Page 250

The hearth is only a few paces away.

Too close.

Too far.

I throw myself toward it, reaching out my hands. The flames bite, the heat surges through my fingers. I jerk one hand back, then the other, then reach forward again, stupid, obstinate.

An arm catches me from behind. Victor’s fingers close around my forearm and wrench me away.

He is cold, he seems to cut through my flesh.

“What the devil are you doing!”

His voice explodes above my head.

I cannot speak. My hands are shaking. The skin pulses, reddened.

That was my father’s bow.

“Let him be,” my mother sneers.

He looks at my hands, his brow furrowed.

“Have someone bring ice.”

She does not move. She is a statue. A statue that watches.

“Have someone bring ice!”

His voice rises, the words bounce off the walls and then recede, the sound becoming muffled. Distant.

I turn my head; my vision slides away from the fireplace, from the sofa, from them. It stops on an armchair in the corner of the sitting room.

The doll is sitting there.

Black hair, smooth.

Blue eyes, wide open.

Watching me.

I open my eyes, the library is treacherous in its stillness.

I clench my jaw until it aches, a nerve pulses beneath my ear.

My hand moves of its own accord. The inkwell rolls, the pen clacks against the wood, and papers and notes slide to the floor. My gaze falls upon the dictionary.

It has remained there. Obstinate.

I seize it; for a moment, I think of hurling it against the wall, but instead, I pull it back onto the table. I lower my head and let my forehead drop against the cold volume.

I remain like this for several moments. I sigh and turn my face to the side; my cheek rests against the dictionary, the leather cold, almost damp. With my fingernail, I trace a groove into the table, over and over in the same spot, until the wood pales.

“Why, instead, does that Lord’s touch burn?”

I bring my fingers to my lips, pressing them for an instant. I straighten up, irritated with myself. The library door opens.

“Viscount, you told me to remind you—”