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.
This told her something. He knew fire was anathema to her and kept it at a safe distance. It didn’t matter because the talisman prevented her from touching the elements, but this indicated a certain level of courtesy. And he had yet to harm her in any way — besides holding her prisoner. Considering the brutality of the murders at Mara Vardac, Anne found this interesting.
The routine was thus: He would wait until she was in the bedchamber. Then he would enter the dining room and lock the inner door to the tower, lay the table, unlock it again, and leave through the outer door.
It should have been a simple matter to catch him at it. To wait by the inner door until she heard the bolt slide open and then rush inside.
But he was always too fast.
By the time Anne threw the inner door open, the opposite door leading out of the tower would be closing, and by the time she reached that door, he would have bolted it again.
She’d tried two dozen times and been thwarted on every occasion.
It was frustrating, although the meals he left were excellent, if far too much for one person. Aromatic soups and stews, haunches of game and roasted vegetables. Once she’d determined the food wasn’t laced with sedatives, Anne ate with relish. The thought crossed her mind that he might be fattening her up for the kill, but starving herself would make for a prolonged and far more unpleasant death — besides which, it seemed an awful lot of trouble for him to take over a single meal.
And so the hours passed, one merging seamlessly into the next. He always brought two buckets of clean water for bathing and drinking. Occasionally, he left her other things. One day, she’d found a chess set on the sideboard. She took it to her room and played both white and black, all the while plotting her revenge. She composed violent symphonies in her head. But she spent most of her time atop the tower, watching the light play on the water during the day and the slow movement of the heavens at night.
The evening before, he’d left her a novel. It was called The Mysteries of Udolpho and Anne threw it down in boredom after a quick perusal. The characters were always swooning, or being struck by terror and amazement. But if he was leaving her books and chess sets, he planned to keep her there for a long time.
It had already been at least a month by her reckoning. So Anne decided to force his hand.
Now she pressed her ear against the inner door to the dining chamber. For many long minutes, all was quiet. Then she heard the faint ring of footsteps ascending the tower. The bolt of the outer door slid open. She heard the previous evening’s meal being cleared, and the clink of cutlery and dishes being laid out.
“Who are you?” Anne shouted through the door.
As usual, there was no response. He carried on setting the table as if he hadn’t heard.
“Coward! Why am I here?”
He started whistling to himself, a jaunty little tune. She smelled the tantalizing aroma of a tomato bisque.
“You’ve left me no choice,” she announced. “I’m throwing myself off the top of the tower. At least my death will be swift, you brute!”
Anne flew back up the circular stairs.
It had occurred to her that perhaps The Mysteries of Udolpho was a signal she was to play the maiden in distress, emotionally overwrought and suicidal. That dovetailed nicely with her own plans.
Anne hoped to hear the door open behind her, but all was quiet. Moments later she burst out onto the tower roof and clambered atop the wall. A hundred feet below, she could see a bit of the inner bailey and beyond that the precipitous drop to the cliffs and sea.
It was full dark now. The stars shone brightly and a bright three-quarter moon was rising over the forest.
It was bloody cold up there.
Anne shivered and rubbed her arms. She wore the only surviving gown, a velvet thing with puffy sleeves and a scandalous neckline. More than once, Anne had regretted shredding her entire wardrobe before calculating how much rope material she could get out of it.
She was just starting to think he’d called her bluff when a figure appeared in the doorway of the tower. Anne’s eyes narrowed.
“You,” she said.
Father Gavra.
They’d only spoken briefly when she arrived at Saint George’s, but she recognized his face. He’d shaved the beard and his dark blond hair was tied back with a ribbon in a style that struck her as a century or so out of date. The black robe had been traded for a burgundy frock coat and snug trousers, well-cut but also long out of style.
“Come down from there,” he snapped. Then, belatedly, “Please.”
Anne didn’t budge. “You’re a Frenchman.”
His accent was soft but unmistakable.
“I am,” he agreed.
Anne studied him. He leaned against the doorframe in a relaxed manner, but his eyes were not warm.
“You have no right to do this,” she said.
“I have every right.”
The reply came swiftly and with heat. It gave Anne pause.
“Why?”
“You don’t remember me.”
“I’ve never met you before. At the monastery, yes, when you gave me drugged wine. But not before.” She drew a breath. “If I’ve forgotten, please enlighten me.”
“Oh no, it’s not that easy, Miss Lawrence. I suggest you think harder on it.”
“There’s nothing to think about. I haven’t a clue who you are or what grudge you hold against me.”
He gave her an unreadable look. Then he crossed his arms and gazed up at the moon.
“Will you turn into a monster now? Go ahead.” She filled her voice with scorn. “I’m not afraid of you.”
He shrugged, anger fading to amusement. “Later, perhaps.”
The wind gave a hard tug at her skirts like a mischievous child. Anne had a decent head for heights, but her skin prickled at the darkness yawning behind her.
His brow creased in a frown. “Come down, Miss Lawrence. This is a stupid, dangerous game you’re playing.”
“Then tell me what I’ve done.”
His mouth set in a line. “No.”
“You’ll damn well tell me something,” she burst out. “Where is this place?”
To her surprise, he answered freely.
“Le Côte d'Albâtre.”
“The Alabaster Coast. That’s Normandy, isn’t it?”
He nodded.
She stared out at the dark water. The English Channel. Home was on the other side.
“Come down, Miss Lawrence. Your supper is getting cold.”
She gave a bitter laugh. “Don’t treat me like a child. What are you?”
Father Gavra — or whatever his real name was — arched an eyebrow. “Come down and I’ll tell you.”
Another sudden gust tore loose strands of hair from their pins and whipped them across her face. Anne inched backward until her heels were at the very edge of the wall. A muscle in his jaw tightened.
“Never mind about that,” she said. “I want to know how long you intend you keep me here.”
“I’m sure you do.” His tone was casual, but his eyes were locked on her with an intensity he couldn’t quite conceal. He was afraid of losing his prize.
“Tell me or I’ll jump.”
Another Gallic shrug. “It depends.”
“On what?”
“I’m looking for something. When I find it….”
“You’ll let me go?”
“Perhaps.”
But she could see the lie in his eyes. He had no intention of ever letting her go.
She raised her hand to the cameo.
“No!” he cried.
Anne swayed, pretending to fall under the talisman’s dark enchantment, though she’d been careful to keep her fingers a hair’s breadth away from touching it. If he was too slow, she’d fall to her death. But he had to believe she was utterly helpless before he’d let his guard down. Whatever else he might be, Father Gavra wasn’t stupid.
Her eyes slipped shut and her knees buckled. A hundred paces of open air rushed to meet her. Anne felt an instant of genuine terror and then hands closed around her waist. She found herself hauled over the wall to the safety of the tower.
She watched him through her lashes as he sank to one knee, breathing hard and muttering curses in French. He adjusted his grip so one hand cradled her back, the other the nape of her neck. Nothing about him signaled man-wolf. If anything, he looked like the type to sit around drinking cheap wine and plotting a revolution. Like an impoverished radical.
Or a priest.
Now his gaze rested on the ribbon around her throat, his hands warm against her bare skin. His lips parted slightly as though he meant to lean down and kiss her.
That’s when Anne stabbed him with the sharpened stake she’d whittled from one leg of her bed and hidden in a slit of her bodice. It had taken her two weeks of hard labor. She drove it straight into his heart, where his frock coat had fallen open. He roared and dropped her. She skittered away, pressing her back against the wall. Blood pulsed from the wound, staining his snowy shirt black in the moonlight.
“Merde!”
Father Gavra threw his head back. The tendons his neck grew taut and his teeth clenched. Then he looked down at his chest, yanked out the stake with an expression of annoyance, and tossed it over the parapet.
“Don’t do that again,” he snarled.
Anne’s own hands were shaking uncontrollably. She stared at him in disbelief as he removed his coat and unbuttoned his shirt. Blood slicked his chest, but when he blotted it with one sleeve, the skin beneath was smooth. He pressed his fingers against the spot, wincing a little.
“That’s a neat trick, Father,” she murmured.
He stood and stalked to the door, turning back with blazing eyes. Anne rose to her feet, feeling foolish and angry.
“I cook for you every day and this is the thanks I get?” He raised a hand to his forehead, leaving a streak of blood across his brow. “Nom de dieu! You are a little beast.”
This hardly merited a response. Anne strode past him and started down the stairs. After a moment, he followed. She heard him sigh deeply. His moods seemed to change like the weather.
“Fair enough. You are unhappy. What else do you need? More books? I can get any ones you like.”
She turned back just long enough to shoot him a poisonous look. He was frowning at the bed and the missing panes in the window.
“Is it warm enough? I’m sorry the roof leaks. This place is impossible to keep up.”
“What do I need?” She pretended to mull it over as they took two more turnings and entered the lower chamber with the dining table. “You could let me go.”
The reply was swift and brutal.
“No.”
“Then bring me a violin. A decent one.”
He nodded, his bloody shirt and hands ghastly in the light of the candles. She stared at the array of dishes with no appetite whatsoever. Her captor stalked to the outer door.
“Goodbye, Miss Lawrence.”
The finality of his tone chilled her. As if he might keep her hidden away here forever and never speak to her again.
I must try to reach him. To make him see me as a real person.
“Wait,” she cried.
He paused with his back to her, one hand resting on the door handle.
“I can’t call you Father anymore. You’re no monk. Will you tell me your name at least? Is it Gavra?”
He turned and regarded Anne for a long moment. His eyes were brown with a ring of gold around the iris. She remembered those eyes bearing down on her as she struggled through knee-deep snow, though he hadn’t been a man then.
“It’s Gabriel,” he said, and shut the door behind him. The bolt shot home.
Anne sank into a chair, despair washing over her.
The name meant nothing.