Valentine by Heather Grothaus

thought she could make her way back to the Danube well enough, there was still the river itself to consider. Then Mary thought about the three men she and Valentine had encountered soon after beginning their journey, and a shiver raced up her spine. She would make easy prey alone on the road.
    How long was she willing to wait in this stinking chamber? Until morning? The next day? Then what? She briefly fantasized luring one of the goats to her room, butchering it with one of Valentine’s knives, and then roasting little bits of meat over the candle.
    Mary gave a snort of laughter. She’d just as soon set the verminous roof afire, then make a mad escape through the common room while the whole wretched thing burned to the ground—that rude, bald-headed innkeeper with it.
    She would not return to Melk. She was not going backward. If Valentine didn’t return by morning, Mary decided she would head for Prague on her own, as dangerous as that would be. Once there, she would pay or promise whatever she must to buy passage back to England. Then she would perhaps lie. She would tell Father Braund that Valentine Alesander was dead.
    But the marriage would still be of record , she thought.
    “Then I will just burn the record,” Mary said aloud, giving one of her shoulders a little shrug. She realized she was copying the movement from Valentine, but for some reason it felt good to her. Right.
    “I do as I please,” she said to her cup, trying out the phrase in a Spanish accent. It made her feel much better—her spine grew taller, her chest expanded. Then she announced to the room in general, “I go where I like.”
    And she recognized that it was true. No one knew her here. She didn’t have to be Lady Mary Beckham, orphan of Beckham Hall, poor girl. She could be Maria.
    She could be Maria Alesander, the bride of an infamous Spanish noble.
    Mary stood up and walked to the bed where Valentine’s things lay strewn. She picked up the feathered hat and placed it on her head, cocking it at a jaunty angle. Then she swung the short red cape over her shoulders. To complete the ensemble, she added one of the thin belts, and a knife in a simple leather sheath. Then she placed both hands on her hips and twirled around on her heel, her skirts billowing about her dramatically.
    She recalled all the chastisements from Agnes, warning her about the assumptions Mary had made of the strangers she spied on from her tower window, cautioning her that people were not usually as they appeared to be. Mary realized she could be one of the characters that others passed on the street, looked upon from windows above. She could present herself to be anything or anyone she chose.
    As her skirts swung to a stop about her ankles, Mary wondered what Maria Alesander would do in this situation.
    “She would patiently await her husband’s return, for she is such a woman that no man would ever abandon her,” Mary said aloud. “In the meantime, she would gather their things together and be ready to depart, for this establishment is not suitable lodgings for Maria Alesander.” She nodded to herself and then set to work, the feather on her hat bobbing.
     
    Valentine crept up the stairs, keeping close to the wall. The inn’s proprietor was asleep on the bench behind his table, as were a pair of his patrons, having indulged in too many tankards. It was well past midnight and the horses were tethered just outside, their saddles loaded with the booty Valentine had been able to procure. He was satisfied with the accomplishment of his mission.
    Now all he had to do was wake Maria.
    The key was ready in his hand as he approached the door on silent feet, all his senses alert to the slightest change in his environment. He slid the key into the lock, turned, winced at its dry scrape. He pushed the flimsy door open without a sound, thanks to its old leather hinges, and prepared to be greeted by a darkened room.
    And so the candlelight was a surprise. As was the woman who