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The rest of the day is a blur of exhaustion and utter desperation to get back to the honeymoon suite. What was suffocating last night feels like a safe haven in the light of a day spent enthralled in my fake budding romance.
The incessant endearments and displays of affection are wearing on my already frayed nerves, especially when each minute brings me closer to reporting back to Madame.
By the time evening rolls around, I’m clutching one of the vials that she hid in my trunk amongst my cosmetics.
The iridescent mixture practically glows behind the amber glass. It’s a sleeping tonic, and I don’t need explicit instructions to know why she sent it. Before the wedding, she made it clear she expected me to return to her the next day.Today.And to her knowledge, the only way I can do that is if Remy is out of commission.
She might still be furious with me, but she also doesn’t want me to get caught and risk her precious mission. She is nothing if not practical, after all.
At least she doesn’t suspect that he knows the truth.
I toy with the glass vial, debating my limited options before tipping a third of the contents into a glass of whiskey. I pour myself a serving as well, handing the spiked one to Remy and curling up in the seat across from him at the fire.
There’s nothing new about us sharing a nightcap after a long day. I am betting on the familiarity of the gesture, and the fact that I have never had to drug him before, to assuage any suspicion.
It works.
He takes the whiskey and downs half the glass without hesitation, not even bothering to check to make sure it’s safe.
I know I should feel guilty, but I can’t bring myself to care when it’s far kinder than what Madame would do if he followed me. For that matter, it’s kinder than what she’ll do to me if I’m late because he tries to stop me.
Even if he didn’t make an issue of it, he might run tattling to Zaina. Then she would be in danger, too.
So I shove any misgivings away as I wait for signs that the sedative has taken effect.
Remy takes another swig from his glass and I follow suit, staring into the dying embers of our fire. We don’t speak, both of us seeming to prefer the oppressive silence to the endless lies we tell ourselves and each other. A few times, the corner of his lips twitch like he wants to say something but then thinks better of it.
Which is for the best. I hardly need another conversation with him weighing on me, and he’s too observant by half. Who knows what he would pick up on if we were on speaking terms.
Remy yawns, his glazed eyes blinking slowly, a sure sign that the drugs are in his system. When he finishes his drink, he sets the empty glass down on the table with a thud, stumbling to his feet toward the bed without so much as a good night.
I wait all of five minutes until his snoring begins before downing another pain tonic, wrapping my black cloak around my shoulders, and climbing out the window.
Despite the tonic, my feet are throbbing by the time I make it to the ground. The wounds I just cleaned are bleeding again, the dampness seeping against my skin.
I suppose it’s for the best. She would be suspicious if they were too healed, and it’s possible that once she’s gotten her anger out, she’ll heal them herself so I can avoid scrutiny.
My choppy breaths billow out in a frosty cloud in front of me, belying the anxiety I’m trying so hard to keep at bay. The cold winter air isn’t helping the pain throbbing in my body, but at least spring will be here soon.
The dungeons are so much more pleasant in the milder seasons, the torture downright bearable.
By the time I find myself creeping down through the crypt at the back of Mother’s estate, my traitorous heartbeat has picked up its speed and my black sense of humor has left me.
As I make my way down the winding, uneven staircase to her throne room, I remind myself that I knew what I was getting into when I decided not to hide. That I have withstood torture many times before.
Though, that was largely for the purpose of teaching me my limits. In doing so, she taught herself my limits as well. And Mother has made an artform of testing those limits, bringing people to the brink of what they can tolerate over and over until their mind and their body are both broken.
Until death is a mercy they beg for.
But my fate isn’t sealed yet. I still have a chance to find a way out of this. I breathe in the familiar scent of musty sea air, blood and damp stone while I head toward the purple light glowing from the end of the hall.
Her throne room. Or one of them, anyway.
I shove all of my guilt and fear and doubt into a box, pushing it deep down until I barely remember it exists. She will sense those things if I allow them to come to the surface.
And that will eliminate any chance I have at leaving this dungeon alive.
* * *
