Admittedly, my nerves werenât in great shape â even I wasnât used to almost getting killed twice in the same night â but that didnât explain why, out of all the possible candidates, it was Louis-César who was freaking me out.
He returned, and my panic rose with every step he took. I watched him the way a small animal does a predator, staying quiet, barely breathing, in hope that the big, bad thing wonât pounce. He knelt again in a puddle of gleaming satin and lace, and the overhead lights glinted on a few strands of auburn threaded through his hair. Heâd brought back a first aid kit, and he lined up an antiseptic, several gauze pads and a packet of baby wipes on the tiles in front of the fireplace. âI will clean the wound, mademoiselle , and bandage it for you. A nurse will come tomorrow and improve on my clumsy efforts.â He was relaxed, even cheerful, but it took every bit of self-control I had not to run for the door.
A pale, slender hand framed in cascading white lace engulfed my filthy, blood-stained one. His fingers were cool and his grip light, as if he thought his touch would give reassurance. It didnât. No matter how careful he was, I knew that hold could tighten in an instant, trapping me as securely as a steel handcuff. I felt the fingers of his other hand moving deftly over my scraped skin, then the barest brush of the cloth as he began cleaning it. Although the antiseptic stung only lightly, I shuddered and closed my eyes. I had a very bad feeling that I knew what was coming.
â Mademoiselle , are you ill?â His voice came from a distance and echoed hollowly in my ears. I felt a familiar sense of disorientation wash over me, and I fought it with everything I had. I struggled harder than ever before, trying to push it back inside whatever part of me usually held it, begging it to go back to sleep. Whatever it wanted to show me, I was absolutely certain I didnât want to See it. But, as ever, the gift was stronger than I was; it always had been. I gave in to the inevitable when I felt a cold chill settle on my face. It wasnât cold in the sitting room, but part of me was no longer there. I took a deep breath and opened my eyes.
The chill came from a window partially open to the night. The breeze was nipping at my bare skin, raising goose bumps all along my exposed flesh. The window looked sort of like stained glass, except that there was no color and no pattern, other than small diamond shapes where its many panes had been joined together. The glass was thick and wavy, like in some of the historic houses in Philly, and it gave back only an indistinct reflection. But it was enough to make me begin to breathe faster.
I looked around in panic and my eyes lit on a mirror across the room. The image it returned was also dim, but more because of the faint light, which came from a few candles and a low-burning fire, than because of poor construction. In fact, it was a masterpiece of a mirror, huge, with a massive gilt frame, opulent like the rest of the heavy, carved-wood furniture. The room had a feeling of luxury about it: the dark cherry of the great four-poster bed gleamed with reflected flames from the marble fireplace, and echoed the color of the heavy velvet drapes of the canopy. The walls were stone, but hung with tapestries, their colors as bright and vibrant as if they had been completed only that day. A bouquet of deep-red roses sat on a nearby table in a painted porcelain bowl. I was in no mood to appreciate the scene, though, being far too distracted by the reflection in the mirror.
A man knelt on a bed approximately where I should have been. I couldnât tell who it was because a black velvet mask covered most of his face except for cutouts for the eyes. It looked comical, like part of a bad Halloween costume, but I didnât feel like laughing. Maybe because it was the only thing he wore. Long auburn curls hung below the velvet,
He returned, and my panic rose with every step he took. I watched him the way a small animal does a predator, staying quiet, barely breathing, in hope that the big, bad thing wonât pounce. He knelt again in a puddle of gleaming satin and lace, and the overhead lights glinted on a few strands of auburn threaded through his hair. Heâd brought back a first aid kit, and he lined up an antiseptic, several gauze pads and a packet of baby wipes on the tiles in front of the fireplace. âI will clean the wound, mademoiselle , and bandage it for you. A nurse will come tomorrow and improve on my clumsy efforts.â He was relaxed, even cheerful, but it took every bit of self-control I had not to run for the door.
A pale, slender hand framed in cascading white lace engulfed my filthy, blood-stained one. His fingers were cool and his grip light, as if he thought his touch would give reassurance. It didnât. No matter how careful he was, I knew that hold could tighten in an instant, trapping me as securely as a steel handcuff. I felt the fingers of his other hand moving deftly over my scraped skin, then the barest brush of the cloth as he began cleaning it. Although the antiseptic stung only lightly, I shuddered and closed my eyes. I had a very bad feeling that I knew what was coming.
â Mademoiselle , are you ill?â His voice came from a distance and echoed hollowly in my ears. I felt a familiar sense of disorientation wash over me, and I fought it with everything I had. I struggled harder than ever before, trying to push it back inside whatever part of me usually held it, begging it to go back to sleep. Whatever it wanted to show me, I was absolutely certain I didnât want to See it. But, as ever, the gift was stronger than I was; it always had been. I gave in to the inevitable when I felt a cold chill settle on my face. It wasnât cold in the sitting room, but part of me was no longer there. I took a deep breath and opened my eyes.
The chill came from a window partially open to the night. The breeze was nipping at my bare skin, raising goose bumps all along my exposed flesh. The window looked sort of like stained glass, except that there was no color and no pattern, other than small diamond shapes where its many panes had been joined together. The glass was thick and wavy, like in some of the historic houses in Philly, and it gave back only an indistinct reflection. But it was enough to make me begin to breathe faster.
I looked around in panic and my eyes lit on a mirror across the room. The image it returned was also dim, but more because of the faint light, which came from a few candles and a low-burning fire, than because of poor construction. In fact, it was a masterpiece of a mirror, huge, with a massive gilt frame, opulent like the rest of the heavy, carved-wood furniture. The room had a feeling of luxury about it: the dark cherry of the great four-poster bed gleamed with reflected flames from the marble fireplace, and echoed the color of the heavy velvet drapes of the canopy. The walls were stone, but hung with tapestries, their colors as bright and vibrant as if they had been completed only that day. A bouquet of deep-red roses sat on a nearby table in a painted porcelain bowl. I was in no mood to appreciate the scene, though, being far too distracted by the reflection in the mirror.
A man knelt on a bed approximately where I should have been. I couldnât tell who it was because a black velvet mask covered most of his face except for cutouts for the eyes. It looked comical, like part of a bad Halloween costume, but I didnât feel like laughing. Maybe because it was the only thing he wore. Long auburn curls hung below the velvet,
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