He twisted the other side too and then must have tied a lock of hair around the ponytail that hung down my back. He opened a sack I hadn’t realized he had; it was filled with ivy.
“From the chateau walls?”
“From the chateau walls.”
He tried at first to fashion a length of it into a crown, but the leaves were too large and the gaps between them too huge. He settled on pulling off leaves and pushing them into the twists of my hair.
When he was done, he took my hand, pulled me to my feet, and then stood back from me and stared. He stared for the longest time. And then he smiled.
It was a smile that made my legs turn to
“Go look.”
As I stood in front of the bathroom mirror, I was astounded. Cranwell had transformed me from a twenty-first- century chef into a fifteenth-century lady. He was right: The bathrobe was perfect. And what he’d done with my hair reminded me of paintings I’d seen by Botticelli. I was ethereal. I was celestial, graceful. I was… beautiful.
Cranwell appeared beside me in the mirror.
“You are perfect, Freddie.”
Looking at myself in the mirror, with him standing beside me, I believed it.
Cranwell escorted me to the top of the stairs and then offered his arm to me. It seemed natural to slip my hand around it.
I felt a muscle tighten. He hadn’t struck me as muscular before, but I could tell at that moment that I’d been deceived. He was wearing a black cashmere turtleneck with a black wool sports coat. His black pants were the kind I’d always associated with the wealthy: formed of the finest, lightest wool, they were impeccably draped and held in place by a slender belt with a discreet silver buckle. His hair was slicked back, and his glasses were sliding down his nose. The glasses ruined the picture, but I knew him well enough to know that he must have been sneaking in a few extra moments of work on his manuscript before he’d come to my aid. With my other hand, I reached around and pulled them gently from his nose.
He caught my hand and brought it to his lips and kissed it. “My lady.”
My cheeks grew hot. It was probably caused by the exertion of breathing after being stuffed into such a tight- fitting gown. Bathrobe.
When I lifted my eyes from my hand and glanced down the stairs, I saw all the guests gathered in the hall.
And they were staring at me.
Cranwell must have heard my indrawn breath, for his hand closed over mine and gave it a squeeze.
At the bottom of the staircase, he unwound my hand from his arm, and then drew me forward so he could place an arm about my waist. “May I present Madame Frederique Farmer.”
“
Cranwell’s words echoed through my head all night.
Severine, bless her, had lit the fire, the candelabras on the table, and the sconces on the walls. Firelight illuminated our faces, softening our features and sparking our eyes. I could easily imagine myself six hundred years in the past. From the hidden CD player, Renaissance music was piping. The recorders, pipes, and drums created a festival atmosphere.
The actor and actress were very pleasant company. The model had the huge eyes and the over-awed demeanor of a kid sister. The producer said little. The wardrobe designer sent glances in my direction throughout the night. And all of them hung on Cranwell’s every word. He must have told a hundred stories. He was an artist: spinning, weaving, painting with words.
Seated at the opposite end of the table from him, it seemed as if he were speaking just to me. By the end of the evening, with a full stomach and a head numbed with hippocras, I had planted my elbows on the table and propped my chin up in my hands. Cranwell had just finished telling a joke, and the other guests roared at the punch line. It had to have been past midnight, but I couldn’t know for sure; I’d left my watch upstairs so it wouldn’t clash with my attire.
Cranwell’s eye caught mine, and he smiled the most gentle smile.
It warmed the places in me that the wine had not been able to touch. I was too tired to remember that Cranwell flirted with everyone, so my lips stretched wide before I could stop them.
Cranwell pushed his chair from the table and stood; the others followed suit. I watched, from my seat, as he walked around the table toward me.
Someone said, “
Had I not been so tired, I would have objected to the patronizing tone. In a daze, I removed my elbows from the table, took the hand Cranwell offered me, and followed him up the central staircase.
It was difficult to lift my feet off the floor; I was that tired. Midway up the first coil of stairs, my slowing footsteps had led to a growing gap between us.
Cranwell felt me tug at his hand. He stopped and turned around.
“I’m just so tired, Cranwell.”
He descended several steps to mine and then scooped me up in his arms as easily as if I’d been a child.
“I know, Freddie.”
It’s possible I told Cranwell I liked him, or some other nonsense, because I know that he smiled. I felt the tightening of his cheek and then his lips against my forehead.
Then I remembered how he was. “I don’t think I should trust you.”
His arms tightened around me. “You would do well not to Freddie. You’re much too beautiful.”
He must have been mistaking me for Severine.
Somehow he opened my door and nudged through it into my room. He set me on the bed. Before slipping out, he kissed me on top of my head.
Several long minutes passed as I sat in the darkness, rubbing that spot, wondering what he thought he was doing.
Finally I rose and got ready for bed, slipping into silk pajamas. I pulled the ivy out of my hair as I crossed the room, moving in and out of the moonlight that streamed through my slitted windows.
Then I stopped so quickly, I nearly fell.
Something was not right.
Standing in the middle of the room, in the darkness, I knew that something had changed.
After retracing my steps toward the bed, I started once more for the rug, but before I reached it, I stubbed my toe on a stone that was sticking up slightly above its neighbors.
It was the rug that was wrong. I had positioned the rug so that stone had been covered.
Someone had moved the rug.
And suddenly, being alone didn’t seem like such a good idea. I turned on my lamp and took a good look at my room. Had I not noticed the rug, I might not have noticed the furniture, but as I looked around me, I realized that everything was slightly out of place. And looking inside the bathroom, I noticed several places where something sharp had left marks in gaps between the stones.
That scared me.
I did what anyone in my situation would have done. I ran out of the room.
“Come in.”
At least Cranwell hadn’t been sleeping. From the looks of his desk, he’d been at work on his manuscript.
“Someone has been in my room.”
“What?” Cranwell looked at me over the top of his glasses.
“Someone was in my room tonight.”
“Are you sure, Freddie?”
“Positive.”
He went back to my room with me, keeping me always behind him.
On entering the room, Cranwell stopped by the bed. “What makes you so sure someone was here?”
“The rug. I arranged it so that the uneven spot in the floor was covered. I must have stubbed my toe on it a
