Most Bluebeards lived in remote country houses surrounded by sweeping landholdings. There was only one house nearby that fitted that description. It lay to the south of the town. Jacob turned his horse northwards, so none of the good citizens would deem it necessary to notify Troisclerq of their arrival.
They left their horses in a little wood. Even wolves would leave devil-horses alone, and Jacob had replaced their reins with chains to keep them from freeing themselves. His stallion had actually befriended him and snapped amicably at his hand as Jacob pulled the backpack from his saddle.
The evening smelled of blooming trees and freshly ploughed fields. Everything around them seemed peaceful, a sleepy paradise. But they didn’t have to walk long before they came upon a sycamore-lined avenue where a carriage had left deep tracks in the wet gravel. A little later, an iron gate appeared between the trees.
The deceptive peacefulness, the locked gate . . . even the avenue had looked similar when they’d been looking for Donnersmarck’s sister. They’d come too late then. Not this time, Jacob.
He could have thrown up with fear. He’d lost count of how often during that endless ride he’d caught himself looking around for Fox. Or thinking he could hear her breathing next to him in his sleep.
‘What’s the greatest treasure you ever found?’ Chanute had asked him not too long ago. Jacob had shrugged and named a few objects. ‘You’re an even greater fool than I,’ Chanute had growled. ‘I just hope you won’t have lost it by the time the answer dawns on you.’
The gate was covered with iron flowers. Donnersmarck silently pulled a key from his pocket. Jacob had once owned one just like it, but he’d lost it, together with too many other things, in the fortress of the Goyl. A key that opened any lock . . . Some worked only in the country where they were forged, but this one worked fine here. The gate swung open as soon as Donnersmarck pushed it into the lock.
A coach house, stables, a wide driveway between dripping-wet trees, and at its end the house they’d seen from a distance. It was surrounded by evergreen hedgerows.
The labyrinth of the other Bluebeard had been dead and wilted because he’d already escaped. Jacob and Donnersmarck had hacked their way through it with their sabres. This labyrinth, however, was still alive. Good, Jacob. That means he’s still here. The hedgerows rustled as the pair approached, as though the evergreen branches wanted to warn the murderer they were shielding. Troisclerq. This time he had a name and a familiar face. All the evenings they spent together in coach stations, drank together, exchanged stories about the jealousy of Fairies and merchants’ daughters, about duels lost and won, good blacksmiths and bad tailors. And he saved your life, Jacob.
He wanted to kill Troisclerq. He’d never wanted anything as badly.
A flock of pigeons fluttered up from the hedgerows. Jacob looked after them with apprehension. What if Troisclerq killed Fox as soon as he noticed him and Donnersmarck? Stop it, Jacob. She’s still alive.
He repeated it to himself over and over. She’s still alive. He’d go crazy if he allowed himself to think anything else.
I’m sure we’ll meet again.
He was going to kill Troisclerq.
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
WHITE
Pigeons. Their feathers as white as her fear. Their wings writing it across the evening sky.
Fox pressed her hands against the window. She whispered Jacob’s name, as though her voice could guide him through the Bluebeard’s labyrinth. He had freed her from a trap before, but back then she’d been the prey. Now she was the bait.
She was so happy that Jacob had come.
She wished so badly that he’d never found her.
Behind her, between the empty plates, the carafe was filling with her fear.
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
LOST
Jacob wished he had a ball of untearable yarn, or one that could find the way on its own if he placed it on the gravelled path that disappeared into the hedgerows ahead. But Donnersmarck had searched the Chambers of Miracles in vain for such an item. The yarn Jacob was now tying to a bush at the entrance of the labyrinth came from a tailor’s shop in Vena, and there was nothing magical about it except for the skill involved in spinning common sheep’s wool into a firm thread. This was going to be their thread of life, their only hope of not losing themselves between the shrubs.
Jacob carefully ran the thread through his fingers as he and Donnersmarck stepped into the twilight between the branches. The predator had cast his green web very wide. Just a few turns in, they stumbled over a rusty sabre. They found bones that had been nibbled clean, rotten boots, an old-fashioned pistol. Soon enough they no longer knew which direction they’d come from, yet their greatest worry was the white flowers growing in the shade of the shrubs. Forgetyourself. No point in crushing them or pulling them out. Their effect just got stronger when the blossoms wilted. Jacob and Donnersmarck tied kerchiefs in front of their mouths and noses and walked on, repeating each other’s names, or places and things they’d done together. But their memories faded with every step, and their only connection to the world they were fast forgetting was a thread of yarn.
Leaves. Branches. Paths ending in evergreen walls. Again and again.
Jacob had escaped from places where one lost oneself, but not even the Fairy island had turned his world into such a nothing. He touched the scar on his hand, which the vixen’s teeth had once left there so he wouldn’t lose himself in the arms of the Red Fairy.
Don’t forget her, Jacob.
Forget yourself, but not her.
And again the path ended in the shrubs. Donnersmarck cursed, ramming his sabre into the thicket. Left. Right. The very words seemed to have lost all meaning. Jacob rolled up the thread so it would lead them back to the last fork.
Don’t forget her.
How many hours had they been wandering like this? Or was it days? Had there ever been anything but this labyrinth? Jacob spun around and reached for his pistol. A man was standing behind him with his sabre drawn.
The stranger lowered his weapon. ‘Jacob! It’s me!’ Donnersmarck. Repeat the name, Jacob. No, there was only one name he couldn’t forget. Fox. She’s still alive. Again and again. She’s still alive. He leant against the evergreen leaves. The perfume of forgetyourself filled his head with sticky nothingness.
He stumbled on – and suddenly he clutched his chest. The fourth bite.
No. Not now.
The yarn fell from his hand as the pain forced him to his knees. Donnersmarck stumbled after the ball of wool and just managed to catch it before it disappeared beneath the hedge.
The pain set Jacob’s heart racing, yet all he could think was Not now, not here! He had to find her.
‘What is it?’ Donnersmarck leant over him. It’ll pass, Jacob. It always passes.
The pain was everywhere. It flooded his flesh.
Donnersmarck dropped to his knees beside Jacob. ‘We’ll never find a way out of here.’
Think, Jacob. But how, with the pain numbing his senses?
He pushed a trembling hand into his pocket. Where was it? He found the card in the folds of his gold handkerchief. It didn’t stay blank for long.
DO YOU NEED MY HELP?
Jacob pressed his hand to his aching chest. The answer didn’t come easily. A bargain that could only end badly.
‘Yes.’
‘What are you doing?’ Donnersmarck stared at the card.
It filled with new words.
ANY TIME. I HOPE THIS IS THE BEGINNING OF A FRUITFUL COLLABORATION. ARE YOU READY TO PAY MY PRICE?
‘Whatever you want.’ It could hardly be higher than the Fairy’s price. As long as he got out of this labyrinth.
I WILL TAKE YOU AT YOUR WORD.
Green ink. Nearly as green as Earlking’s eyes. Guismond had sold his soul to the Devil. Who was he selling his to?
The pain eased, but Jacob was still nauseous from the smell of the forgetyourself, and he barely remembered his own name.
> The card stayed blank.
Come on!
The letters appeared painfully slowly.
TWICE LEFT AND THEN RIGHT.
TWICE RIGHT AND THEN LEFT.
SO GOES THE WEB THE BLUEBEARD WEAVES.
On your feet, Jacob! It was a pattern. Nothing but a pattern.
Donnersmarck stumbled after him. Left and left again. Then right. Jacob let the thread run through his fingers. Right. And right again. And left.
Through the hedges came the light of a lantern. They rushed towards it, both certain it would disappear again. But the hedgerows opened up, and they were standing in the open.
The house in front of them was old. Nearly as old as its owner’s ghastly clan. The crest above the door was weathered, but the centuries had not diminished the splendour of the grey walls and towers. Their dark outlines nearly melted into the night. There was one lantern shining next to the entrance, and there was light behind two windows on the first floor.
Behind one of them stood Fox.
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
BLUEBEARD
No. Troisclerq’s labyrinth could not catch Jacob. Fox wished him far, far away; and she was so happy to see him. So happy.
Jacob was not alone. Fox recognised Donnersmarck only at second glance. She always thought his sister had been a fool for getting seduced by a Bluebeard.
Troisclerq’s servant dragged her away from the window. She bit his furry hand, even though her human teeth were so much blunter than the vixen’s, and tore herself free. The pitcher was already half full. Fox pushed it over before the servant could stop her. He grabbed her hair and shook her so hard that she couldn’t breathe. She didn’t care. Her fear was trickling white across the table. Jacob was here, and they were both still alive.
‘So it’s just like everyone says. Not that I would have doubted it.’ Troisclerq was standing in the doorway. He went to the table and caught the dripping liquid in the hollow of his hand.
He didn’t seem alarmed that Jacob had escaped his labyrinth.
‘You cannot kill him!’ What was she thinking? That if she spoke the words loudly enough, they would become the truth? Fox felt her fear return.
Troisclerq touched the white liquid in his hand. ‘We shall see.’ He nodded at his servant. ‘Take her to the others.’
Fox kept screaming Jacob’s name while the servant dragged her down the corridor. What for? To warn him, to call him, to wrap herself in his name, the way she would wrap herself in the fur the Bluebeard had stolen from her. Don’t call him, Fox.
The servant stopped.
Take her to the others.
The door was no different from the other doors, but Fox could smell the death behind it as clearly as if there was blood actually seeping through the dark wood.
‘You forgot something.’ Troisclerq was standing behind her. He was holding the bunch of keys he’d put next to her plate. Maybe he wanted to see her hands tremble as she tried to put the golden key into the lock.
Jacob hadn’t let her inside the house where the Bluebeard had killed Donnersmarck’s sister. Fox had mocked him for it. The vixen had herself killed too often to be shocked by death, yet the sight awaiting her behind the door still filled her with dread.
This hunter never let go of his prey.
Nine women. They hung, held up by golden chains, like string puppets killed by their own fear. Their eyes were empty, but the terror was for ever written on their pale faces. Their killer kept them in his red chamber like jewels in a casket. Frozen remnants of the pleasure they’d given him, of the life they’d fed him, of the love that had lured them to him.
The servant wrapped the golden chain around Fox’s neck and wrists as though he wanted to adorn her one last time for Troisclerq. There wasn’t much space left in his horrible doll’s house. Her elbow touched the arm of the dead girl next to her. So cold and still so beautiful.
‘They won’t let me go.’ Troisclerq put the empty pitcher on a table by one of the shrouded windows. ‘They become part of me. Maybe that’s part of why I kill them – to free myself from them. But they remain, silent and still, and they remind me. Of their voices. Of the warmth their skin once had.’
The gaslights that illuminated the chamber cast the shadows of the dead on the red wall. Fox could see her own among them. She was already one of them.
Troisclerq approached her. ‘You’re still afraid more of his death than of your own?’
‘No.’ Fox didn’t care whether Troisclerq knew that was a lie. ‘He will kill you. For me. And for the others.’
‘Many have tried.’ Troisclerq nodded at his servant. ‘Bring him to me,’ he said. ‘But only him.’
Then he leant against the silk-covered wall that gave the room the colour of the insides of an animal. Troisclerq waited.
And Fox saw her fear trickling into the pitcher.
CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
THE WRONG RESCUERS
In a well. They threw him into a damned well.
Why? All he did was repeat Louis’s unintelligible mutterings in a few shops around the market square. White as milk. Black like a sliver of night. Set in gold.
And, Nerron? Shouldn’t the way the fat butcher stared at you have been warning enough?
He clawed at the slippery wall. Eaumbre was drifting in the briny water deep below. The Waterman was staring up at him as though it was his fault they’d ended like that. Eaumbre could probably survive for years down there in his scaly skin.
The best? My foot! No more eternal glory as a treasure hunter. Into a well, Nerron, a well! The good people of Champlitte now clearly used it only to dispense with unwelcome visitors. Running water, gaslights . . . wherever all that wealth came from, they didn’t like strangers, and definitely not ones with a stone skin.
Nerron put his forehead against the damp wall. Do not look down. Water. The Goyl’s ultimate fear.
He’d tried to heave up the iron plate they’d placed over the well, but after that landed him next to the Waterman, he refrained from any further attempts. His clothes were still damp and as slimy as a snail’s flesh.
His only consolation was that now Reckless wouldn’t get the crossbow, either. Maybe someday one of those scholars who dug up old stones would fish his well-preserved remains from the well and would wonder why he’d been carrying a golden head and a severed hand.
Nerron groaned – by now his claws were aching as though they were being slowly pulled from his fingers – and he pressed himself against the cold wall as he heard voices above. Were the townspeople coming back because they’d decided to burn him alive instead, as they used to do with his kind in Austry?
The iron plate lifted. It had been afternoon when they were thrown into the well, but the piece of sky that now came into view was already darker than Nerron’s skin. His golden eyes squinted as the light of a lantern beamed down the well shaft.
‘What a picture!’ A twangy voice echoed into the well. Arsene Lelou was staring down at him, thrilled, like a child staring at a captured insect. Nerron never thought the sight of the Bug would make him that happy.
His aching fingers barely managed to grab hold of the rope Lelou threw down the well. Someone yanked him so roughly over the well’s wall that he grazed his stony skin. Nerron knew the oafish face from the household of Louis’s cousin. One of the kitchen hands. Milkbeard. He even used that name himself. He threw Nerron on the ground as though he’d spent his whole miserable existence waiting to lay his lumpish hands on a Goyl.
‘By all means hurt him. But don’t kill him!’ Lelou stabbed the tip of his boot into Nerron’s side. It smelled of wax. The Bug spent hours polishing his buttoned boots. ‘What did you expect?’ he hissed. ‘That I’d return Crookback’s son as a Snow-White and get myself executed in your stead? That wasn’t the deal. Elven dust! You really have to try a bit harder if you want to fool Arsene Lelou.’
The Bug loved speaking of himself in the third person.
‘Take his backpack!’ he ordered. r />
The kitchen boy pressed his boots so hard into Nerron’s back that he thought he could hear his spine crack.
‘I hope you still have the head and the hand,’ Lelou purred. ‘Otherwise I’ll have to throw you right back into that well. We will find the crossbow together, and should you try to sneak off again, I’ll immediately telegraph Crookback about what you did to his son.’
Milkbeard dragged Nerron to his feet. They had an audience. Despite the late hour, half of Champlitte had gathered around the well. The butcher wasn’t the only one who looked disappointed that the stoneface was still alive. Nerron was probably the first Goyl they’d ever seen in the flesh. He wanted to scream at Kami’en: Forget Albion! Start invading Lotharaine now. Nerron wanted to see them dead, all the brave burghers of Champlitte who’d tried to drown him like a cat.
Lelou pressed his pistol into Nerron’s side.
‘Go on. Fish the Waterman out as well!’ he barked at the boy. How, by the Devil and all his golden hairs, had he found them?
The answer was standing in front of the butcher’s shop. The gold ornaments on Louis’s cousin’s carriage would have fed not only the butcher but the whole of Champlitte for a year. Sitting on the coachman’s box was the dog man who trained the princely cousin’s hounds. In Vena, he already used to stare at Nerron in a way like he’d love nothing more than to set his dogs on a Goyl for a change. And he’d brought two of them with him. Bloodhounds. They sat next to him on the coach box and bared their fangs as soon as they caught sight of Nerron. Damn. He hadn’t even tried to cover his tracks. He’d clearly underestimated the Bug.