my surroundings. Where could she be? There were no windows in the room, so the sound could not have been coming from outside—it wouldn’t have been able to penetrate the thick stone walls—and there was no visible door except the one through which George had exited. There had to be another one—hidden—that I hoped would lead to the child.
A cold chill shot through me. Scared out of my wits, I shuffled back to the door, my legs so feeble I could hardly support myself. I felt a presence—someone had to be here, but it didn’t seem possible. The crying ceased and was replaced by the sound of heavy footsteps just outside.
My heart pounded. I pressed my lips together and closed my eyes, knowing I had only one chance at survival. I could hear him on the other side of the door. He’d stopped walking but hadn’t yet touched the door.
I heard him sigh, fumble with a key. I held my breath waiting for it to slip into the lock, then turn. The instant the lock clicked, I turned on the machine.
And then, a buzz, a hum, and a shriek—a hideous shriek of pain—followed by a thump. More scared than ever, and trembling uncontrollably, I closed the switch on the machine, hesitating to touch the wire even though I knew it should be off. Then, afraid he might return to his senses quickly, I took a deep breath, steadied myself, and reached for the wire.
Nothing happened.
I ripped it from the knob, pushed the bed away from the door, and opened it. George lay before me on the floor, twitching, foam bubbling from between his lips. My stomach turned and I felt sick, but there was no time for contemplation, guilt, or compassion. I raced down the stone spiral stairs to the bottom of the tower, then stopped.
Lucy had to be somewhere near, and I couldn’t leave her here in case George should wake up before I could return with help. I forced myself back up the steps, took the key from the door, and locked myself into the room from which I’d only just escaped. Unable to stop shaking, I made my way around the perimeter, steadying myself against the stone wall, feeling for any imperfection that might unlatch the hidden door I was convinced had to exist. Weren’t castles full of passages through which escape would be possible should the inhabitants have fallen under siege?
The silence around me was oppressive, broken only by the sound of my heart thumping and the blood beating its way through my ears. I circled the room for a fifth time, with each rotation scrutinizing another swathe of the wall. Finally I found a place where the smoothness of the stone gave way to a rough patch, a spot where the mortar had crumbled. I thrust my fingers into it, and felt a cold, hard switch. It took all the strength left in my already injured hands to pull it, and as I did, a rectangular piece of the floor swung down like a trapdoor to reveal a narrow staircase.
I grabbed a lamp from the table on which George had placed his machine. Pausing, I considered checking to make sure he was still unconscious, but it didn’t seem wise to waste any precious time. I placed a foot carefully on the first step and made my way to the bottom, where I found a tight passageway, too short for me to stand up straight. Another switch was here, on the wall, a twin to the one I’d found in the tower. Holding my breath, I flipped it, knowing it would close the way from which I’d come. Another layer of protection should George wake up.
Frightening, though, if it wouldn’t reopen should I need it to. I could not, however, imagine the point in building a secret passage that led to nowhere.
I continued on as quickly as I could, my feet slipping on the mossy pavement, until I heard Lucy’s cries, and the sound of small footsteps. In an instant, the child was in front of me, tears streaming down her pale, dirt- streaked face, a blue satin ribbon crumpled in her little hand. I scooped her into my arms and held her close, then shot the rest of the way down the tunnel to where it hit another set of steps.
At the top of which was a door that led to the dovecote.
Above it, a key hung on a high hook. I jumped up and grabbed it, unlocked the door, burst through it, and didn’t stop running until I’d reached Mrs. Hargreaves’s house.
33
“I think perhaps I ought to be slightly affronted you didn’t come rescue us before sending for help,” Cécile said as we all sat at a rough-hewn table under the shade of a magnificent tree in the garden at Mrs. Hargreaves’s house the next afternoon. None of us had touched the spread of cakes on pretty silver platters, but the scalding hot tea proved a panacea for all, and we consumed pot after pot at an alarming rate.
“I was afraid if he woke up he’d catch me again before I could sound an alarm,” I said. In fact, he hadn’t regained consciousness until after Inspector Gaudet and his men arrived, having been summoned by Mrs. Hargreaves’s servants the instant I’d told them what happened. His physical condition was not great—I’d injured him severely—but his mind was intact, and the police physician who examined him predicted what he called a
“It’s terrifying to think—” my mother-in-law started, but stopped at a fierce glare from Colin. We all fell into a tense silence. Madeline was still with us, shaken and devastated, incoherent. I wished Dr. Girard could look after her. We’d arranged for his partner to come for both her and her mother, and I had no doubt they’d be well taken care of in the asylum, although seeing them committed felt something like a failure. George, for all his evilness, had started with a noble motive—trying to cure his wife’s illness so that she would never be relegated to hospital. His ill-formed plan had in the end served to do nothing but guarantee she would spend the rest of her life in one. And he would certainly be executed.
“Adèle!”
The sound of Madeline’s voice startled me. Cécile dropped her fan and Mrs. Hargreaves poured tea onto the table instead of into her son’s cup. Madeline had been only short of catatonic all day, but now her face was bright, her eyes eager.
“Adèle!” she said again. “What do you think? Should we go to Paris? It’s been too long since we’ve been to a real ball, and I’m desperate to see Mr. Worth about new dresses.”
“Oh, Madeline,” I said, sitting next to her and taking her hand. “Of course we’ll go to Paris.”
“I’ve met the most handsome gentleman and I’m certain he’s going to propose to me. He’s English—but I suppose I can learn to tolerate that. He’s called George, and I absolutely adore him.”
Mrs. Hargreaves rose from her seat and bent over Madeline’s shoulder. “Do come inside with me dearest,” she said. “I want to hear all about George and to ask your advice on my dinner menu. You will help me, won’t you?” She led her towards the house. I felt sick, unable to determine which was worse—that she believed she’d only just met George and was hoping to marry him or the fact that she’d never see him again. Would she even know?
“That’s a relief,” Sebastian said as soon as they were gone. I glared at him. “Don’t even think about scolding me, Kallista. It’s beyond awkward having her around here now in that state of mind. There’s nothing more any of us can do for her. No point in suffering with her.”
“You are so heartless,” Monsieur Leblanc said, tugging at his moustache. “It’s inspiring.”
“Why, thank you,” Sebastian said, puffing himself up. “It is a delight to be appreciated.”
“You’ve put me on a new track,” Monsieur Leblanc said. “I want to abandon journalism altogether—can’t be any more difficult than abandoning the law, wouldn’t you say?—and turn instead to fiction. I’m going to chronicle
