Page 1 of Caging Darling (The Lost Girl #3)

CHAPTER 1

“ H ow long have you and your husband been married?”

There’s a conspiratorial nature to Lady Estrias’s question. It’s in the way she obscures her painted red lips with an imported fan as she leans toward me. Still, I’m left with the impression I’m not the one she wishes to conspire with. Her whisper possesses that breathy quality, the kind that renders it loud enough for the men to hear. She might as well have puckered her lips and blown air directly onto her fan’s paper pleats.

Across the dining table, Peter’s pointed ears perk at the question. He answers for me. “Coming up on a year. Can you believe it, Wendy Darling?”

I stare at him. He’s quite dashing in the candlelight. An odd choice for lighting a dinner party. Not faerie dust lamps, as is fashionable. Or perhaps they’re out of fashion now.

I’m not exactly up on the current trends.

The glow dances across Peter’s copper hair, giving it a reddish tint I almost never glimpse in Neverland. We’ve only been in Estelle three days, and the sun has already darkened him three shades. It suits him—the contrast with his blue eyes.

He’s all the more captivating for it.

He’s dressed in a charcoal suit he stole from a tailor in the next town over. His ears are on display—the Estriases are the type of nobility who find their position elevated by associating with the fae, so there’s no need for a disguise. To them, they might as well be having a Fate over for dinner. Still, Peter withdrew his wings into his back before we came, shifting them into shadowy tendrils first. He’s dashing, and fits right in with the expensive oak table, the golden place settings, and the heavy indigo drapes that even a hurricane couldn’t cause to flutter.

“Yes, it is difficult to believe we’ve been together for so long,” I say, my smile curving without any effort on my part as I tease, “You’ll have to remind me how you managed to win me over.”

Lord Estrias chuckles from underneath the blond mustache that does nothing to obscure his youth. He’s only just turned twenty. Three years younger than me, though he wouldn’t know it. I spend enough time in Neverland that I’ve not aged in any way that’s noticeable to the naked eye.

My mother would be proud.

“Sounds like there’s a story behind those words,” says the lord.

Peter smiles, and it outshines the candles. Carmine blotches creep across Lady Estrias’s cheeks, blooming past her liberally applied rouge. Another new fashion I’ve missed. My mother’s training has me itching to excuse myself to the ladies’ room and pinch my cheeks. Something twists in my stomach at the delight that sparks in Peter’s eyes at her obvious attraction. But then Peter turns that beautiful smile on me and the knot in my stomach relaxes.

I’ve grown quite jealous in my captivity. If John were here, he’d know the term for that, I’m sure.

“A story I hope my beautiful wife will be gracious enough not to make me tell,” says Peter. “I’m afraid the truth of it paints a rather foolish portrait of my character. Though the story turned out well in the end.” His smile falters at that, but only just so. I’m the only one to notice. It’s been a year and eleven months of choosing Peter, a year and eleven months since he called in his bargain. Plenty of time to memorize Peter’s tells.

“Perhaps another drink might swindle the story out of one of you,” says our hostess. A servant immediately appears from the shadows, refilling Peter’s goblet, though he hesitates when he reaches mine.

“You’re not drinking,” says Lady Estrias, staring at the burgundy surface of my wine, taut as the leather head of a drum.

“Not tonight,” I say, a flush creeping to my cheeks as her eyes dip to my stomach, and not in a manner that would only be decipherable by someone who knew her well.

“Well, I’m just thrilled that the two of you have moved in,” she says, after clearing her throat. “Develi is a lovely little town, but Edward and I were beginning to fear the manor next to ours would never sell.”

“I hope that’s not a jab at our tastes,” says Peter. Lady Estrias appears horrified that she might have offended him, but is quickly mollified when Peter winks at her. Her shoulders go lax, immediately at ease in his presence.

“Not at all, it’s a beautiful home,” says Lady Estrias. “All I meant was that with?—”

“With property values decreasing with the halt on faerie dust production, we were sure the only neighbors we’d have for a good long while would be ghosts,” says Lord Estrias, cutting off his wife.

Peter takes a swig of his wine. He stares at Lord Estrias with an amusement he’s hiding behind his goblet. The lord does not appear to notice.

“No need to worry about frightening us,” I say. “The butcher in town already did enough of that, I assure you.”

The lord and his wife exchange a look. Lady Estrias purses her painted lips, looking as if she might explode if she doesn’t partake in the gossip dangling unspoken between us.

“Are we sure this is appropriate dinner talk, my love?” asks our host to his wife.

“Oh, please, Edward. They’ve already been frightened. Might as well put their minds at ease before they pack up and sell the manor, leaving us bereft again.”

Regret characterizes the way the man regards his bride. For a moment, I think I know why, but the way he says, “All right,” makes me wonder if it’s because he married someone he adores too fervently to chastise.

“They’re just stories, of course,” says Lady Estrias. “They don’t mean anything, other than a means for the impoverished to distract themselves from their misery.” Or the rich, I think to myself. “But they say there’s a ghoul here who has a…shall we say, predilection for women of a certain disposition.”

“I heard it’s fond of busty blondes,” says Peter, eyes fixating on Lady Estrias’s golden hair. She flushes again at his attention, running her open palm not against her hair, but over her rather endowed chest. “I’m not sure how you sleep at night,” says Peter.

“Well.” Lady Estrias’s exhale is sharp, as if her last intention was to draw attention to her own assets. “If that’s all the story said, I’d be frightened indeed.”

“But you believe you’re safe,” I say.

Lady Estrias cuts her black-lined eyes toward me, but it’s her husband who answers. “Of course, she’s safe. The stories are just that—stories. Stories don’t come to life and harm anyone.”

“Of course they don’t,” I say, clutching my napkin in my lap. I find my gaze drifting to the starlit window.

“It’s not only that,” says Lady Estrias. “I must admit, I’m more superstitious than my husband. I believe the stories, but the ghoul won’t come for me.”

Peter cocks his head. “And why is that?”

There’s a hint of amusement in her tone when she says, “I’m afraid I don’t possess the correct occupation.”

“Sasha,” the lord says, clearly embarrassed.

“No,” says Peter, placing his elbows on the table and leaning across it. “I’d like to know.”

Lady Estrias’s eyes sparkle, pinning Peter in place. She rubs the pads of her fingers together, making a grasping motion that causes her rings to scrape against one another. “I’m certain your wife would prefer you not.”

Lord Estrias shifts uncomfortably. “Say, it’s getting late.”

Before he can dismiss us, Peter rises from his seat. “Ah, look at the time. But hey, wouldn’t be the end of the night without a smoke, would it?”

Before Lord Estrias can object, Peter pulls a pair of fine cigars from his coat pocket.

“Krushian cigars?” Lord Estrias whistles. “My, you must introduce me to those foreign connections of yours.”

A sly grin slips across Peter’s face as he hands Lord Estrias the cigar.

“How did you do it?” Lady Estrias whispers once the men have absconded from the room.

I swirl the wine in my cup, letting the scent waft over me. The longing is there, but I refrain. It takes a conscious effort. I suppose it always will.

But there’s so little control I have left.

This—abstaining from wine—this, I still have. This, Peter allows.

“Do what?” I ask pleasantly, as if I don’t know what she’s referring to. As if it’s not the same question I’ve been asked by a dozen bored housewives.

The lady takes a swig from her own goblet, her smile mischievous. “Snag yourself a fae husband. Obviously, you’re gorgeous—I don’t mean to imply otherwise. But where does one even find the fae?”

“I didn’t find him. He found me.”

Her eyes linger on my Mating Mark, the golden brush of starlight against my pale cheek. “Did he feel it?” Wonder almost obscures the envy dripping in her tone. “Did he follow it to you? Come searching for you?”

My throat goes dry, though my smile remains painted. It’s easy enough, thanks to my mother and the bargain I’ve learned to live with as one might a chronic ailment. I’m practically arthritic. “It’s a long story.”

The woman flits her hand. “Oh, please. You must have realized that running off to a coastal village isn’t nearly as romantic as the novels paint it out to be. You’ve only been here a handful of days, but dear, I’ve been isolated from society for two months. It wears on a girl. One’s mind starts to wander.” She claps her hands on the table. “I’m telling you, I’ve read every novel in the library twice. You must put me out of my misery and tell me something new.”

My pulse pounds in my ears. I watch her. Her pretty, heart-shaped face. The way not a single strand of hair falls out of place. The paint that obscures her boredom, her misery.

“Really, darling. I feel as though I’m trapped here,” she says.

“Tell me how you met your Edward.”

She waves the kerchief she just used to dab her lips. “It’s an ordinary tale. I’d rather hear yours.”

I smile. It’s the Mary Darling one. “Peter stole me.”

The woman’s smile falters, her eyes widening. There’s a flicker of confusion there, but then she lets out a startled laugh. “Oh, like the legends of old. You know, I used to believe those as well. But Peter has me convinced the fae are much more civilized than the propaganda we’ve been handed.”

I don’t answer. I just wait, my hand still on the goblet full of the elixir that could extract me from this miserable existence for a while if I let it.

There was a time when I would have let it.

“Oh…” Her face falls, slowly. Wax dripping down the shaft of a candle. “You’re utterly serious, aren’t you?”

She glances toward the parlor door. They all do that. Stare off like they can see through the walls. Like looking in his direction will help them make sense of how such a beautiful male, one with such a pleasant demeanor, could be such a monster. So cruel.

In the end, they all reach the same conclusion.

“I envy you,” she says.

It’s not their fault. Their scales for measuring cruelty are broken. Skewed. There’s no use being angry with them.

“And why’s that?”

She picks at the napkin in front of her. Her rouged cheeks sag. She looks five years older with that single shift in expression. Perhaps this is why my mother always smiled through the pain.

“You never longed for it, as a girl? To be stolen away by a dark and terrible creature?” Her throat bobs. When she looks at me, she must find the answer she desires on my face—people always do—because she grasps at her chest, ruby bracelets jangling at her wrist, and says, “Why is it there? Why is it in our hearts, from such a young age? And why is it so difficult to shake? Why do we long to hurt?”

An ornate brass letter opener lies dormant on the desk situated against the wall. I feel as if it’s caught in my throat. Fortunately, I have become accustomed to swallowing sharp objects. I reach across the table, hovering over her wine for but a moment before I take her hand. Her fingers are so cold, the chill seeps through both of our gloves.

Lady Estrias wilts, a thirsty day lily I’ve overwatered with nothing but the truth of my situation. It only takes a moment before she switches the position of our hands, placing hers atop mine. She pats it, her entire demeanor changed, the only sign of her anxiety over what she just confessed the urgency with which she takes a swig of her wine.

It takes three seconds for the poison to settle in. Five for the lady to realize something is wrong. Her face contorts, brows drawing together. She thinks she’s having an anxious fit. But the change that overcomes her as the truth settles in is all too familiar. The bulging of her confused eyes. The way they focus on me, horror morphing into betrayal, settling into fear.

“What did you put in my drink?” she asks. “My arms, my legs! I can’t?—”

She slumps against the back of her chair, her arms sinking into the armrests of the wooden chair.

“Don’t fret,” I say. “It’s only rushweed, and a low dose. It won’t cause any permanent damage.”

“Is he taking me, too?” The question they all ask.

It shouldn’t sting anymore. Not after how many times I’ve heard it. It’s not the question, so much as the way it’s asked. It’s fearful, of course. Pitch-heightened with a raspy quality. But there’s something else there, lingering underneath the surface.

Hope. Hope that’s been soiled, twisted into something else. Lust, perhaps?

“No,” I say, taking off my gloves, one by one. The satin feels decadent against my skin. “No. He wants only me.”

All of me.

The emerald ring Peter gave me when he proposed shines on my finger. Shines. Not glitters. It used to glitter, but I don’t remember the last time we bothered to clean it. The last time he bothered to clean it.

“Will you rob us, then?”

“In a way.” I glance at the woman. She’s afraid now. And not the hopeful sort. The shaking could be construed as either, but there’s a bead of sweat forming on her dewy brow.

She should be afraid. But not of Peter. Certainly not of me.

Glass shatters in the parlor, the sound muffled by the closed door between us.

“Edward,” the woman says, though I can’t tell if the fear is for her husband, or if she’s calling out for help, or if it’s a little of both. Emotions are so complicated.

Mine were once complicated.

“What have you done?” Edward’s shouting in the parlor.

Peter’s voice is silky, cruel. Amused. “Nothing, yet. But I have plans. Ideations. You know about those, Edward.”

“What’s going on?” asks the limp woman in the chair across from me.

“Which one of you wished to move to Develi?” I ask.

She frowns, crinkling her forehead. “It was me. I wanted to be by the ocean.”

“But why here? In Develi. A little town no one’s heard of. Why did you choose it?”

Her breathing grows labored. “Edward found it for me. Said it was the perfect place for the two of us.”

“And the ghost stories? When did you hear about those?”

She frowns. “Not until we arrived.”

“No, you didn’t hear of them until you arrived.”

“I don’t understand. They’re just stories.”

“For now,” I say, trying to drown out the commotion in the other room. Edward is whimpering now, but if I can keep talking, I can distract Lady Estrias from the worst of it. “But they won’t be—wouldn’t have been—for long.”

“I don’t understand,” she whispers. A statement they always mean as a question.

“You never do.” I bite my lip, then lift myself from my seat. Taking the chair next to the trembling woman, I put my hand on hers once more. She flinches—a twitch of her brow, a tightening of her painted lips. But after a moment, she relaxes.

“Your husband has an affinity for violence,” I explain. “It stems from the relationship he had with his aunt.”

The woman swallows. “How do you know about Pearl?”

“Peter and I…” I shouldn’t have to search for the words. I’ve explained this often enough. “Well, I’m not just a slave to him. Nor him to me.”

“Someone sent you,” she says.

“Yes. It’s not important who. It’s not even important that we know about your husband’s past.”

Lady Estrias shakes her head as much as she can manage in her drugged state. If I were her, I don’t think I’d be concerned with avoiding the past. But shame runs deep in the aristocracy. It’s one thing to gossip about the prostitutes down by the docks. Another thing entirely to admit that your husband’s aunt had an affair with his father, breaking up his parents’ marriage.

“The abuse he endured at the hand of his aunt, his stepmother, is irrelevant,” I explain. “To our benefactor, the past is of no consequence. Only the future. Rather, what would become of the future were it allowed to play out.”

The woman scans my face. They do this sometimes. Like they’re looking for a defect. Like one might experience in a dream. A face whose features you can’t quite make out. A person who was once a friend and in a moment’s time has morphed into a family member.

I’m not a defect in a dream. I’m a ghoul of a girl. Just as terrifying, though.

“I look like her,” says the woman, her look far off now, focused everywhere and nowhere at once. “I didn’t know. Not until after we wed. I was exploring the attic one day, seeking family heirlooms we might use to decorate. Edward’s style was so drab when he was a bachelor. And then I found it—a portrait of her. He hadn’t needed to tell me what she’d done. The town had tried to warn me off from him. Said he came from an undesirable family. No one told me I looked like her. She died long before we met. I always wondered,” she says, “how he could stand me. How he could possibly look at me without seeing her.”

A memory from the past tugs at me. A rough voice in a bedroom full of windows. When I look at you, do you know what I picture?

I shut him out and answer the confused Lady Estrias with a sigh. “He tried. For a long time. Your husband couldn’t stand his fascination with you. But he couldn’t be without you either.”

“My husband loves me.”

I’m uncertain who she’s attempting to convince. I nod.

She nods back, biting her lip. It smudges some of the red paint, staining her teeth. “But he hates me, too.”

“Yes.” I pause. There’s a commotion in the other room, and the woman is becoming distressed, so I speak louder. “Your husband doesn’t wish to hurt you. He’d do anything not to. Anything. Including moving you to a quaint seaside village where the inhabitants are superstitious. A place where, when blonde girls start disappearing, they’ll blame the ghosts. Not the wealthy nobleman who just moved in.”

Lady Estrias’s whimpers grate against my ears, which reflects poorly on my part. I should feel more sympathy than I do. “I haven’t heard news of missing girls,” she says. “Not other than the ghost stories.”

There’s a crash in the parlor.

“That’s because the girls are still alive.”

The lady gasps. Again, I watch as she scans the ceiling, as if she might see through it into the attic. “Here? Does he keep them here?”

“No, darling. They’re alive. Walking the docks. Horrible things have happened to them, but so far, your husband isn’t one of them.”

Relief pools in her lids. “So Edward…he hasn’t killed anyone. He can still be helped?”

“He can be stopped.”

The relief washes away with the tears streaming down her cheeks. “You’re not here to scare him out of it, are you?”

“I’m afraid not,” I say, though this is a lie. I have no pity for the man whimpering in the parlor across from us. Not when I know what was woven into his tapestry, try as the Middle Sister might to reweave it.

“But he hasn’t done anything.”

“And should we wait until he does?” I ask. “Should we wait for these women to suffer?”

The lady turns her head to the side, the most she can manage with the rushweed still flowing through her veins. She doesn’t have to speak to betray her thoughts. Her hesitation is plenty enough.

She speaks anyway. Why do they all speak anyway? “They’re just whores.”

I think of Charlie, fourteen years old, begging to be enrolled at a brothel, driven by her raging stomach. I don’t think of who saved her from that fate.

Who didn’t save me from mine.

I could tell Lady Estrias what would happen to her if we let her husband live. I could tell her of the image that shows up, over and over, in the tapestry. The only changeable detail being the number of pieces he hacks her body into. Sometimes it’s seven, because he’s feeling generous. Sometimes it’s eight, because he can’t stand to see her wedding band on her finger.

I could tell her, but I don’t.

I’m not sure I want to give her the relief years down the line.

When Peter’s done, I rise to meet him in the parlor. There’s something I have to do.

“If he hates me so much, why didn’t he just kill me?” Lady Estrias asks as I reach the door.

I turn to face her, hardly aware that my heart is beating at all.

“Because if he killed you, he couldn’t keep you.”