he watched me—was it not closer to the window before? Benedict himself had leaned forward for a better view, but had he actually moved the chair?
I circle the benign piece of furniture, sure that there was no room to step behind it before, and a floorboard creaks, a sound I should have heard had Benedict rocked against it.
I bend to examine it, and the wooden slat comes up easily in my hand.
I scramble backward, gasping at what cannot be real, but I peek over into the open space again and see not the foundation of an architectural structure but what looks like a cavernous hole with no end.
Then, as if from the bowels of hell, comes the terrifying yet distant sound of a woman’s triumphant laughter.
Without another thought, I am running—out the door, through the maze and straight to where I swore I would not go. I don’t even remember climbing the stairs when I’m already pounding on his door. Maybe I hallucinated it. Maybe the sound was just the wind. But my skin is covered in goose bumps and my heart is threatening to crack my sternum.
“Benedict!” I cry, no time for propriety. “Benedict, please. Open the door!”
In seconds he is there, bare but for cotton pajama pants, his chest beaded with sweat, but I’m too frightened to react to his body the way I know I would have only a short time ago.
“Ruby,” he says, his eyes widening. “What is it?”
I hug my torso, shivering now—from the chill in the air? Fear? I’m not even sure.
“Did you go to the cottage?” I ask, hoping for logic to rearrange my frantic thoughts. “Did you go to my room?”
His brows furrow, and he shakes his head.
“I—After you left, I went for a walk. And...” I take a shuddering breath. After what my life has become these past two months, I’m starting to trust that things will only get worse. “I think someone broke in while I was gone.”
A muscle in his jaw ticks. He looks over his shoulder and then at me.
“Come in,” he says. “You are safe here.” He steps aside and closes the door. “Follow me.”
He moves in front of me, and I gasp as he leads me from the entryway, as my eyes rest on the raised welts that cover his back.
He says nothing until we are in a modest bedchamber. The walls are bare but for a crucifix on the wall by a lone window. The bed is large but without any trappings of royalty. Just plain white sheets and a quilt. He sits me on the edge of the bed and moves a good distance from me, crossing his arms.
“Tell me what happened,” he says, not bothering to acknowledge the new elephant in the room.
“Tell me what happened to you,” I say.
He sighs. “Nothing,” he says softly. “Nothing more than purging myself of my guilt.”
My hand flies to my mouth as I stifle another gasp.
“My tormented soul isn’t your concern, Ruby. I hired you to do a job, and you performed as expected. Now tell me what you are doing here.”
His words bite, though I know they shouldn’t. They are nothing more than the truth.
“When I got home,” I tell him, “something felt wrong. And when I went to my room, the chair—your chair—was not where you’d left it. At least, I don’t think it was.” As I speak, I realize I sound less convincing by the second. But then I remember the floorboard. “There was a squeaky piece of wood in the floor behind the chair, and I thought it odd that it hadn’t sounded when you were there, because I swear your chair was right over it, so I pulled it up and—”
“Let me guess. And you found the catacombs?” He raises a brow and grins.
I stand up in a huff. “I just ran here frightened for my life, and you’re joking around?” I ask. The idea of laughter seems too ridiculous to mention. It must have been the wind and my own overactive imagination.
I turn to storm out, realizing I won’t find comfort here, but Benedict grabs my wrist.
“Wait,” he says.
I face him but say nothing more.
“There is a chance I may have moved my chair closer to you.” His expression darkens. “I don’t remember. You bewitched me with that show you put on—inserting me into your fantasy. I probably couldn’t have told you what day it was while I was in that room, let alone whether or not I moved a chair.”
“But the catacombs? That dark hole under the floor?”
He nods, a soft smile taking over his features. “There is not only a maze above the ground but one beneath it, as well. They run from under the palace to the far reaches of the grounds. I assure you that is all you saw beneath the cottage, and I can almost assure you it was I who moved the chair.”
I sigh, and he finally drops my wrist. “I guess that all makes sense.” And it does, though I’m still uneasy. “I guess...I’ll head back and go to sleep.”
He reaches for my cheek but stops short.
“You are still frightened.”
I nod.
“Then you will sleep here.” He gestures toward the bed. “I was going to sleep on the floor anyway,” he adds.
At this, I want to reach for him, to ask him to forgive himself for nothing more than wanting what he cannot have. But I know that will only cause him further distress. And because I do not want to be alone in what now feels like too strange of a place, I agree.
“I do have one condition,” I say, and he bows his head slowly. “You need to let me tend to your wounds. There are so many bruises.” For a moment I wonder if this is the hardest he’s punished himself yet. “I don’t want you marred on my account.” He opens his mouth to protest, but I shake my head. “Let me—let me do something good,” I say.
His shoulders relax, and he points toward the direction from where we came. “The bathing room is on the left. You will find supplies in there, healing salves and such.”
I smile and turn toward the door, and that’s when I see what’s on the wall...what wasn’t in my line of sight when we entered the room.
This is what I was sent to find, but now that I see it, I realize that whatever the story is behind the painting, it’s more than I anticipated.
It is not only the image of an angel...but it is one who wears my face.
Benedict
THERE IS A loud thump as my bedroom door slams shut. I whirl around to find Ruby crumpled against it, hands pressed to her face, her cheeks drained of all color.
“What is it?” I demand. My heart is in my throat. She seemed fine a moment ago, composed even.
“The portrait...” She keels forward as if to swoon. “You own one of Vernazza’s Guardian Angels paintings?”
I blink slowly, unable to comprehend the depth of emotion in her voice. “You’re a fan of Giuseppe Vernazza’s work?” Vernazza was regarded as the great artist of our age until his unfortunate death a decade ago, losing control of his car and wrapping it around a tree along the Nightgardin border. A waste to lose such a gifted prodigy before his time.
Her laugh is without humor and goes on and on, the hysterical edge slashing my peace of mind. “You could say that,” she gasps. “Vernazza was my father. Look closer at the painting. Tell me, does it remind you of anyone?”
I transfer my gaze from her beautiful face to that of the angel, the one that has so often served as both my temptation and my salvation—and