Dangerous to Know

to think carefully about finding the body. I want you to describe for me everything you can remember.”

“I’ve gone over it all more times than I can count, Inspector,” I said. “Truly, I noticed nothing out of the ordinary beyond the body itself. I’m more sorry than I can say.”

“Surely you weren’t wholly unaware of your surroundings?” my mother-in-law asked.

“I’m afraid I was, Mrs. Hargreaves,” I said, tears springing to my eyes. “I’ve rather a lot on my mind, and had not the slightest idea I was about to stumble upon a murder. I do hope you can find it in your heart to forgive me.”

Without another word, I rushed from the room and tore out of the house. My chest bursting with anger and grief and regret, I ran towards the tall stone gate, unsure where I planned to go, pausing only when I heard Cécile call out to me.

“Chérie! Do not make me run. It will anger me and force me to sic Caesar and Brutus on you, a situation from which no one would benefit, particularly Caesar. The food here does not much agree with him and I fear a few bites of lace would do him in entirely.”

This made me laugh, despite myself. “I’m so sorry.”

“I had to stop your husband from following you as I wanted a word on my own. But you must know he’s terribly upset and giving his mother a good scolding. Madame Hargreaves is being deliberately difficult,” Cécile said. “This was not, I fear, a good place for you to seek respite after your loss.”

Tears smarted. “So far as she’s concerned my losing the baby is just further proof of my inadequacies.”

“That unfortunate event may not have endeared you to her, but she can hardly blame you for it.”

“Of course she can,” I said, sobs coming close together now. “If I’d not been so reckless—if I’d behaved like a lady, as my own mother so politely put it—it never would have happened.”

“You saved an innocent girl from a brutal death and rushed into the face of danger without the benefit of knowing the condition in which you were.”

“I suspected it,” I said. I’d spent much of my honeymoon worried that I might be with child. And, rational or not, I could not help but think my ambivalence towards the subject led me to a disastrous end. Cécile stared at me, standing close.

“You did not cause this. The dreadful man who shot you did. I shall let you torment yourself for precisely three minutes, but thereafter you will lay the blame on him and him alone.”

She gave me closer to twenty minutes before she marched me to a secluded spot in the garden and sat beside me on the grassy bank of a sparkling pond. “I’m so sorry…” I began.

“Stop at once,” Cécile said. “We’ll have no more of it. I’ll not have you driving yourself mad like poor Madeline.”

“It was distressing, wasn’t it, when she changed so radically as we spoke to her? But she was lucid nearly all the rest of the time. Do you really think she’s mad?”

“She’s on her way. There were small things as well as the screeching insanity of that conversation. That tea was undrinkable, and she thought we’d come round for dinner.”

“I noticed that as well,” I said. “Will she turn out like her mother?”

“I’m afraid so. You, Kallista, have a husband who loves you and friends who would do anything for you. You’ve suffered a terrible loss, and we’re all here for you while you grieve. But do not deliberately make it worse than it is. What married woman do you know who hasn’t lost a child? You’ve got the terrible occasion out of the way early.”

“I—”

“And don’t act horrified that I’d speak so openly about such things. We both know it’s true.”

She was right, but it brought me no comfort. I had to let myself feel the responsibility for my actions. Given the same circumstances, given what I knew at the time, I’d make the same decisions again. Regret was not precisely what I felt. Instead, I was struggling to accept and understand that in some ways I was less capable than my peers. I might be able to read Greek and converse on any number of cultural topics, but I had neither the inclination nor the ability to do what was expected of every woman. And it was this lack of inclination that troubled me the most.

“My mother sent this up for you,” Colin said, handing me a book. “If nothing else, it should amuse you.” After Cécile and I had come inside, I’d retired early, not staying downstairs long after dinner, preferring the comfort of our curtained, four-poster bed to having to further contend with my mother-in-law. Cécile promised to try to tame her on my behalf, but I had no desire to watch her attempt.

I sat up, took the volume from him, and tried to choke back my laughter. “Madame Bovary?”

“She knows it’s one of my favorites,” he said. “And Flaubert did, after all, live in Normandy.”

“Perhaps she hopes it will inspire me to behave as badly as its heroine so that you might be left alone.”

“I believe she meant it as a peace offering. And I can think of something better to inspire you.” He kissed me. First on the lips, then on the neck. “I can’t risk having you sitting around being unremittingly grim all the time.”

“You think Madame Bovary might make me grim?”

“More like make me grim.” He kissed me again, and I knew when his hand deftly unfastened the pearl button at the top of my nightgown it would be a long time before I slept. Even then, although he’d sent me off to sleep in the most pleasant fashion, I tossed fitfully, tormented by my dreams, hideous scenes of the cistern in Constantinople haunting me, each more terrifying than the reality through which I’d lived. I’d be trapped underwater, feeling my lungs fill, or I’d be clawing at the wooden door, unable to open it before rough hands gripped my neck. I struggled, tangling myself in the sheets, and then screamed when the sensations became too real—something had pricked my neck and drawn blood.

And then Colin’s arms were firm around me, his voice calm and soothing as he covered my face with gentle kisses.

“It’s all right, my love. You’re awake now,” he said.

“It’s more than a dream,” I said, tilting my head back and feeling for what I was certain was an actual wound. I took his hand and placed it on the torn skin.

“That’s no small scratch,” he said, lighting the lamp on our bedside table. “What have you done to yourself?”

I reached for the floor to collect a pillow I must have flung from the bed while I was dreaming, but instead of picking it up I gasped, my heart pounding and my eyes throbbing as I looked at something just out of my reach: a single rose with a small piece of paper wrapped around its stem. I touched the scrape on my neck and knew the instrument of the injury was a thorn. Colin, reaching from behind me, scooped up the offending flower.

“This best not be from your admirer.”

“Sebastian? Who else do you suspect would creep into my bedroom? He does have a history of doing just that.”

“Our bedroom.” He handed me the paper without looking at it. “What does it say?”

I read aloud:

5

My husband leapt out of bed with inhuman speed. In a few steps he was at the window, which I’d watched him shut before we’d retired. It was still closed and the shutters locked.

“Bloody hell!” He spun around and started for the dressing room. “Light the lamps, Emily. I want to make sure he’s not hiding somewhere.” Once he left our chamber, he crept as quietly as our intrepid intruder must have, not wanting to scare him off should he still be inside. Colin’s talent for stealth was extraordinary—neither his mother nor Cécile woke when he entered their rooms. But his search was to no avail. There was no sign of Sebastian in our room, nor anywhere else in the house. Confident no one was lurking nearby, Colin tucked me into bed, but did not crawl in next to me. Instead, he perched on a chair near the window. The shadows under his eyes