Total pages in book: 102
Estimated words: 98121 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 491(@200wpm)___ 392(@250wpm)___ 327(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 98121 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 491(@200wpm)___ 392(@250wpm)___ 327(@300wpm)
Afraid in it.
The diary wasn’t in perfect condition when I found it, so I flip through to the page I’m looking for, the one with the clearest drawing of the pattern I recognized. Because the vines don’t simply overlap. There is a structure to what is meant to look chaotic. A shape repeated endlessly taking form in a design that is repeated here now, in my room, all around me.
Encircling me.
Ensnaring me.
Vines and vines and more vines, roses placed one per row, petals pierced and bleeding.
And that bird.
In my mother’s drawing, that bird, too, is bleeding. In my mother’s drawing, that bird’s wings are still mid-flight as it impales itself upon a thorn like a sacrifice.
I look at the headboard. I match the pattern in the diary. There is only one difference here. The bird is not midflight. Or, perhaps once, it was. But now, as I peer closer and touch the polished wood, I see the flaw where the wing is lost, broken off.
In the center of my mother’s drawing there are letters that spell out what I believe is a name. Fairbairn.
I’d been looking for the family Fairbairn of which there are several in Scotland. I’m trying to get the timing right because what makes sense, what my brain finds logical, is that this man, this Fairbairn, was the man responsible for getting her pregnant. I think he must be my father.
Someone knocks and opens the door at the same time, that knock barely a courtesy.
I practically jump out of my skin as I leap to my feet, guilt etched on my face. In my hurry, I shove the diary under the pillow of the bed. I expect it to be Jet and I’m not ready to tell him about what I’ve found yet. I’m not ready to say out loud to another person, even the one I love, the truth about what happened to my mother. Why she ran away from home. Why she couldn’t love me. Not really. I can’t explain just yet the real reason she married a man like Malek Lombardi, someone who for all his faults could, given his connection to the Moretti mafia family, help her disappear from her past.
I’m not sure I’ll ever be ready to tell Jet what I am. A product of rape. Violently begotten. Unloved, truly. And how could I blame her? Because what could I bring her but pain? Every time she looked at me, she saw her past.
She saw what my father did to her. What he took from her.
Except, it’s not Jet at the door. It’s Jameson. With him are two armed soldiers.
“Your husband isn’t here?” Jameson asks, and I get the feeling he already knew Jet was gone.
“He’ll be right back,” I lie. I was supposed to walk over to Sev’s room.
“Well, then we should go. The stylists are waiting for you. Come.” He snaps his fingers for me to step out into the hallway. Literally snaps his fingers.
“What stylists?”
“To ready you for the ball.”
Ready me? “I’d like to tell my husband where I’ll be,” I say, picking up the handle of my purse as I do because I know Jameson isn’t going to allow me to go to Jet. I just know. And I want to make sure I have Jet’s pistol with me. “He’ll want to know where I am.”
“Oh, I’ll make sure he knows. He will need to dress for the masquerade himself. Guests will be arriving soon. Now, if you will,” he says, pointing out the door. “I have a feeling Mr. Blackstone may protest and we don’t want any trouble.” Although he says it with a smile, it’s a warning.
One of the soldiers takes his cue and motions for me to walk ahead of him.
“No,” I say. “We don’t want trouble.” I walk out of the bedroom and glance down the hall toward Severin’s. Two armed men stand just outside that door. I turn back to Jameson who is watching me. He’s all faux polite expressions and hidden warnings. He’s waiting for my reaction at his show of power. Instead of giving him one, I keep my expression flat and walk in the direction he gestures.
“Oh, I cannot wait to see the surprise on Jethro’s face when he sees you descending the stairs of the great hall, my dear. You are the Belle of the Ball, after all.”
I want to ask what the fuck he’s talking about. Tell him I’m not here on fucking vacation. But I don’t. I don’t say a word, even as my anxiety ratchets up umpteen degrees. Instead, I walk along the corridor with one soldier ahead of me, another behind. Jameson opens a door in the wall that I wouldn’t have known was there and I wonder how many of these secret doors there are in this strange, terrible place. I can only guess at the maze of hidden corridors.