City of Ruin, page 12
Paige sighs. “I don’t know. They both sound all right. I just read what Prudy makes me read for my studies.”
“Well, The Little Glass Slipper, the story of Cinderella, was the children’s favorite,” I add. “We used to find time to sneak away to read whenever we could.” The memory scores raw wounds, but I smile anyway. “Perhaps we should start with one of those.”
I glance at Blackburn, suddenly curious if I’m even allowed to speak of the children now that they’ve been taken away—if that will upset him like everything else seems to.
He simply stares at me from where he stands across the room, his thoughts somewhere else, so I continue. “They are both lovely stories. Perhaps we will find a copy of one of them in the book room.”
Paige’s brows draw together.
“Well,” I say, taking a sip of my water. “What is it?”
She glances at her father, as if she’s worried about propriety.
“Go on, you can ask me.”
“Well—how come you can read?”
I frown, though I’m not sure why I’m surprised she’d ask such a thing. I imagine most servants can’t read. I’m about to answer when Blackburn clears his throat. “Paige,” he starts with a hint of amusement. We both look at him as he takes a sip from his tumbler and pulls his chair out to join us at the table. “You’ll find that your little governess is not like the others I’ve brought here.”
My eyes flick to his.
“Then, I guess we can read one,” Paige says with a shrug. “But I don’t really like reading very much.” She sighs and brushes her thumb against the condensation of her water glass.
“Yes, life is arduous, Paige,” her father tells her when she sighs again. “You must get used to it.”
She looks at him, perplexed. “What’s arduous mean?”
“Toilsome. Grueling. Demanding,” he explains. “Your life is very difficult, I know.”
Paige’s face sours. “It’s just reading,” she says, missing her father’s sarcasm by leagues.
“Then perhaps your grumbles are unnecessary,” Blackburn counters, taking a sip from his glass again. His eyes flutter closed for the briefest of moments, as if the amber liquor coats his insides, bringing him a sense of comfort.
There’s a shuffle as Prudy and Rosemary enter the dining room. Blackburn leans back as Prudy sets his plate in front of him, and though I notice him glare at her, I’m uncertain why. A silent conversation exchanges between them, and it’s only as Prudy looks at me that I notice a bruise on her temple and beneath her eye, darkening the wrinkles on her face.
The moment she averts her gaze from his, I feel her shame like it’s my own. This time, when my blood runs cold, it seems to catch fire just as quickly. I knew he was a monster, but to see the jackal that lurks beneath the surface firsthand is something I cannot ignore, for it both terrifies and infuriates me.
I bite the inside of my cheek as Rosemary sets my plate in front of me. My hunger has shriveled to nausea. The impulse to lash out and chide Blackburn for doing something so cruel dances on the tip of my tongue, but I swallow it down with two gulps of water, and focus on the roasted pheasant and vegetables on my plate instead.
Do not push him.
Do not push him. I tell myself over and over to keep quiet. Prudy and the servants in the hall today with scars and limps are all proof of what might become of me.
I take another long, cool sip of water.
It’s quiet as Prudy and Rosemary bring out a basket of fresh bread and some jams. Blackburn takes a sip of whiskey before cutting into the savory, glistening pheasant on his plate. I fork some into my mouth absently. It’s delicious, yet I no longer have an appetite. Instead, I drink what’s left of my water and pour myself some more.
“I taught Selene to skip rocks today!” Paige beams.
“Oh,” Blackburn says, as if he hadn’t been watching us from the castle window. “And how did she do?” When he looks at me, waiting for Paige to regale him, I find my accusatory stare is already fixed on his brooding face. Blackburn stares back and lifts a wry eyebrow, expectant.
“She did better than I did my first time,” Paige explains. “And she’s really good at finding the flat rocks.”
Registering the quiet shush of the room, I realize they are both waiting for me to say something. “I had a good teacher,” I say gently, finally looking back down at my plate. I push the vegetables around, contemplating what to do when my mind and heart pull me in so many directions.
There are a few more scrapes of forks and knives on the plates before Blackburn speaks again. “Your clothes,” he starts, pointing his knife at me. “Prudy will have some new ones made for you.” Though the offer of new clothes is surprising, I know it’s not for my wellbeing so much as his. “And,” he continues, “if there is anything else you require, you only need ask—”
“No, thank you. I’m fine.”
Blackburn pauses mid-cut of his meat, but I don’t look up from picking at my food.
“Do you dislike pheasant?” he asks, wiping his mouth with his napkin.
Paige glances between us, chomping on her carrots, her plate half-empty.
“If there’s something else you prefer,” he continues, “I can speak with Ms. Fairchild—”
“It’s lovely, thank you.” I push my plate away from me. “I’ve simply lost my appetite.”
His stare is liquid fire against my face, but I refuse to look at him, fearing what I will see. I don’t want to lose the anger that emboldens me and keeps me from fleeing this place, leaving Paige alone with her monstrous father.
“Tomorrow,” Blackburn starts again, forking another bite of pheasant, “I’ll arrange for you to see the estate.”
I can’t help but look at him this time, surprised he would allow such a thing.
“Paige can go with you, if you like. But you should be familiar with the land and tenants—with how things are run—if you are going to live here. And everyone should know who you are.”
Whatever Blackburn’s hidden agenda, I know it has less to do with me and more to do with whatever he’s planning. Something with the slave ship, perhaps. Or with the Council and production—I’m not sure what, but I’m not so naive as to think he would offer me so much for nothing. “If it pleases you,” I reply, forcing myself to be obedient when all I want to do is tell him I hate him, like a petulant child.
Blackburn dabs his mouth and drops his napkin back in his lap. “I would’ve thought you’d be happy to get away from the manor for the day. I know how much you hate to be caged up and feel indentured. Don’t you wish to see the wilderness and meet some of the people that put food on your plate?”
“I would, thank you,” I tell him, but the words are lifeless and forced. I can’t bring myself to feign anything more than politeness.
“Then why are you sulking?” he says brusquely. “You’ve gotten what you asked for—you are to remain with Paige despite the fit you threw last night. I’ve requested the carriage prepared for your outing and arranged for you to see—”
“And I said thank you,” I grind out, looking at him with disdain. I hate that he can speak to me as if it’s a normal day in a life where I am not a toy to him, in a life where he doesn’t beat his servants and lose his temper and collect people as if they are trinkets to sell at market. “I will be obedient and do as you wish, but you cannot make me pretend to feel at home here, to be happy.”
Blackburn drops his fork, the clatter filling the room, making both Paige and me jump.
“Please, enlighten us with your miserable life here, so that Paige and I might enjoy our meal without you glowering and brooding the entire time,” he drawls, pushing his plate away.
I feel it then, the bubbling of emotions. The fear is overshadowed by the anger and exhaustion and hatred of men like him. This is a game for him. My nostrils flare as he waves at me to explain.
“In truth?” I ask, knowing I should keep quiet.
“Please, don’t hold back now.” He sits back in his chair, clasping his hands in front of him.
“You are a horrible brute who rules us all with fear.” I turn in my seat to fully face him. “And despite how terrified I am of you and this awful place,” I admit, “it makes me sick to my stomach to pretend otherwise. I can’t smile and ignore that you have pages upon pages of names of the people whose lives you’ve stolen from them—humans who are worth no more than a pocket of coins to you. People who you have collected for your own gain—”
“That’s enough,” he says with a razor-sharp edge. His knuckles whiten into fists and he doesn’t take his eyes from me. “Paige, finish your dinner in the kitchen.”
I glance furtively at Paige. The thought of her being sent away makes me deflate a little, and it’s only then I realize her presence provided me some comfort and courage.
“Now, Paige,” Blackburn commands.
She scoots herself away from the table and scampers out of the dining room with her half-eaten plate.
“A slave collector and brute?” he recounts with feigned amusement the instant Paige is out of the room. “Since the moment you stepped into my carriage, I’ve offered you nothing but protection, luxuries you’ve never had in your life, and whatever kindnesses I can afford.”
“But to what end—” He holds up his hand, silencing me.
“You, Miss Sinclair, have done nothing but instigate a quarrel at every turn. Can you not simply be grateful—”
“Because you haven’t struck me yet like the rest of your slaves?”
“Stop calling them that—”
“Why?” I jump to my feet, my chair clattering onto the rug. My hair falls from my braid into my face, but I barely notice. “You are the infamous Collector, aren’t you? And you buy people. That’s what they are—that’s what all of us are to you, no matter what you tell yourself.” I inhale a deep breath. “You purchase us and we do whatever you require. And buying me new clothes to look like a governess changes none of that. It only makes you feel better.”
Fury, white and hot, burns in his eyes as he stalks around the table toward me. I hold my breath, wondering what I will do if Blackburn strikes me. He stops mere inches from me. “You speak as if you have somewhere else to go,” he seethes. “You must really miss that malodorous orphanage and the greedy gaze of—”
“At least at Bedlam, I knew what lurked in the shadows. Here, there is nothing but ghosts and death.”
His eyes flare as if I’ve slapped him.
“You know nothing about me, about this place—”
“Nor do I wish to.”
Blackburn shakes his head and grits his teeth as if he’s exasperated with me. “You are a spoiled, reckless woman who’s no doubt brought more hardship upon yourself, and those children you claim to care so much about, because of it.” He flings his arm toward the gardens, just beyond the wall. “If I am so horrible, then go,” he growls. “Leave this place. I would be glad to be rid of you. You are far more trouble than you are worth.”
My breath catches in my throat, my anger fizzling away in confusion.
“I said go,” he snaps. “You are free to leave this horrible place.”
An unmistakable hope fills me, and I speak carefully. “You say that, but I know you don’t mean—”
“If you knew half as much about me as you claim to, Miss Sinclair, you would know I’m entirely serious.” His tone is so level it makes the hair on my arms stand on end. “So, if you want to leave so badly, do it. There are plenty of other unfortunates out there who would gladly have a warm bed to sleep in and a roof over their heads, whatever the cost.”
I blink at him, fear swallowing me as I seriously consider walking out the door. The indecision is crippling, and I bite my lip. Stay and live in fear or worse. Leave and face endless uncertainty.
“What, no place else to go?” Blackburn taunts, smiling cruelly. “Just as I thought. You say you want your freedom, but presented with it, you are too frightened to claim it.”
My lip curls, my spine straightening in defiance.
Again, he gestures toward the door. “No one is stopping you.”
Fingernails biting into my palms, I seize the freedom only he can grant me, and march out of the dining hall, nearly colliding with Prudy.
Adrenaline whirs in my ears as the world blurs around me, and I can’t stop myself from breaking into a run toward the front door. I grab my tattered shawl from the hook and fling the door open, stepping out into the howling wind. I let it wash over me as I inhale my freedom, a strange mix of relief and fear making my feet move, taking me deeper into darkness.
19
GREYSON
Indecision wars within the little governess, puckering her brow as she bites her lip. I hate that I notice it. I hate that I want her to leave, taking the weighty decisions that rest before me with her . . . I wish it, as much as I hope she will choose to stay.
My stomach churns at the thought, and guilt swallows me all over again.
In haste, Miss Sinclair rushes from the room, nearly running into Prudy before she disappears down the hall.
My chest heaves, my fists clench at my sides, and all I can think is how much I loathe myself for bringing a spoiled, ungrateful, headstrong woman into this house—into Paige’s life—only for her to leave. I knew from the start that Miss Sinclair was a risk, and I ignored it, once more giving in to the poisonous promise of hope.
The front door slams shut, punctuating her decision, and Prudy looks at me.
“Not a single word,” I command, and taking the decanter and my glass, I storm past her.
“But, sir—”
“What?” I snap, and spin around. “What do you want me to do, Prudence? You heard the woman. She doesn’t wish to be here, and I am done wasting time.”
“It’s just—” Prudy wrings her hands, and I’m five seconds from shouting again when she finally says, “A storm is brewing.”
Only then do I register the howl of wind, the branches of the dogwood scratching against the window.
“Where will she go?” she prompts.
Though my instincts nudge me to go after the ungrateful wretch, I know she wishes to see me as much as I wish to see her right now, and my pride has been battered enough. “Prudy,” I say, low and steady. “The blood-sucking proxy will be here within the week. I’m done worrying about one woman who doesn’t even want to be here. No more distractions.”
There’s a sadness in Prudy’s eyes I refuse to give in to.
“If you’re so worried about the girl, you go after her,” I grumble, and with a gulp from the decanter, I march away to lick my wounds.
20
SELENE
My heart is hammering, my pulse racing, and I’m shivering as I wrap my shawl tighter around me, bracing myself against the angry wind. Blackburn was right. I have no place else to go, but even if I risk death in this weather, I refuse to turn back. Everything about Blackburn and this place screams danger and death.
Certain I can’t get far in the windstorm, I slip through a servant door of the old castle, practically rusted off its hinges. The entry is a short hall giving way to a dark room made more ominous by the moving shadows pouring through the windows. The wind lashes over my clothes and exposed skin, and I hurry for the next chamber, hoping it’s more enclosed.
I shiver as the cool air settles around me and the dank atmosphere sets in, bone-chilling without a fire to warm me.
As the wind continues to howl, it brings with it a barely perceptible moan that I tell myself is only my imagination again. Nothing more. Pushing the trepidation aside, I explore the hall and another room, but the wall is cracked and crumbled in areas, allowing the wind and sprinkle of rain to seep inside and tug at my frock and loose hair. Continuing down another hallway, I find a chandelier, crashed and shattered on a rotted dining room table, and I realize how much more devastated the castle’s interior is than it appears from the road. This entire side of the castle is nothing but a crumbled ruin consumed by the wind.
I spot a staircase and carefully climb it in search of a windless, dry place to rest and collect myself.
The landing is bowed and splintered in some areas, but there is a clear pathway through the littered hall of broken busts and eroded paintings—so many paintings—until I get to a few more rooms. One of them has a locked door, so I move on to the next. There’s a hole in the roof where the rain is pouring through. I continue to the next, finding no real reprieve from the cold, until finally, I come to a room at the end of the hall, its door creaking on its hinges. Pushing the door open, I step inside. It’s drafty but concealed from the elements.
Leaning my shoulder against the wall, I allow myself a moment of relief to have found some place relatively safe to sleep. I tuck my loose hair behind my ear as my pulse settles, and peer around.
The room is like a forgotten tomb, but it was beautiful and grand once. There’s a four-poster bed with a tattered lace canopy, and the peeling floral wallpaper boasts stateliness from a more lavish era.
I stop in the middle of the room. Pink lips, strawberry hair, and bright green eyes stare at me from a weather-ravaged painting, leaning against a massive hearth. I know those eyes. I’ve seen those eyes staring back at me from the portrait in Blackburn’s study. Only the painting was only a third of the size.
Suddenly, I see this chamber for what it once was. Hers—theirs, perhaps. And as I take a step closer, I notice what looks like old stains—perhaps years-old blood, discoloring the rug. Heart thudding in the base of my throat, I stare at the portrait more closely, at what looks like angry slashes or tears across her face and the way the canvas seems to weep as it peels itself away from what used to be.
I don’t know what comes over me, but I itch to touch it, so I reach to unfurl a piece of the image, hanging like a shield over part of her face.
