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It had been two months and three days. It was nearly September. And she was beginning to think that she had already gone crazy. That she was a madwoman locked away in a castle, which was an upgrade from the proverbial attic, but it ended up the same.
Alone and unhinged. Matted hair and too much emotion. And an almost insatiable need to do the things she knew she shouldn’t.
There was another flash of lightning, and then a low, ominous rumble of thunder following it.
She heard a harsh, rhythmic kind of noise, and realized with some shock that she was panting. As if she’d been running.
And then, when another roll of thunder seemed to shake that wall of windows behind her, she found herself sobbing.
Angelina sank to her knees, there in that solitary hall.
She had waited and waited, but it was nights like this that were killing her. Was this how he’d rid himself of all those wives?
And as soon as she had that thought, she had to ask herself—what kind of death was worse?
This had to be a test. But how long could she do it? She’d had a month of play, and then one impossibly beautiful night with a man everyone insisted was evil incarnate. Her heart had rejected that definition of him.
Could she set that against these months of neglect? She was slowly turning into one of the antiques that cluttered this place. Soon she would be nothing more than a story the dour old woman told, shuffling groups of tourists from room to room.
“I have been a prisoner my whole life,” she sobbed, into her hands.
Her piano made her feel free, but she wasn’t.
At the end of the day, she was just a girl in a tower, playing and playing, in the hopes that someone might hear her.
All Benedetto had done was trap her. Her family had never wished to listen to her play, but they’d heard her all the same. Now the only thing that heard her was the sea, relentless and uncaring. Waiting.
She lifted her head, shoving the mass of her hair back. Her heart was kicking at her, harder and harder.
She already knew what her mother would tell her. What her sisters would advise.
You’ve got it made, Petronella would say with a sniff.You’re left to your own devices in a glorious castle to call your own. What’s to complain about?
Angelina understood that she would fail this test. That she already had, and all of this had been so much pretending otherwise. The key suspended between her breasts seemed to pulse, in time with that hunger that she still couldn’t do anything to cure.
Before she knew what she meant to do, the key was in her hand. She stared at it, as another flash of lightning lit up the hall, and she could have sworn that she saw the key flash too. As if everything was lightning and portent, dread and desire.
The ring Benedetto had put on her other hand seemed heavy, suddenly. And all she could think about was six dead women. And a bedchamber made bloodred with dark rubies.
And was she really to blame if she couldn’t stay here any longer without looking behind the one door that was always kept closed?
What if he was in there? Hurt?
What if something far more horrible was in there?
Like all the women who had disappeared, never to be heard from again.
Even as she thought it, something in her denied it. Her heart would not accept him as a villain.
But either way, she found herself on her feet.
And then she was at the door, one palm flat against the metal. She blew out a breath that was more like a sob. She thrust the key into the lock, the way she’d done one time before, amazed how easily it went in. Smooth and simple andright.
She held her breath. Then she threw the dead bolt.
Alarms didn’t sound. The castle didn’t crumble to ash all around her.
Emboldened, Angelina blew out the breath she was holding. She took another one, deeper than before, and pushed the heavy door open. She expected it to creak ominously, as if she was in a horror film.
