“I will not rest until you’re my bride,” he spat.
A scraggly blonde showing too much décolletage stepped forward, swaying on her feet. She curtseyed, spilling most of her ale. “For two gold coins and a bottle of Monsoon mead, I’ll be your bride!”
Everyone roared with laughter, and even Rilla’s lips twitched.
Lord Bluebeard's eyes blazed. “You’ve reduced me to a laughingstock,” he snarled. “And I will take no more.”
He grabbed her, but she pulled her arm out of reach. Every time he tried to touch her, she slapped his hand away, her temper matching his, until she tired of his harassment. With a cry, she lunged forward and shoved him with all her weight. His eyes bulged, he lost his footing and fell back, but the crowd blocked him from crashing to the floor.
Dora stepped between them with her hands on her hips. “Can't you see she's not interested? Let her be.”
Lord Bluebeard’s nostrils flared, and his face purpled. “I will not have my bride associating with a slattern, nor will I take orders from one.”
He lurched forward, grabbed Rilla with inhuman speed, and pressed his lips to hers. It was all fury and camphor and beard.
Rilla screeched and swung her fist, punching him hard on the nose. Lord Bluebeard staggered back and cupped his face, blood streaming between his fingers. Anger flared across her chest and shot down to her fists. It was clear Lord Bluebeard was trying to trigger her mysterious power to expose her as…whatever she was. That way, she'd have to escape with him to Steppe, just as he’d wanted.
She pulled her quarterstaff from her bodice, and it sprang to size.
“You would dare to strike your husband?” Lord Bluebeard roared, his fists balled.
A harsh, disbelieving laugh sprang from deep within. Rilla widened her stance, ready for a fight. “We’re not married! When when you accept that?”
He pulled out a handkerchief and wiped the blood from his nose. “Our betrothal is binding, the ceremony a formality. But when you are mine by law, I will make you regret ever defying me.”
“That will never happen.” Rilla rolled her eyes. How many times would she have to refuse him?
He charged at her, got under her guard and grabbed her around the waist, flinging her over his shoulder. The crowd cheered and raised their tankards.
“Let go, you brute!” Rilla tried to thrash out of his grasp, but his grip was as strong as iron. When her efforts to wriggle free proved futile, she willed her staff to expand. From her upside-down position, she swiped the staff across his legs, tripping him over.
Lord Bluebeard tumbled to the ground, taking Rilla down with him. She landed smack on her back, with his head conveniently by her side. Now was her chance. She pulled back her fist and punched him on the side of the neck, causing him to cough and gasp for air. Once she’d wriggled out of his weakened grasp, she kicked him in the face, making him go limp.
Rilla stood and brushed herself off to raucous cheers. She turned and headed through the crowd toward the exit.
“He’s behind you!” Dora shrieked.
But it was too late. Lord Bluebeard grabbed Rilla from behind and lifted her from the waist. Air rushed out of Rilla’s lungs, his grip was that tight. He breathed hot and heavy into her ear. “Insolent girl. This time, I will not let go.”
Slamming the staff between the floor stones, Rilla lurched forward and vaulted herself over the weapon. Lord Bluebeard flew across the tavern and crashed through a window.
When she landed, Dora grabbed her shoulder. “We'd better leave before we get into more trouble.”
They tried shoving through to the back of the tavern, but the patrons were too drunk, too amused and too huddled together to give them passage. Hand in hand, Rilla and Dora pushed their way through the crowd. It was a hot, bothersome jostle, more like trying to navigate through a stack of clumping caterpillars than hustling through a tavern, but eventually, they reached the door.
Once outside, Rilla's breath of relief proved futile. A dozen constables stood around the entrance, wielding cudgels and irritated scowls. An equal amount were lifting and arresting a dazed Lord Bluebeard.
“Cendrilla Perrault, you are also under arrest,” said the sergeant.
The jailhouse was another limestone building situated behind the courts. The constables helped Rilla out of the police carriage and into a reception room whose primary piece of furniture was a wide, oak desk.
“You cannot hold me.” Lord Bluebeard stood proud in front of the desk. “I have diplomatic immunity as the Ambassador of Steppe.” He reached into his jacket and the constables jumped back. Instead of pulling out a sword, he withdrew a scroll from his inside pocket, adorned with a beautiful seal.
“My Lord.” The sergeant bowed. “Please forgive the Metropole constabulary for the wrongful arrest.”
Rilla stood at the door, her mouth agape.
Lord Bluebeard straightened his jacket and shot Rilla a nasty grin as he left.
“Why am I under arrest?” she asked.
The sergeant looked up from a scroll. “Disorderly conduct, vandalism…” He pulled out a quill and scribbled something else. “And now assaulting an important foreign dignitary.”
A shocked laugh escaped her throat, but she felt no mirth. “Lord Bluebeard started it!”
The constables paid her no mind, and four of them led her to a cell holding two dozen other female criminals. The jumbled scents of pungent colognes grated on her sinuses, and the raucous laughter grated on her ears. Most of the occupants were ladies of the night with painted faces and scanty dresses in obscene shades of red or purple.
“You’re the Warrior Woman of Clement Road!” One of them gasped, “What did they throw you in here for?”
“I saw Lord Bluebeard leave. Did he really let his betrothed get locked up? Why would he let that happen to a girl he paid that much gold for?”
“Protecting his investment!” Another one cackled. “One of my men’s so jealous he’d do the same if he could, and I’m worth only three silver shillings a time!”
There was bawdy laughter at that. Rilla shook her head with a weak smile, unable to muster any enthusiasm.
“Why’d he pay so much?” someone asked, “No one’s maidenhead is worth a woman’s weight in gold.”
Rilla flushed. Lord Bluebeard’s reasons seemed more complicated and more mysterious every time she encountered the man. “I have no idea what goes on in his head.”
“Is it true you’ve eyes on the Prince? Will he bail you out?” asked a toothless woman wearing an obvious wig.
Rilla sucked in a breath. She hadn’t heard from Armin since the letter about his engagement, even though she’d penned a quick note of congratulations.
“Cendrilla’s a commoner like us, you old tart! She couldn’t marry him even if he begged!”
The women bickered amongst themselves. Not that Rilla cared. It was clear they were only gossiping to pass the time in the dank cell.
An hour later, Lord Bluebeard returned. He held a half-asleep old man by the scruff of the neck. His parson's coat gaped open, revealing a nightshirt, bare legs with knobby knees.
“Cendrilla.” Lord Bluebeard beckoned her to approach the bars. “The only way out of your predicament is to marry me this very night. It is not the wedding I imagined for you, but you leave me with no choice.”
Rilla gaped at the parson rubbing sleep from his eyes. “I’d rather rot in jail than marry you.”
Lord Bluebeard’s face turned puce, and he let go of the old man to grab at the bars. Before he could lash out, the parson cleared his throat. “My Lord, I will not marry a woman who does not consent. If she changes her mind in the morning, please call upon me at a reasonable hour.” He shuffled toward the door. “I bid you goodnight.”
Rilla met Lord Bluebeard’s heated glare with one of her own. He no longer intimidated her, and she felt she could fight him all over again. However, instead of fueling one of his tirades, she walked to the back of the cell and curl
ed up on the floor, using her cloak as both mattress and blanket.
A door slammed, and Rilla closed her eyes, hoping that word would reach Armin so he would bail her out.
Bluebeard’s Proposal
The next morning, the sergeant opened the cell and called in. “Cendrilla Perrault, a word.”
He led her to a bare room of stone, its only contents a shabby wood table and two chairs. After motioning for her to sit, he pulled out a scroll from his jacket. “The usual penalty for vandalism and drunken conduct is a public flogging. But we don’t want no riots. For reasons unknown, our citizens have great admiration for you.”
Rilla bristled. Insolence would get her nowhere, so she took a deep breath. “When will I be released?”
“Once you’ve paid the fines and cover the cost of repairs to the tavern.” He held the scroll at arms’ length and squinted. “One hundred and twenty-nine gold crowns.”
A bolt of anger shot through her. Most fines she’d read about for minor offenses amounted to five gold crowns at most. Either the tavern owner embellished the cost of the damages, or the constabulary was corrupt. Gritting her teeth, Rilla shook her head. “I don’t have that kind of money.”
The sergeant shrugged. “Suit yourself.”
“Can I have a parchment and quill, so I can write to a friend?” she asked.
He held out his hand. “Writing material’s five silver shillings.” When Rilla shook her head, he put the scroll back in his pocket. “You’ll be staying with us a while, then.”
Over the next week, Rilla received a few visitors, some welcome and some not so much. Her first was Madam Florian, who arrived looking as though she’d dressed for the occasion. Instead of her usual officer’s uniform, she wore the type of black, silk cloak Rilla had seen Mother keep for special outings.
Her thin, painted lips formed a malicious smirk. “My Lord Florian and the Chancellor will visit Tundra for the next fortnight. It would be a shame for you to waste parchment writing to them to plead your case, only to wait in vain for a bail that will never come.”
Rilla shrugged, affecting indifference. “Lord Florian has done enough favors for me. I wasn’t intending to call on him.”
The Vice Chancellor’s face dropped, but she covered the shock with a sneer. “It also means a delay in your appeal.”
Feeling her heart sink, Rilla pulled her chin up and met Madam Florian’s gloating gaze. “If you have nothing else to add, you may leave.”
The other woman scowled for a moment, then her lips curled into a cruel smile. “It seems you’ve finally found your proper place in society. Good day to you.”
The more welcome visitors included Millissa and Jacques. They arrived together every day to bring fresh clothes, homework, and delicious foods from the dining hall. Jacques even continued Rilla’s dance lessons in an interrogation room. Although the sergeant resented the misuse of his facilities, he did not dare refuse the Autumn Queen.
Dora, Scarlet, and Greta also visited to see how she was doing, which warmed Rilla’s heart. She spent the nights looking forward to seeing her friends. The daily visits, food and books made her imprisonment less miserable than she’d expected.
To Rilla’s surprise Lord Bluebeard didn’t visit, not even to taunt or badger her into marriage. She noticed his bluebirds in the window of the cell every day, but paid them very little attention. They couldn’t, and probably wouldn’t, break her out of prison. One of them had red plumage on his breast, and she took to calling him Robin whenever she noticed him. He watched her with a twittering, mocking laugh, but Rilla never asked for his aid. She never wanted Lord Bluebeard’s help again knowing the not-so-hidden price.
Despite feeling relatively comfortable in jail, something gnawed at Rilla’s morale. Armin had not contacted Rilla, not even to withdraw the invitation to the ball. Images of him sparring with the magnificent warrior princess, Olga, haunted her in her sleep. While his being engaged no longer stung, the thought of losing his friendship made her insides twist. Madam Hessen would have reported her arrest in her paper, so there was no way he couldn’t know about Rilla’s plight. Perhaps this new woman was so beguiling, he no longer needed a friend. Rilla hoped that Armin was at least visiting his brother in the pond.
On the day of the ball, Millissa and Jacques visited her cell with the usual supplies, but no dance lesson. Rilla supposed she wouldn’t be needing them, since she would spend the evening behind bars. They left early, presumably for Millissa to dress, and Rilla settled into the back of her cell, her heart numb.
The setting sun reflected on the stone walls, giving them an illusion of warmth. Although well-fed, Rilla felt hollow with disappointment. She stared into her lap, ignoring her cellmates’ gossip. The chatter became more animated and raucous, and Rilla couldn’t help but look up to see what had caused the excitement.
Lord Bluebeard stood beyond the bars, dressed in fine navy silk, smirking.
Rilla scowled. “If you think I will marry you just so I can waltz in the Palace, you’re wasting your time.”
He shook his head and held out his hands in a gesture of peace. “I have a different bargain for you. I will pay your fines and have you released if you attend the ball on my arm.”
The other prisoners burst into excited rounds of chattering and cat-calls.
The sergeant walked in, followed by a servant carrying a large box.
Rilla walked to the bars, her eyes narrowed. “Is that a wedding dress in there? This had better not be another attempt to marry me.”
Lord Bluebeard ran his fingers down his luxuriant, blue-black beard. “My dear, I will always inform you before I drag you to the altar. For now, all I desire is to take you to the ball as my acknowledged fiancée.”
Stomach flip-flopping at the casual reference to further abduction attempts, Rilla thought fast. While she wasn’t exactly rotting in the cell, she was missing important classes, and the chances of failing increased with everyday she spent out of the Academy. She also couldn’t believe Armin would so callously leave her in a cell for two weeks without word of acknowledgement. Even though he was smitten with someone else, he wouldn’t forget the person who had once saved him from abduction.
She looked her betrothed squarely in his sapphire eyes. “Promise me you won’t try anything tonight.”
“Of course.” He nodded, grinning like a benevolent shark.
The sergeant unlocked the cell door and gave Rilla a mocking bow, indicating for her to exit. She stepped out and glared at her betrothed. “Promise me we are only going to the Palace together.”
“Yes.” Lord Bluebeard stared down at her, blue irises glowing with triumph. He led her into the interrogation room and sat on the table.
“And you will not try to grab, manipulate, or force me into marriage at the ball or for at least a week after.”
“Yes, yes, and yes.” The veins in his temple throbbed with every demand.
Rilla ignored his irritation as he’d gotten her incarcerated in the first place. “Then yes, I will take you.” She made sure to say the next part slowly, so her betrothed wouldn’t get any funny ideas. “As my guest.”
Lord Bluebeard nodded and clapped his great palms together, and several servants entered the room, then he left, giving her a roguish grin. They brought in a mirror, a basin, warm rose water, toiletries, cosmetics… everything she’d need to make herself presentable as a royal guest. To her delight, Madam Modiste’s daughter walked in carrying the large box. It wasn’t a wedding dress after all, but a beautiful, pink gown.
“You look lovely,” the girl exclaimed as she helped Rilla into the dress. “And you are so lucky to have such a handsome and devoted beau.”
Rilla coughed, wondering what the standards were for the women in this region. So far, everyone seemed to think Lord Bluebeard was good looking. It was baffling.
Once the tailor’s daughter fastened Rilla into her gown, she held up the mirror. Rilla’s heart jumped, and she sucked in a breath. She thought she�
��d been pretty before the previous ball, but for the first time in her life she felt beautiful. Her cheeks turned a delicate shade of pink in all the excitement.
She stepped out of the room, and Lord Bluebeard turned to look at her. His eyes widened, his jaw fell slack, and his chest heaved. He looked like he would devour her whole, just like that awful ogre she’d fought at Otto’s Inn. She grimaced, and Lord Bluebeard snapped out of his trance, an irritated sneer to his lips. He held out his arm for her, but she ignored it.
“Sergeant,” she called, “I would like to say goodbye to my friends.”
He nodded and let her back to the cell, and the women squealed and admired her gown, wishing her luck. Rilla twirled, pleased with the attention. After several minutes, Lord Bluebeard coughed with impatience.
“Best get back to your man,” said one of the women, laughing. “He’s looking rather cross! But so masterful, you lucky little strumpet!”
They all cackled, and Rilla once again balked at this description of her betrothed.
She left the jailhouse, still walking on clouds, her heart soaring with the joy of freedom. It was a cool, fresh night, with the moon shining bright in the dark, starless sky. Yellow lantern light reflected on limestone buildings, making Rilla feel like the festivities had already begun.
“I am glad the gown pleases you,” said Lord Bluebeard in a low purr. “Another has been made for you in white.”
She stiffened, but kept a blank face and looked straight ahead, pretending she hadn’t heard him.
He chuckled and led her into his carriage.
After a short and silent ride around Kapital Plaza and through the palace gates, they disembarked. Lord Bluebeard clamped Rilla’s hand on his arm, and they entered the palace. It was the same imposing stone castle, with even more guards than ever standing around. They walked down the vast hallways, flanked by portraits of royal ancestors. The strains of a Clementine waltz reached her ears, and she could already picture the dancers in their finery. Rilla cringed at the proximity to her betrothed but forced a pleasant expression, not wanting to ruin her evening.
The Academy (Perrault Chronicles Book 2) Page 15