Page 16

ALISTAIR

“Sir, if I may.”

“What is it, Othmar?”

I smash my fist on the rickety table. We’ve taken rooms at the best available inn, by which I mean, all of the rooms. Every single one.

Forty-eight hours into my desperate search for Elsie, I haven’t slept beyond short catnaps in the coach as we race across Belterre looking for her. I won’t sleep tonight, either.

We’ve traveled most of the country, changing horses every few miles, yet there is no sign of her anywhere. How can a grown woman disappear into thin air?

“We think we have found a lead.”

“Show me.”

My guard’s brow furrows. “You need rest, Highness.”

“I’ll rest when I’m dead, Othmar.” I’m coming undone. The prospect of being married off to a stranger was acceptable to me only a few days ago.

Now? Unthinkable.

I must find Elsie.

We ride out to the minor baron’s estate on the outskirts of town. The house is neatly maintained, the grounds managed by a gardener. The daughter has auburn hair. She is not Elsie, and she makes a great show of fawning over me.

“Don’t waste my time again,” I snarl at Othmar and the other guards. “That lady was barely out of the schoolroom. She was short. I told you, she’s yea tall.” I hold my hand near my chin. The perfect height for kisses.

The perfect brow to place a crown.

I’m turning delusional in my obsession. I have very little practice with being denied the things I want in life.

Worse, I have the dreadful feeling that she’s not safe.

Think, I scold myself. What did she tell you about herself?

She was deliberately avoiding her family.

She had never been kissed before, yet a man had forced her, an experience that scared her into wide-eyed terror when we attempted to make love. Until that point, she was all enthusiasm.

She had access to magic of rare high quality.

What other details have I forgotten in my delirium?

The portraits.

She was keenly interested in the gallery. The library, too. She knew risqué poetry by heart, yet there was a fundamental innocence about her.

What was she looking for in those paintings? A resemblance to an ancestor that would prove a natural connection? She said she wasn’t bastard-born, but she could have been lying.

I rack my brains trying to think of any possible clue.

“We must go back.”

“Highness?” Othmar looks almost as ragged as I do. Deep gray smudges ring his eyes.

“To the castle. We must return tonight.”

“We have already taken rooms for the night.”

Clearly, he was looking forward to flopping into his bed to take a well-earned rest. I cannot fault the man. He has been diligent and patient throughout this escapade.

But he’s not Killian. I still resent this fact, no matter how unfair it is to Othmar.

“She was looking at a painting in the gallery at Belterre Castle. If we go back, I can figure out which one.”

“As you wish.”

He makes the arrangements. I fall asleep in the coach, rattling about like a dried pea in its shell until I’m shaken awake by an abrupt halt. I tumble out of the carriage into the darkness of midnight.

The hour her spell broke.

Wherever she got it from, Elsie didn’t get very much time. We had a scant three hours together.

I’m jangling with nervous energy as I trot up the stairs. There is no time to waste.

“You.” I point to a footman drowsing at his post. “Go and stand there.”

“Highness.”

He moves to obey, but it’s no use. I can’t envision the spot where I first saw her in the gallery.

“I need a woman. Get a maid.”

“They’re sleeping, sir.”

“Rouse one!”

Five interminable minutes later, the castle chatelaine scurries over. She’s fifty if she’s a day, plump and short, but she’ll do.

“Stand there. Walk slowly down the gallery. Look at every painting until I tell you to stop.”

The woman’s thoughts are etched on her face for anyone with half a brain to read. He’s gone mad.

Not yet. I can’t promise I won’t if I don’t find her soon. Agonized worry gnaws at me. I cannot shake the feeling that something is wrong.

She was haunted. Sad, but determined not to let it show. Someone hurt her, and I am going to find out who he was. I will rip out his fingernails by the roots. I will slice off his cock and feed it to the monsters that live in the castle moat.

Then, I’ll feed the rest of him to the creatures. In pieces.

“Stop!”

Memory superimposes over the scene before me like the palimpsest of an unsent letter. I stride over to the chatelaine.

“Dismissed.”

Lord and Lady Scinder with their daughter, Elinor.

This is a newer painting, acquired when the earl’s untimely death ended the line.

Elinor.

Scinder.

The way she stammered, El—Sin—I mean, my name is Elsie.

This is what prompted her to linger here, where I found her. Blood thunders in my veins.

I have her.

* * *

We arrive at Scinder House shortly after dawn on the third day. I am already past my father’s deadline, but I refuse to return to the castle without her. If this doesn’t pan out, I will be forced to accept my fate.

“You’re certain there are only two daughters?

” I ask of Lord Tremaine, born the youngest son of a minor baron from a bankrupt line in a backwater part of Belterre.

He has a supercilious air about him and a cunning gleam in his bloodshot eyes.

He reeks of stale alcohol and he’s still wearing the finery he donned for the ball, days ago.

His whiskered chin dips in confirmation.

How he ended up married to Lord Scinder’s widow is a mystery. All I have are the palace records—their wedding, and Lady Scinder’s untimely death about a year later. There is nothing about Elinor.

It’s plain this man doesn’t appreciate his good fortune.

The house itself shows signs of disrepair.

A water stain blots the wallpaper in one corner of the parlor.

Driving down the lane, it was impossible to ignore the ancient, rotting roof and ivy covering a full third of the house.

The place is a tumbledown dump. Emmett’s Folly, the local baker called it when we stopped in town to ask for directions.

She confirmed there was a third girl living here, Lord Scinder’s daughter.

Despite its exterior, the house is clean inside. There’s not a speck of dust on the polished wood furniture in the sitting room, despite the faded upholstery on the unfashionable furniture.

“Only Drucilla and Anastacia,” Tremaine confirms, holding my eye as if daring me to challenge him.

“What happened to Lady Elinor Scinder? Your wife’s daughter from a prior marriage?”

“Ran off.”

He holds my gaze, daring me to challenge him.

“When?”

“Years ago. Went off with the lad who mucked the stables. Haven’t heard from her since.

” He clasps his arms behind his back. The man is an inch or two taller than I am, but there’s no strength in his physique.

His limbs hang like string beans and he’s slightly hunched, though I doubt he’s a scribe of any kind.

A sizable paunch strains the buttons of his waistcoat.

“You didn’t look for her?” I ask pointedly.

“Why would I?”

“Because you are her stepfather. It is your responsibility.”

He sniffs, but his eyes slide guiltily away from mine. His nose is thick with broken blood vessels. “Elinor was of age.”

There is a pout to his tone I can’t quite understand.

Tremaine’s gaze cuts to me. A fraction of fear flares in those jaundiced depths. “Why would you care?”

“I have been combing Belterre looking for her. If the lady is here, produce her at once.”

I have barely slept or eaten for three days. I am bursting at the seams with frantic worry. I’m terrified that Elinor really is dead or long gone, and that Elsie was a mirage.

But no. I saw her in the streets of Belterre. Running blindly. Crying. I danced with her. Made love with her. She exists. The likeliest place for her to be is here, at her childhood home, where something is very wrong.

“I am afraid I can’t help you, Your Highness.”

That oily smirk is back. He thinks he’s so clever, outwitting a prince. Yet without proof that Elinor is here, there is nothing I can do. A headache grinds its way up from my jaw.

“Allow me to introduce you to my daughters.” Tremaine leans back and bellows up an open stairway, “Girls! We have visitors. Get down here.”

“We’re not ready!” a feminine voice wails. I wince. No one would claim the Tremaine sisters speak in the dulcet tones of a lady.

Elinor’s mannerisms were those of a lady, through and through. Which makes sense, if she was raised as a noblewoman through her early years.

“What is the holdup?” Tremaine shouts. I can see where they learn their poor manners.

“I need a vial.”

“Two vials.”

Magic. These women are so far into their addiction that they aren’t even attempting to hide it.

“If you’ll excuse me.” Tremaine sketches a bow. I grant him permission to leave my exalted presence with a careless wave.

The instant he is out of sight, I go to the escritoire and wrench open the drawers, searching for any sign of Elinor but finding nothing apart from a stack of overdue bills. Tremaine is in debt to every dressmaker in the kingdom. He must have been trying to marry his daughters off for years.

“Sir?” Othmar interrupts. I’d forgotten he was there. “What are you doing, if I may be so bold?”

“You may not.” A loose nail rattles when I shove one drawer back in. There isn’t a single stick of new furniture in the parlor. Assuming this is the best room, intended for receiving guests, the Tremaines have been teetering on the verge of ruin for years.

“What shall I do with this?” Othmar indicates the slightly battered box containing the lost shoe.

“Set it down and help me look.”

“For what, sir?”

“For any sign of Elsie.” Gods, he’s stupid.

Her true name is my secret. If I am wrong about her identity, I don’t want to be embarrassed publicly again. I want to bring her to the castle, marry her, bury my father, and reign for decades of peace and prosperity.

I freeze with my hand on a glass-paneled cabinet. I don’t recognize the reflection staring back at me with chipped, mismatched teacups in the background. The dark determination in my eyes is new. I’ve never really cared about a damn thing before.

By the gods, I’m besotted with Elinor. I’m in love with her. I will find her, if it’s the last thing I ever do.

I find nothing in the cabinet and stride over to the wall to examine the portraits mounted there. Blood rushes in my temples at the one where Tremaine poses with a woman who bears a striking resemblance to “Elsie.” The label reads Lady Scinder . Her hair is a dark auburn.

She’s real. She was here. My heart beats hard enough to shatter my ribs.

“Appreciate your patience, Prince Alistair,” drawls Tremaine. There is no way this smug bastard could possibly know about my father’s cruel punishment. It’s clear as day that he has a trick up his sleeve, though. “May I present my daughters, Drucilla and Anastacia.”

“We’ve met previously,” I bite out. “Where is Lady Scinder?”

“She’s not here,” the short one says.

The tall woman smacks her sister’s arm. “There is no one here by that name.”

Foolish woman, pretending she doesn’t recognize the name of her own stepsister. I grit my teeth.

“Othmar.” I snap. “The box.” My guard drops to one knee and extracts the velvet pillow with its shimmering slipper. “When I find her, the lady who lost this at my ball will become my wife.”

“That’s my shoe!” the short blond exclaims.

“Liar, it’s mine!”

Drucilla lunges forward, snatches it off the pillow, and brandishes it with the clear intention of smacking her sister with it.

“Girls,” Tremaine interrupts. “First Cilla, then you, Stacia.”

“I’ve been looking everywhere for that shoe,” the short one pouts.

The tall one, plops onto the seat and extends one proportionally large foot.

There is no way the shoe will fit. Grim satisfaction fills me for a fleeting moment, before I remember—if I can’t find Elinor, I am obliged to marry one of these women.

One way or another, I am leaving this house with a wife.

Othmar valiantly tries to put the shoe on Drucilla’s foot. It dangles comically from her biggest toe, at least an inch too small.

“I told you it wouldn’t fit you,” the younger sister declares with the same smugness her father exhibits. She thrusts out her leg and wiggles her stockinged toes. The smell of unwashed feet, like rotting cheese, sends a shudder through me.

Grim-faced, Othmar puts it on her. The slipper falls off her heel.

“See! It’s perfect.”

The shoe tumbles to the rug.

“It’s too big on you.” Drucilla grabs it before Othmar or I can react. She produces a wicked knife from her pocket. “It will fit me. Watch.”

She inhales and slices three toes clean off. Anastacia yelps and covers her eyes with both hands. Blood spurts onto Othmar’s face. White-faced, she wraps a strip of linen around the wound. The bandage turns crimson in an instant, but she calmly tries to stuff her foot into the shoe.

“Still too small.”

As horrified as I am by her desperate display, part of me admires her stoicism. Determined, Cilla bravely trims most of the flesh from her heel.

Othmar turns away, gagging.

Tremaine says nothing. Not a single syllable of concern or rebuke as his daughter mutilates herself in hopes of becoming the next queen.

I suppose that leaves me to play the role of savior.

“Stop. The shoe does not fit. There is no use in maiming yourself to force it.”

“It. Will. Fit.” she seethes through gritted teeth. Gingerly, she rolls her foot onto the front and pushes up to standing. “Papa.”

He stomps. Bones crack sickeningly. Her crushed and useless foot flops as she shoves it into the slipper, grimacing and ashen.

“See?” she gloats wanly. “It fits.”

That’s it, then.