Page 67 of John Eyre

“And you bought it?”

“Not yet. But it will be mine.” And then he added, very quietly: “I have been looking for it all of my life.”

His words shouldn’t have been ominous. I know the single-mindedness of some collectors. They’ll happily bankrupt themselves to acquire a coveted piece. But I nevertheless felt a strange shiver of unease. “Is there something particular about this book that appeals to you?”

“You ask a great many questions,” he said. “Take care. The answers may not be to your liking.”

21 April. — Today, Edward was out again on another midnight errand. When he returned, he came to my bedroom, and summoning me to my little desk, placed before me a bottle of ink, a freshly sharpened quill, and several blank sheets of paper. “You must write two letters to your friend, Miss Ingram,” he said.

My heart fairly leapt. “To Blanche? Do you mean to post them for me?”

“Indeed.” He set his hand upon my shoulder, squeezing it so tightly that he caused me pain. “But you must write what I tell you to.”

A chill settled into my veins. “What is it that you wish me to say to her?”

“Only this,” he replied silkily. “In the first letter, you will tell her that you and I have left Varna. In the second you will say that we have boarded a ship for Marseilles.”

I met his eyes, and he looked into mine, unflinching. There was a diabolical gleam in the depths of his gaze. I knew then that, were it up to him, I would never again see Varna, let alone England.

Strengthening his grip on my shoulder, he commanded me to date the first letter ten days hence, and the second for two weeks after that. When I’d done so, he collected the letters, along with the writing implements, and departed my chamber. I heard the bolt slide into place as he shut the door behind him.

I am again locked in my room. And unless I am very much mistaken, I have but ten days to contrive an escape. Or else…God help me.

22 April. — The pretense between Edward and I has been entirely abandoned. I know it now for what it was all along. A source of amusement to him. A means of toying with me, as a cat toys with a mouse, building the smaller creature’s terror until that final moment when the cat at last makes a meal of him.

This morning, he returned at sunrise to unbolt my door. Where he’d been, I haven’t the faintest idea. Yesterday, I might have refrained from asking in order to keep the peace. But today, I had no such concerns. I went directly up to him, and spoke in my most challenging tone. “What do you mean by locking me in my room? Have you no honor at all?”

His mouth curved into a lazy smile. “My English tigress. I see that a night in your cage has failed to subdue you.”

Oh! If I were a man, I would have hit him. But I have no such power. Only words—the bulk of which appeared to have no impact on him at all. “It was never Mrs. Wren, was it? That first time I found myself a prisoner here? It was you all along. You locked me in my room then, just as you did last night.” I looked him straight in the eye. “You coward.”

His mood changed, swift as quicksilver. One moment he was smiling, and the next he had me by the throat. With one squeeze of his fingers, he cut off my air. “Have a care, dear lady,” he said. “Lest I tire of you sooner than anticipated.”

Blood roared in my ears. I daresay it deprived me of sense, as well as oxygen, for when he loosened his grip, I took only the barest breath before attacking him, once more, with the only weapon at my disposal. “Coward,” I said. “Abuser of women.”

His fingers tightened, crushing my throat as brutally as a vise. He lifted me straight up onto the toes of my slippers. “Say it again,” he said softly. “I dare you to.”

I was afraid. Of course, I was. But another emotion transcended fear. I saw my life flash before my eyes, as bright and brilliant as the pages of an illuminated manuscript. All those years yearning for adventure. All those years resisting marriage to worthy gentlemen. All for this—to end my days in the clutches of such a villain. And I wasn’t frightened any longer. I was angry.

“Coward,” I choked out. “Parasite.”

At that, he roared his outrage like any animal and threw me across the length of the room with unbelievable strength. I hit the wall, banging my head sharply before crumpling to the floor. Dizziness assailed my senses, and a taste of bile rose in my throat. I feared I would faint, my lifeless body left entirely to his evil devices.

I willed myself to remain conscious, rising up to a sitting position against the wall.

For a moment, it looked as though he would come to me and finish the violence he’d begun. Instead, he drew back, his face a mask of controlled fury. “Count yourself lucky I still have need of you,” he said.

And then he left me.

23 April. — The date of our departure is set for the first of May. That gives me seven days exactly. A feeling of desperation has made me conscious of every passing second. I’ve resolved to use my time as efficiently as I can.

I spent all of last night in my room, wary of venturing forth. Only this morning, when Edward finally retired to bed, was I able to go down to the kitchen to procure myself something to eat. The cheese and bread I found had gone moldy, and our small store of meat had begun to rot. My husband must be dining out in the evenings, for he has touched none of the food here. I shouldn’t like to eat it either, but I must keep up my strength.

At present, there is no way out of Nosht-Vŭlk. No unlocked door, and no window from which I can climb. What I require most is a key. But how to gain access to it? Edward carries the keys on his person. I can’t overpower him when he’s awake, and while he sleeps, he lies safe behind the two locked doors of his bedchamber.

Returning to my room, I examined this lock on the connecting door. I knew it was strong. It had never so much as budged during all of my angry shaking and rattling. But was it a complicated mechanism? I knelt down on the stone floor in front of it and gave it a thorough looking over.

When I was a girl, Mama once confiscated a novel she caught me reading and locked it away in the drawer of her dressing table. Later, after much clumsy fiddling, I managed to spring the lock with a bent hairpin, and thereby retrieve my book. Would such a simple trick work on one of the locks at Nosht-Vŭlk?