by Lani Lenore
The young man was angry, and nothing William had said or could have said would smother it. His rational mind was grasping, and it was willing to believe anything at all. Todd moved down the hall. He was supposed to be looking for Anne or for Olivia, but he had a specific destination. Without knowing that he was being followed–though not by William–Todd walked straight into Anne’s empty room.
He listened a moment to make sure William had not turned and decided to come after him, but all was silent in the house. He stepped to the bed, looking down at it briefly before he lowered his hand down onto it. The sheets were cold. The woman had been absent from them for quite a while.
A short sneer touched his lips at the thought that he could have been in this bed anytime he’d wanted. He never had been, mainly just for cruelty, but he’d actually considered it tonight–to spite her and his uncle–but that was before he had found her missing. Now he only wanted to destroy her.
He searched around for a good place, and finally he found a little box on a shelf that held sewing supplies. Looking around him once again, to be certain he was unobserved, he reached into the pocket of his jacket and pulled out a small vial of clear liquid–his poison. He dropped it into the box and covered it with a bit of loose cloth, then closed the lid.
Done with his work, he put his hands into his pockets and left, not feeling the least bit of remorse for framing Anne or for lying to William. How could he have hoped to be? He was a murderer, after all.
2
Though Todd had hoped to work in secret, Anne and Armand saw everything, hiding in a corner of the room until the young man had left once again. Armand didn’t seem bothered, but Anne was horrified. That evil creature! How dare he? That must have been the poison they had been using to kill Agatha so slowly, and now he had planted it inside Anne’s sewing box as if she had done the deed?
“Bastard,” she uttered, unable to contain it.
Todd left the room quietly as if he’d never been inside there. The darkness seemed to gather closer. Anne clenched her fists until her knuckles were white and devoid of color, so angry that she could scream. This could be countered now that they’d seen him plant the evidence, but what if they’d not? She would have returned to her own world just to be imprisoned.
Eventually, her eyes lifted to Armand’s. He stood quietly in his own thoughts, which she could not read. She couldn’t help wondering if he was once again thinking she was pathetic, as he had thought before he’d come to care about her. He’d finally seen into her true self? Seen what she had done to keep the pitiful life she’d attained? He knew of her affair with William and that it might have been Anne’s own fault that the man and his nephew were plotting to kill Agatha. She couldn’t help feeling somewhat guilty over that, but now, more than anything else, she felt uncertain. How did this make Armand feel?
“What are you thinking?” she asked hesitantly. He could surely tell what she meant by her words just by the sound of them. She wasn’t inquiring about the poison; she was asking about how he was feeling about her after he’d heard all this.
Armand stood there a moment before shaking his head. “It’s your decision.”
The decision to let Agatha die or try to save her. The decision to let herself be William’s wife or lose all connection with the family whatsoever.
“Do you think I’m terrible for even having to consider it?”
Even when she was asking it, Anne realized how ridiculous she must have sounded. Had he recognized her concern; her desperation for acceptance even though she knew he must not have cared one way or the other. How could he? He had his own faults.
“I can’t judge you,” the soldier insisted to her, and she could tell by the breath in his voice that he didn’t wish to talk further on it. Anne directed her attention to the floor.
Armand moved forward a few steps, never once looking at her, more interested in the vial that the young man had put into the sewing box high atop the dresser.
“We’ll want to be removing that vial,” he said firmly, dismissing any thoughts Anne might have been having. “Best to do it now so that you can put it back into that man’s possessions unnoticed.”
He started off across the room, and for a moment, Anne could only watch him. But it wasn’t long before she snapped to herself. There were no protests in her mouth. She wanted to be saved. What else could she do but follow him?
“Yes, of course,” she said, and fell into step.
3
It was just like Olivia’s dream. She could turn her head slightly to the right and left, and if she was brave enough to do so, she would have seen a large scissor blade on each side of her. She also remembered what else had happened in her dream. Those scissors had snapped shut. That was when she had woken up. The King of Mice had put her here, smiling as he told her that this device was attached to a timing mechanism, and that Armand had only so much time to deliver her before she would be quite dead indeed.
Olivia glanced to both sides once more. It was dark here, but a tiny bit of light allowed her to see the gleam of the metal. A whimper involuntarily escaped her lips.
Was she frightened now? Did she regret her rash decision to turn herself over to the rodents? Was she finally beginning to realize that this war was not all just a game like the ones she’d played with her dolls before she’d come to live among them? The answer to those first two things was yes, but the answer to the last was the opposite–though that ‘no’ was well on its way to becoming a ‘yes’. There was a feeling of dread in her gut, and in her mind, gears were turning.
Could it have been possible that little girls were not meant to be lowered to their toys? She’d played with her sister Elizabeth on several occasions, and while the younger girl agreed with many of Olivia’s views about the dolls, Olivia couldn’t help but to feel a bit different from her. The child had never spoken of her own toys as Olivia had heard them, and many times Elizabeth had called them by the wrong names. But what was the reason for all of that? Elizabeth did not pay enough attention? Olivia had never considered that she might be the same one.
Olivia closed her eyes, assuring herself that everything would turn out as she’s initially expected, but inside, she wondered if she could afford to be so calm. She had no idea how much time she had left before the trap would spring.
4
There were extra sewing supplies beneath Anne’s bed, so with the use of some thread and a few safety pins, Armand was able to scale to the top of the dresser, retrieve the vial and lower it back down to her. They bundled the evidence in a piece of cloth like a baby so that Anne would not come in contact with any of the poison. It was unknown how potent the mixture was, so they took precautions.
Armand was silent through all of this, and Anne tried to concentrate, but couldn’t quite manage. She wanted a word from him–something that would console her thoughts, even though she knew they might not be together for much longer. She needed to know that he wasn’t judging her, and at the same time she felt guilty enough to explain, but she could only observe him silently.
The nutcracker leaned down with his powerful arms to take up the vial, but before he had touched it, Anne became overwhelmed by her own emotion, gripping his arms.
“I don’t love him.”
Armand looked at her as if he might not have known what she was talking about, but how could he not have? Anne knew he understood.
“William, I mean,” she said, shaking her head to organize her thoughts. “We’d been having an affair, but I never guessed that he’d want to kill his wife.”
Armand looked down at her with a strange curve at his dark eyes.
“It’s…” he started, trying to think of a kinder way to say it, but the same word kept coming back to him. Finally, he gave up with a small shrug. “Irrelevant,” he finished. “The decision you make will not be based on whether or not you love him. You know that.”
“Yes… I suppose you’re right.”
“I have my own faults to account for
. You know that as well. I cannot judge.”
She looked down with uncertainty, but he touched the side of her face gently. His wooden hand was cold. She smiled sadly, wondering if it would mean much to him if she said that, given a choice in the matter, she’d have picked him first. Today, that would be pointless. She knew he must have already known and believed that.
Anne gave a short nod to let him know she would be fine with this now. Words could not make their way up for fear that she might begin to cry. Armand lifted up the vial wrapped in cloth and waited for her to come to attention before turning toward the shafts. Before them now was the job of getting the poison back into Todd’s luggage. He supposed it would be simple enough, considering that they could find the room he was staying in.
5
After they secured that part, Armand guessed he would have to part from this woman.
It was sad, but he’d known all night that the time had been coming when he would have to say goodbye to Anne forever. Earlier now than he thought, perhaps, but he imagined they could comb through the house for the rest of the night and never come across anything definite as to whether or not the curse could even be broken. He hesitated on the thought that if she was to stay in this state, perhaps he should stay with her instead of going off and getting himself killed, but he’d already thought about those things before. It was impossible for several reasons. He felt in his heart that she understood why.
The woman had her own decisions to make now, and so the nutcracker remained silent as they traveled through the darkness. They leaned only on the sanity they had managed to preserve.
Chapter Thirty–Five: Sweet Sorrow
1
Todd’s luggage was beside his bed. Clothes were spilling out from within as if he–or someone else–had been digging through the bag hastily. The bed was untouched, obvious that he’d not laid his head down at all this night.
Walking over the clothes within the suitcase was like moving across shifting sand, but the nutcracker and the woman managed it, eventually finding a suitable side pocket to store the vial of poison in.
When it was done and the vial was out of sight, they stood silently outside the suitcase. Neither of them looked at the other. Anne looked at her feet while Armand focused on something off to the side in the dark of the room that his mind wasn’t registering.
Finally, it was Anne who broke the silence between them.
“So, we’re holding with the idea that your misfit is going to have our answers?”
She was already afraid to ask, or to even say a word at all, and when he hesitated with his reply, her feeling of dread deepened.
“I was thinking it over,” he said, looking out at the room and not at her, “but I’m not sure how probable it is that the misfit will know the secret–neither do I know the odds of that toy telling us even if it did know. I believe it was just wishful thinking that led me to suggest this.”
Armand held his head up as if he was proudly commanding an army based on his opinions. He wore a scowl. She did not like that look for him. There was too much resolution in it.
“The girl?” Anne inquired. “Clara. What about her?”
Armand shook his head slightly.
“She’s just a child in her role,” he said. “Not very assuring. Even if Augustus had told her about the intricacies of the curse–which now I can’t think of a reason why he would–I’m not sure that she could explain it properly to us.”
Anne stared up at him, once again searching for something in his eyes that quite simply was not there. There was absence, but this time it was not her own absence of self as she had seen when she’d first looked into those empty sockets. This time, it was his absence from her.
“You’ve changed your mind about helping me?” she asked, her voice cracking like a sheet of ice as the words spilled out. Armand looked at her then. His firm wooden face was twisted in an unexplained look of sorrow. Shameful admittance?
“I want to help you. I promised you this with every intention of following through.” He paused–seemed to want to reach out and embrace her, but his arms remained hanging at his sides as if they were stuck on their joints. “I just don’t know how to help you.”
Anne examined him, wondering what had led him to feel this way. He was sorrowful, perhaps because of the past, but there was something else there as well–something that he was trying very hard to hide.
“You’re angry with me aren’t you?” she implored, crossing her arms defensively and beginning to feel completely worthless. “I knew it.”
“No, that’s not true,” he insisted, but she was hearing nothing of those lies. Was this why he did not hold her, because he was afraid that if he came too close his fury would overtake him and he would crush her?
“Bollocks!” she cried, ignoring the flecks of spit that burst from her mouth. “Look, I know this is no time to argue over something so ridiculous. It’s as you said; it’s all irrelevant. We can’t be together and we both know that, but quite honestly, I can’t let the last time I ever see you be one like this! So you may as well tell me what you’re feeling.”
Armand did not sigh. He looked straight down at her boldly. She was right. There was no sense in hiding from her.
“I’m angry, you’re right,” he admitted. “I made you a promise, but I think we both know that I lied. I said I wanted to help you even if it meant not killing him tonight. Even if it meant that he would escape me again. I want to help you…”
“But you could never let him get away again,” Anne interrupted him, knowing what he would say.
Certainly, his intentions had been good, but Anne would have been a fool to believe he could truly cast everything off because of her. She should not have expected him to.
He only wishes he could care about me like that.
Though this matter saddened her, she was somewhat relieved that it was not her personal matters which made him angry.
“It would be wrong of me to cast off those things,” Armand said, feeling confusion and hurt inside himself that he did not reveal to her. “I’m doing all this for Clara and not only my hateful desires.”
“Meeting me didn’t change much–as it shouldn’t have,” Anne said, forgiving him even as she displayed her understanding. “I was wrong to project myself on you.”
Her words sent a shock through him. She had actually spoken that, hadn’t she? How many things could he have said to counter her on that? Of how she had helped him feel alive again and gather a better connection with his past feelings of hate. How she had reminded him of what he could not have and of what he had missed in his life. The fact that her flesh body had only made him feel better because it made him feel worse; that was something he could never say, but it was, without doubt, their rather twisted lovemaking that had made this anger within him spring up.
“No…” he said simply, but could not force himself on further.
She sighed. He didn’t think that she believed him, but he could think of nothing else to say.
“What will we do now?” Anne asked after she had gathered herself. She was trying to focus, but he saw that she was struggling. How could he leave her now? No, it was not time yet. They would at least press the misfit and the child for answers.
“We will try,” he promised.
A sincere smile pulled at her mouth but did not quite manage to stick. The gathering moisture in her eyes was countering that feeling of gratitude. Still, she looked at him with great affection.
“Thank you.”
The words warmed his heart slightly, but the core that had frozen over would not be melted by her anymore. He could not allow it to be. Turning, the nutcracker headed back to the shafts with the woman behind him.
2
Tucked in her bed, Elizabeth Ellington swore that she heard voices in the hallway beyond her room, and she leaned up a bit from her warm blankets in the dark. Her cousins slumbering on either side of her did not seem disturbed by the hushed conversation that had taken pla
ce outside.
It took a short moment before her groggy, ten–year–old mind came to the realization that Christmas was upon them. The whispers in the hallway may have very well been Father Christmas and his worker elves. A tingle of excitement ran through her. It was not quite time to rise, but perhaps she should be the first to sneak downstairs and see the presents!
Carefully, she crawled past her cousins and slipped out of bed without waking them. She moved to the door and checked the hallway to make sure it was empty before stepping out, pushing the door closed behind her. Soundlessly, her tiny feet carried her across the second floor and down the stairs. Her anticipation grew as she approached the hall that was glowing with the fire in the hearth.
The girl stepped in cautiously, thinking before she’d even come close that things did not look as they should have. Something was certainly wrong.
The room came into focus then, and her eyes saw the true horror of this magical night. Within her chest, her heart began to pound.
The presents that had been placed beneath the tree had all been ripped open. The packaging of paper and ribbons was strewn about the large room. Toys were tied and hanging from the great tree, cocooned in thread. The floor was littered with the bodies of dead mice. All the corpses combined made a rather large mess of blood that ruined the pale floor. Duchess was perched atop the mantle, bathing herself of the mouse blood she had romped about in, and the young girl looked on at the scene, horrified. Her lips quivered, feeling her child innocence tearing apart inside of her.
Elizabeth screamed. The sound of it rang throughout the house.
