. “She’s dead! Dead!”
Jaromir ran past her into the room, and Amelie followed with Céline at her heels.
There, lying in the bed, was the dried husk of what had been Sybil. Her lovely brown hair was spread on the pillow, but her face was nothing more than shriveled skin adhered to bones.
“Oh, no,” Amelie whispered.
None of this made sense. Céline walked to the bed and looked down at a yellow-and-red-checked quilt.
“Inna!” she nearly shouted. “Where did this come from?”
Amelie blinked. The quilt? Why would Céline care about that?
“What is it?” Jaromir asked, his eyes moving to the quilt.
“This wasn’t here before,” Céline said. “Where did it come from?” She sounded brittle.
One of the other soldiers dragged Inna back inside, and she simply pointed at a chest across the room. “We were cold. I took it out.”
Céline closed her eyes. “It wasn’t here before,” she whispered.
Jaromir turned on Inna, his expression dark, almost threatening. “What happened? No one could have entered this room.”
Frightened, dressed only in her shift, with strands of her grayish blond hair sticking to her face, Inna raised a hand, as if in defense. “I don’t know. I was asleep and then I just…I felt something was wrong, and I turned up the lamp and I…saw her!”
“The door was locked,” Jaromir answered coldly, “and there is no window. You were the only one here.”
“I was asleep!” Inna cried. “I heard nothing.”
“Look for a pair of gloves,” Céline said quietly. “A pair of long black gloves.”
Perhaps realizing he’d get nothing sensible out of Inna, Jaromir called in another of his men, and they began searching the room.
The next half hour or so followed with a mix of confusion and activity. Céline stood at the end of the bed, staring down at the quilt, while the room was searched—revealing no black gloves. Soon, Master Feodor arrived. Amelie was surprised to see him still dressed in his silk tunic from dinner. He also seemed vaguely displeased to see Céline there, nothing overt, just a flicker of distaste passing across his features when he walked in.
“Well?” Jaromir asked, but the question was unnecessary.
Feodor conducted a brief examination of Sybil’s body and sighed. “Yes. Just like the others.”
“Someone should wake Anton,” Céline said, her first words in quite a while.
“No!” Inna cried.
Feodor glanced at her and said, “Inna’s right. My lord needs his sleep and should not be disturbed. This can wait until morning.”
Jaromir put a hand to his mouth, as if thinking, and then he nodded. “I’ll go inform the girl’s parents myself.”
“If not Anton, then the Lady Karina should be the one to tell them,” Céline whispered. “It should be a member of the royal family.” She looked up at Jaromir. “You promised to…protect Sybil. This isn’t your fault, but the girl’s parents should be told by Anton or Karina.”
A muscle in his jaw twitched, and Amelie realized Céline was right.
Jaromir nodded once, tightly. “I’ll wake her.”
A guard in the doorway approached hesitantly. “Sir, what should be done with the body?”
If possible, Jaromir stiffened further. “Put it in the cellar with the others.”
Deciding that enough of this was enough, Amelie steered Céline toward the door.
Out in the passage, she asked, “How did you know?”
“I couldn’t change it,” Céline whispered. “I should have changed it. She was kind. She wanted more out of life than to marry a stranger her parents picked out.”
She fell silent again, and Amelie was nearly overwhelmed by a wish that they could go back to the day before, and Céline could tell Rhiannon to marry Damek, and the Lavender and Thyme would not be burned, and she and Céline had never come here.
* * *
An hour past sunrise, Jaromir woke up naked in his bed with Bridgette sleeping on his chest.
Looking down at her closed eyes and her breasts as they rose and fell, he was almost ashamed of having called her to him in the night, but after the painful task of telling Lady Karina the news of Sybil’s death—and then giving her the task of informing Sybil’s parents—he could not face the
thought of going to bed alone, of lying there thinking on all he’d seen in that small, windowless room.
So he’d sought oblivion in Bridgette’s body, using her as a method of release.
It hadn’t helped.
She was lovely, with creamy skin and even features. But they had little in common and even less to say to each other. He couldn’t tell her what he’d been through—and she certainly wouldn’t be interested in hearing it.
Now he wished he hadn’t called her here.
Carefully, trying not to wake her, he slipped out from under her head and crawled from under the covers. The floor was cold on his bare feet, and he put on his discarded clothing from the night before, as if he couldn’t get out of his own room fast enough.
He wanted to be alone with his thoughts, with his own self-recrimination.
Once out in the passage, he shut the door behind himself and took a long breath. He’d failed Anton last night. He had failed to save Sybil, and in doing so, he’d made Anton look like an ineffectual leader—someone who could not protect his own people.
Jaromir would do anything for Anton. No one could possibly understand what he owed Anton…no one.
Jaromir did not like to view himself as a man who ever needed or wanted to be saved.
But Anton had saved him.
Standing there in the passage alone, outside his room, nearly shaking from a mix of helplessness and unwanted guilt, he couldn’t help his mind from slipping back to a place he’d much rather have forgotten…
CHAPTER 6
CASTLE PÄHLEN
FOUR YEARS IN THE PAST
Jaromir stood at attention in the great hall of Prince Lieven. He wore the deep brown tabard of Lieven’s castle guard, but the tabard was a lie. He wasn’t one of the prince’s soldiers. He was just a hired sword, engaged for a week to help exaggerate Lieven’s show of force for a “family gathering” at the castle.
No one in the hall spoke to Jaromir or even noticed him.
He was nothing.
Yet he couldn’t believe his good fortune at having achieved even a week’s worth of employment here. His wolfhound, Lizzie, was pressed up against his leg. His sword, his chain armor, and his dog were all he had left in the world.