Someone had set up a truckle bed in the master bedroom suite, much too close to the main bed for my liking. I usually slept as far away from the boys in our den as possible, while remaining close enough for safety. It wasn't as close as this.
I didn't complain. I didn't want Fitzroy's suspicions raised. But there were some things that needed to be made clear from the beginning. Best to get them out now.
"You have to leave when I use the chamber pot," I told him.
He shot me a flinty glare from the clothes stand, where he stood removing his dinner jacket. I suspected that meant he agreed.
"And when I wash and change."
"As you wish." He hung the jacket on the stand and began unbuttoning his waistcoat.
I didn't look away, but I didn't stare either. Neither would be the sort of thing a boy would do. Besides, I'd seen men before. Or, more specifically, boys and youths. While I never undressed in front of them, they were not so inhibited. They even pissed in front of me, and Stringer had once bedded a whore where the entire gang could see. I was no stranger to a man's parts or their function. Fitzroy's nakedness wouldn't concern me.
"You have the run of these rooms," he told me, bowtie in hand. "The book is on my desk, spare candles and matches are in the top drawer. Don't burn the house down."
I blinked. Had he just told a joke? His mouth didn't twitch, so I suspected he was serious and did indeed suspect that I would try and start a fire.
I left him to his undressing, somewhat disappointed that I wouldn't get to see if the magnificent face was accompanied by a magnificent figure, and found the book. There was no point pretending I couldn't read anymore, so I tried to think of a reasonable explanation for my education as I searched in the top drawer for the matches.
As my hand closed around the box, a thought struck me. My father used to keep a small knife inside his middle desk drawer. I felt all around, but there seemed to be none in the top drawer. I tried the others, and still nothing. I sat on the chair and checked the desk surface and inside an unlocked coffer. It contained only papers. I groped beneath the desk and my fingers found a small, narrow shelf at the right. It contained one item—a knife.
I slipped it from the shelf and pressed it to my thigh. I stood and carried the book and knife to the other side of the room where I lounged on the sofa. As interesting as the book was, I didn't even read one sentence as I waited for Fitzroy to emerge from the bedroom.
He seemed to take forever, and when he finally came out, barefoot and dressed in loose white trousers and an Oriental style shirt, I was already having second thoughts. Not about using the knife, but about my ability to succeed. He was stronger and faster than me. In a close combat situation, I would lose. I had to throw it at him when his back was turned, or not bother.
The thought of knifing someone in the back didn't sit well. Even more so because Fitzroy had not harmed me, except to save himself. I slid the knife beneath my thigh then openly watched him.
He stood in the open space between the two different sections of the room and began jumping up and down on the spot, drawing his knees up high to chest. It was such an odd thing to do that I couldn't tear my gaze away. Then suddenly he dropped into a squat, spun round on the ball of one foot, and lashed out with the other at an imaginary foe. I set the book aside and continued to watch as he performed more maneuvers, sometimes kicking, sometimes thrusting with closed fist or open hand. His face was set with concentration and he did not once glance at me. He wasn't wearing trousers and a shirt, I realized, or not any that I'd seen before. The clothes were loose, the fabric flowing, ensuring his limbs weren't hindered.
After several minutes of repeating the moves, he opened a casket on the bookshelf and removed an object. Or was it two? It appeared to be two handles as long as his hands with the end of one connected by a chain to the end of the other. He returned to the clearing and began his moves again, this time incorporating the contraption by flicking it out and back, up and down. Blows from the metal device would cause a lot of damage to exposed flesh. It was something to remember, as was the place where he kept it.
I continued to watch, fascinated by his smoothness and speed. He exercised for an hour, not once stopping or looking my way. It didn't seem to bother him that he had an audience. Perhaps he liked it. When he finally finished, after almost two hours, his face was a little flushed and the hair at his temple damp, but he otherwise seemed unflustered. I would have been flat on the floor panting.
Without a word, he padded back to the casket and placed the weapon inside, then returned to the bedroom. He re-emerged after ten minutes wearing nothing but a towel around his hips and carrying another that he used to dry his hair.
His lack of attention to me allowed me to take in the sight of his chest and shoulders, the left one with a bandage covering it where I'd shot him. The youths in the gangs I’d been in had never had bodies like that. Fitzroy's shoulders were broad, with bulges of muscle rippling down his arms and across his chest. The sprinkle of dark chest hair tapered off before reaching his ridged stomach. From a distance, it was difficult to tell if it was curly like the hair on his head. I found myself wanting to find out.
Not really aware of what I was doing, I untucked my feet from beneath me and set them on the floor. He looked up and a small furrow connected his brows. I swallowed and reopened my book. I hoped my fringe covered the blush burning my face. Beneath my thigh, the knife point dug into me. I'd forgotten about it. I probably should have used his inattention during exercise to throw it at him.
Fool. Foolish girl. Surely he must know my secret now. Surely he could see my interest in him. No boy would stare like that. Good lord, I hoped I hadn't drooled. I wiped the corner of my mouth on my shoulder, just to be sure.
"It's late," he said, tossing the towel he'd used on his hair over the back of one of the chairs. He dragged his damp, tousled locks off his face, and my heart kicked in my chest at the way it somehow made him more handsome.
"And?" I prompted.
"Aren't you tired?"
"Aren't you?"
"I don't need much sleep." He sat at his desk. Wasn't he going to dress? His semi-nakedness was a distraction.
I rearranged myself on the sofa so that I faced away from him. "Nor do I." It was the truth. Staying awake and alert was just one way I'd kept alive and safe for years.
He emitted a soft sound, but I wasn't sure if it was in humor or derision. I refused to glance at him, and instead slumped down into the sofa, placing my head on the armrest and stretching my legs out. I held the book close, to see the words in the poor light, and I was soon lost in the story, swept into the world of Sherlock Holmes and his puzzling mystery.
Some time later, Fitzroy deposited a candelabra on the table behind my head. My breath caught as I waited for him to say something, do something. When nothing happened, I turned my head. He was once again at his desk. He still only wore the towel and he seemed lost in the paperwork spread out before him.
I fell asleep at some point and awoke in the morning in the same position, the book splayed across my chest and Fitzroy looking down on me. The nightmare that had woken me drifted away as we regarded one another. Had I said something in my sleep? Cried out? It was difficult to tell from his blank face.
I sat up and received a sharp reminder that the knife was still under my thigh. "What do you want?" I snapped.
"Breakfast will arrive shortly." He moved away and sat at his desk. The man liked to work.
I tucked the knife up my sleeve and headed into the bedroom. With one eye on the closed door, I slipped the knife under the truckle bed's mattress, then I quickly washed and changed into the clean shirt. With my hair once more covering my face, I returned to the sitting room.
"Good morning, lad," Seth said cheerfully from the small table where he was setting down a tray. "Sleep well?"
"Well enough."
Gus moved past me into the bedroom and re-emerged a few minutes later with the bowls of washing water. "When are we
going to get proper maids, sir?"
Fitzroy didn't look up from his paperwork. "When we find some that won't tattle."
"Girls who don't tattle?" Gus grunted. "Ain't no such creature."
Seth patted the chair near the table. "Sit down and eat, Charlie."
I sat and noticed that Fitzroy had his own tray laden with bacon, sausages and eggs. "I can't eat all this," I said.
"Try. You need fattening up." Seth ruffled my hair as he passed and I slapped his hand away. He chuckled and I found I couldn't be mad at him. He wasn't a bad sort, despite his participation in my kidnapping. He was only following orders.
Gus handed me a steaming cup of tea and bent his head close to mine. "Does he snore?" he whispered.
Despite everything, I laughed. "Like a trumpet," I whispered back, keeping Fitzroy in my line of sight.
Gus grinned, revealing a patchwork of broken and crooked teeth. "I knew there had to be something human about him."
"Or maybe his gears get jammed when he lies down."
Gus roared with laughter. Fitzroy glanced over his shoulder, catching us both watching him. Gus choked on his laugh and turned it into a cough.
"Eat, Half Pint," he commanded. "Growing boy like you should eat every crumb."
Seth emerged from the bedroom carrying jugs and bowls. He mouthed, "What's so amusing?" at Gus, but Gus merely shrugged.
"You know what you must do," Fitzroy told them.
"Yes, sir," Seth said. "We'll head out now."
Fitzroy locked the door after they left then settled back at his desk. He read the newspaper flattened out before him and absently ate his breakfast. I ate all of the bacon on my plate. It was one of the foods I'd missed in the last five years, and I savored every bite. I didn't touch the rest. The bacon had filled me up.
"You do not eat," Fitzroy said, some time later when he approached.
"I'm not hungry."
"If you don't eat, you won't grow."
"Perhaps I like being short and thin."
"No boy likes being short and thin."
I watched him for signs that he suspected, but he was already turning away from me. He paced the room, covering the entire length quickly with his long strides. He seemed agitated or frustrated.
"I'm sure they're doing as you asked," I said.
He stopped and looked at me. Then he began pacing again. Back and forth, back and forth for an eternity, it seemed. I turned my back to him and read, but the rhythm of his footsteps distracted me. I plugged my ears with my fingers but the rhythm continued to tread through my head and it was difficult to keep the book open with my elbows.
With a sigh, I withdrew my fingers and closed the book. "Are you worried about them?"
"No." He almost sounded amused at the idea. Almost.
"Are you concerned they'll fail?"
"Somewhat."
But not enough to warrant the pacing, I thought. "Are you concerned they'll give away too much about you and the ministry?"
"They're not that incompetent."
Perhaps he was disappointed with the way the dinner with Lady Harcourt had ended the night before. Perhaps he didn't like her leaving on a sour note. Yet he'd shown no such qualms upon her departure. Curious.
He finally stopped pacing long enough to glance out the window. He looked to the bright blue sky, to left then right, and up at the sky again. Then he continued pacing.
I got up and padded barefoot to the window to see what he was looking at. There was nothing but gravel drive, garden, trees and sky. The roses were like jewels dropped on a carpet of green, and the sky was bluer than I'd seen it in an age. There must be a northerly breeze blowing the factory smog away, and most homes wouldn't light fires in summer except in the kitchen. I was so used to being surrounded by gray and brown that my eyes hurt from the dazzling sunshine and bright colors. It was a perfect day and I ached to be outside.
Now I understood Fitzroy's frustration. He didn't like being shut inside his rooms any more than I did—perhaps less so. While I was content with the books, he seemed to need to move and there simply wasn't enough space.
"Put on your shoes." His voice came from closer behind me than I realized and I jumped.
"Where are we going?"
"Outside."
I rolled my eyes at his back as I followed him into the bedroom. "Anywhere specific?"
"No."
A few minutes later we were walking across the lawn. I had to take twice as many steps to keep up with his long strides but I didn't mind. I liked stretching my limbs and feeling the blood pump through my veins. If I'd been a lady, we would have slowed to an amble, but I didn't want to amble. I wanted to run. I wondered what he'd do if I took off. Tackle me to the ground? Jerk me to a stop by my hair? Or race me?
I settled for the brisk walk. We didn't speak as we passed the rose garden and the lily pond, where a frog croaked a greeting. We headed toward the stand of trees at the edge of the property then abruptly changed direction and headed back toward the house. I wasn't ready to return inside, even though I was hot under my layers of shirt and jacket.
"What's around the back of the house?" I asked.
"Outbuildings, orchard, walled garden and tennis court."
"Tennis! Do you play?"
"Play?"
"Yes. Tennis. Do you play?"
"No."
"You've never challenged Seth or Gus to a game?"
"There is no time for games at Lichfield Towers."
"How dull. I'm sure the men would appreciate a little time to play games like tennis or cards."
"I've seen them play cards after dinner."
"You've never joined them?"
"Rarely."
"Is that because they don't ask or because you don't want to play?"
His only answer was to increase his speed. I had to trot to remain alongside him.
"You don't talk much," I said. If he wanted to keep a close eye on me, I might as well annoy him. It was my duty as his prisoner.
"You ask too many questions."
"Ha! That's rich coming from you. You only ever ask questions."
"I haven't asked you any today."
"It is only mid-morning. I expect them to come after Seth and Gus return."
"You are probably right."
I glanced sideways at him, but he kept his gaze directly ahead. He did slow down somewhat, which was just as well since I was starting to get a little breathless.
"You've almost finished the book." His attempt at starting a new conversation that had nothing to do with my background surprised me. I was growing used to his silences.
"It's a good book."
"Nor have you asked me the meaning of any of the words."
"So?"
"You're educated."
Ah, there it was. His attempt at digging into my past had begun more subtly this time, but he'd ruined it with that comment. "Very observant, Sherlock."
He said nothing.
"Sherlock is the character in the book I'm reading," I explained. "He's very observant."
"I've read it."
"Oh. So you didn't find my reference clever or amusing enough to bother replying, or even smirking."
"I didn't say that."
"I see. You only thought me clever and amusing. Be careful, Mr. Fitzroy, I've heard that keeping your emotions bottled up will rot your insides."
"You have a dry sense of humor. I wasn't expecting that."
"And you, sir, have no sense of humor whatsoever."
When he didn't answer, I worried that I'd offended him. Then I told myself to stop worrying. He was my jailor; his feelings were of no concern to me. Besides, I doubted he had feelings.
"Why do Gus and Seth call you Death?"
"Because I've killed people."
My step faltered. I'd been trying to goad him again, and wasn't expecting his frankness. "How many?"
"Enough."
"Why did you kill them?"
"They talked too much."
I stopped altogether, but he continued on, not caring that he was leaving me behind. I blinked rapidly, then realized he was teasing me.
"And you call my sense of humor dry," I muttered when I caught up to him near the stables. "Yours is positively parched."
We walked past the stables and other outbuildings, then crossed the courtyard and headed up the back steps. He opened the door for me and I went inside. We were in the service area, near the kitchens if the delicious smell of baking bread was an indication.
We passed the servants' dining room, the butler and housekeeper's offices, scullery, and the bells labeled with the names of the rooms they serviced. They were eerily silent, as was the entire house, until we came to the kitchen. A large man hummed as he kneaded dough, his attention focused entirely on his work.
"Cook," Fitzroy barked.
The cook looked up and his eyes widened. He had no hair on his head or face, not even eyebrows, and the lack of it made his cleft chin and red cheeks more obvious. I couldn't be sure if he had a naturally rosy complexion or he was simply hot. The kitchen was terribly warm.
"Mr. Fitzroy, sir! I weren't expecting you." He screwed his hands into his apron to wipe them, but they still came away doughy. "You be hungry, sir?"
"No," Fitzroy said. "This is Charlie. Charlie, this is Cook."
"You don't eat much," Cook said to me.
"No."
He frowned. "Can't be the food. I'm a great cook."
"Yes, you are. I just don't get hungry."
"Growin' lad like you should be."
I shrugged. "Maybe I'm not used to eating."
Fitzroy continued along the corridor, leaving the cook and me staring at one another. The cook jerked his head in the direction Fitzroy had gone. "Don't keep him waitin'," he whispered. I was about to head off when he added, "You can't live on bacon and jelly alone, boy."
"Just put less on my tray next time and I'll eat it all."
He winked and jerked his head again. I nodded thanks and hurried after Fitzroy. He waited at the base of the service stairs and stepped aside to allow me to go ahead of him. I was very aware of him behind me as we ascended. I wasn't a curvy woman in front, but I wasn't sure what I looked like back there. Certainly not too round, or the boys in the gangs would have teased me for having a feminine arse. Yet they weren't as observant as Fitzroy, and had no reason to suspect me of being a woman. I wasn't sure if he did suspect, but I felt his gaze on my rear nevertheless.
We emerged from the service stairwell onto the second floor corridor, not far from his rooms. I wasn't ready to be cooped up again. There was still so much I hadn't seen. "May I look around the rest of the house, with you as my tour guide?"
He paused. "Are you trying to find out where I hide the weapons?"
"Of course not."
"Good. You will not be given the chance to escape and I wouldn't want your hopes to be raised falsely."
"How considerate," I sneered.
"Except for the attic, this is the highest level in the east and west wings. The tower goes two levels higher."
"I know that already."
"You've seen the bathroom." He indicated the other doors up and down the corridor. "These are bedrooms. They're unfurnished." He did not open the doors but strode past them and the main central staircase too then opened another door on the right. The room beyond was large but clearly unused. Dustsheets covered the furniture and it was just as well, as there was dust everywhere. I wrinkled my nose at the musty smell, even as I admired the large windows, the giant marble fireplace, and the multi-tiered chandelier.
"This is the drawing room," he said.
"Such a shame to see it in this state," I whispered. Imagine the conversations those walls had been privy to over the years.
We headed past the ghostly furniture and through another door on the other side. It was empty. "This is the ballroom."
"It's magnificent." It was very long, but the dark wood paneling made it feel cozy. I could imagine elegantly dressed ladies and gentlemen dancing and chatting beneath the three enormous chandeliers, their jewels sparkling in the light.
"Have you ever held a ball here?"
"No."
"You should, if only to enjoy such a lovely room."
"I'll keep that in mind for when enjoying ballrooms becomes one of the ministry's primary aims."
We rejoined the corridor. It bent suddenly to the left then stopped at another, narrow staircase. "That leads to the attic and the servants' rooms," he said.
"Is that where Gus, Seth and Cook sleep?"
"Yes."
"Are they the only servants here?"
"Yes."
"But Seth and Gus are more guards than footmen."
He didn't say anything, and I suspected it was because I hadn't posed it as a question.
"You've not thought about employing some maids or a butler? Someone discreet?"
"No." He returned back the way we came and headed down the grand stairs to the ground floor. "You've already seen the dining room, library, and the parlor, which we use instead of the drawing room for visitors."
"Do you get visitors often?"
"Only committee members."
"What about your friends and family?"
He paused on the bottom step, his back to me. "You've also seen the service areas in that direction. Adjoining the dining room is the billiard room."
"Do you play?"
"There's no table."
"What an entertaining household this is. No tennis, no billiards, and no visitors."
"You're not here to be entertained."
"True. But I don't live here, nor am I staying long. You, Seth and Gus, however, need something to do in the evenings."
He indicated I should go first up the stairs. "I told you, they play cards. Most evening they spend with Cook."
"And you? How do you spend your evenings?"
"Reading. Writing correspondence and reports. Scientific experiments. Exercising. Thinking."
I stopped and he stopped beside me. "You mean all you do is work?"
"Sometimes I sleep." He continued past me.
I laughed. "That was a joke. Wasn't it?" I trotted after him. "Tell me you at least read for pleasure. You said you've read my book, so you must."
"On occasion. And yes, I have read your book."
My face heated. "I didn't mean it like that."
We returned to his rooms and I picked up the book. I finished it in the afternoon and spent another hour or so watching him as he mixed liquids together in little bottles and set them over a tiny gas burner. He took copious notes in a complicated scrawl that appeared to be some kind of code. It made no sense to me, but I liked watching the experiments and trying to guess what would happen. He answered my questions when I asked them, but mostly we didn't speak. It didn't feel in the least awkward or strained, and I began to like his quiet company. It made a nice change to the constant, inane chatter of the boys.
Seth and Gus brought our meals in for an early dinner, and gave Fitzroy their report. I wasn't concerned before they began and I still wasn't concerned when they finished. They'd traced my life back some three years. The following day they planned to continue.
They were about to leave when I stopped them. "You two got any cards?" I asked. "Or dice?"
"Can't gamble with what you don't have, boy," Gus said.
"I don't want to gamble, I just want to do something other than read and watch the machine work."
Gus and Seth glanced nervously at Fitzroy.
"You may play cards," Fitzroy said, turning back to the notes Seth had handed him along with his dinner tray.
"So kind," I said, bowing.
Gus suppressed a snigger and both men left. They returned after I'd finished my meal—a small portion of game pie and a salad—and deposited a deck of cards on the table. Gus arranged three chairs around it.
"What do you know how to play?" he asked me.
"Very little." Card games had be
en forbidden in our house by Father, but I'd seen the boys play when they could get hold of a deck. "Teach me something."
"We'll start with Loo." As Seth dealt, I surreptitiously glanced in Fitzroy's direction. He was watching us from beneath hooded lids.
"Are you joining us?" I asked him.
He turned back to the papers on his desk. "I have work to do."
"All work and no play makes Sir a very dull fellow indeed," I whispered.
Seth grinned and Gus snorted a laugh. "You better mind he don't hear you say that," Gus whispered back.
"He won't hurt me. Not while he thinks I'm a necromancer."
"And if you're not, like you say?" Seth drawled. "What do you think he'll do then? Simply allow you to walk away so you can blab about the ministry all over London? Think again, lad."
I swallowed hard. I hadn't considered that. "I ain't seen no evidence of him being cruel."
"I didn't say he was cruel. Just that he will do whatever it takes to stop you talking."
"By bribing me?"
"Or threatening you."
"And if I don't take his threats seriously?"
Seth met my gaze over the top of his cards. "Then you take your life into your own hands."
Gus leaned forward. "You see," he whispered, "telling people about the ministry and Lichfield Towers brings danger to his door. And when Death feels like he's in danger…" He sliced a finger across his throat.
I remembered how he'd rendered me unconscious to capture me, then quickly disarmed me when I’d shot him. He hadn't hurt me on either occasion, but if he no longer needed me…would he?
I lost every round and ended the evening by telling them I was too tired to play anymore. They left, taking their cards with them. I wasn't tired, however, and started a new book. At around nine, Fitzroy removed himself to the bedroom and re-emerged wearing his loose fitting exercise clothes.
He began with the same routine of jumping on the spot, drawing his knees high, then practicing kicking and punching moves. He varied it after that by grasping the top of the open bedroom door and pulling himself up to his chin then slowly lowering himself again. I lost count of how many after fifty.
Instead of using the handles connected by a chain next, he found a walking stick from somewhere in the bedroom and used it like a sword against an imaginary opponent. His actions were sleek and smooth, yet I imagined they would be lethal if he struck anyone. His face was rigid with concentration, his eyes fixed on his invisible foe with murderous intent.
I sat transfixed by the power in his graceful moves and the seriousness with which he practiced. What would distract him? A tickle? A kiss? My nakedness?
The mischief-maker in me was tempted to try, but I remained where I was, watching. When he finally finished and returned to the bedroom, I blew out a long, measured breath. It was shaky. Blood rushed through my veins and my heart pounded. The sight of him had affected me, the way a woman should be affected by a handsome, powerful man.
But not this woman, and not that man.
I tried to concentrate on my book to calm my tingling nerves and slow my heart, but I'd read barely a few lines by the time he emerged, wearing only a towel wrapped around his hips. That chest, those shoulders and arms…it was all too much, too overwhelming, too male. And I was weak.
I sprang up and rushed past him, catching a whiff of the spicy scent of his soap. Whether he thought my behavior strange or not, I didn't turn around to see. I shut the door with my foot and threw myself on the trundle bed. I pounded my fist into the pillow, but it did nothing to dampen the desire coiling within me. Perhaps I ought to take up exercising too and remove my frustrations that way.
Some time later, my blood had calmed but my head was still filled with images of a naked Lincoln Fitzroy, towel drying his hair, and then a naked Fitzroy exercising. Oh Lord, this had to be punishment for my sins. My one true sin was the necromancy, the devil's work according to Father.
If I didn't get away from Lichfield Towers—from Fitzroy—I would be found out. If I were found out, I would be in danger. I'd been a fool to allow myself to succumb to the comforts. He'd deliberately lulled me with food and clothing, a soft bed, pleasant walks. It was working. All he had to do was wait for me to confess so that I could stay at Lichfield.
Stay with him.
But I hadn't lost my will to survive. It had been with me so long that it was a difficult habit to break. It overrode everything else, even my desire for comfort and for him.
I rolled onto my side and reached under the mattress. My hand closed around the knife. I drew it out and slipped it under the pillow near my head, then I closed my eyes and waited.
Some time later, Fitzroy entered. He did not carry any light and he was as silent as a mouse. He climbed into the bed, and I listened to his breathing. He didn't snore, but his breathing became more audible as he fell asleep. I continued to wait then, when I calculated that it must be the early hours of morning, I quietly got up.
With the knife in my hand, I checked the bed. He didn't stir. The bedroom door was open, but I needed the key to unlock the main door. It was dark and I was unfamiliar with the room, but I found the clothes stand where he'd draped his waistcoat. The pocket was empty.
Where was the damned key?
I searched it again, then moved onto his trousers. Perhaps he'd put it in his jacket. But he'd not worn a jacket all day. I'd seen him put the key in his waistcoat.
"It's not there." His voice startled me, even though he'd spoken softly. I felt his chest at my back, his breath in my hair, and his fingers around my hand. I couldn't move it or my arm. I was trapped.
I should have felt afraid. He was stronger than me, faster, a skillful fighter, and I didn't trust him. Yet I felt no fear. What I did feel was a thrill skipping down my spine with abandon. His scent filled my nostrils, his touch left me tingling in the places where our bare skin connected. I tried to steady my breathing, but it was impossible. It came out labored and shuddery.
The anticipation was exquisite torture. I wanted him to touch me, to hold me, to see me as a woman. Yet being discovered terrified me. The devil's daughter was only good for doing the devil's work.
Without a word, he took the knife off me. My back suddenly felt cold and I turned around. He set the knife on his bedside table then climbed into the bed. He lay on his side, but it was too dark to see if his eyes were opened or closed.
I returned to my trundle and lay down, but I didn't sleep until after dawn when he rose and left me alone in the bedroom. I checked the bedside table, but the knife was gone.
CHAPTER 7