Lake of Sorrows

He took out the hood, felt the velvet fabric with his fingertips, and slipped it over his head, flushing with the memory of how Ursula had made use of it, teasing him to within an inch of his life. She might be finished with him, but he certainly wasn’t finished with her. He pulled the hood off and put it back in the toolbox, then went to the door and flicked the light switch. The shed was well illuminated in the daytime, but he had to make sure he would have light at night. He counted the steps it took to get from the door to the makeshift bed. He threaded a strong cord through the leather cuffs. She wouldn’t be able to wriggle free and evade him so easily here. He could talk to her all he liked. And he’d be gentle at first. But he’d make sure she felt his anger. She’d told him many times that she deserved to be hurt, and in this he was now more than willing to oblige.

Above the blankets was a shelf unit, through which was slung an assortment of hemp ropes and chains they’d rigged up to use with the cuffs. All very effective for his purposes. There was no danger the shelf would come down; he’d anchored it to the concrete wall himself, with six-inch bolts. He pulled one of the silk scarves from the toolbox, sliding it through his hands, pulling it taut. At first this had all been just a fantasy, but as he’d imagined it more and more, it had taken on a life of its own, and become a reality—or at least a possibility, and then a plan. She wouldn’t suspect; it was nothing they hadn’t tried before. He felt a frisson of excitement, thinking about the look that would come into her eyes when she realized that things were not going to go as they always had before, with her in charge.

Cadogan wound up the silk scarf and stuffed it into his pocket. Everything was ready. He walked slowly to the door, carefully going over all the details in his mind, then turned off the lights and locked the door behind him. No one would get into this place—or out of it—in a hurry.

The thought had crossed his mind a few times that perhaps she’d found someone else. If that was the case, he ought to warn the poor sod, before it was too late. It was too late for him, he knew—too late to go back to his former innocence. But what was done was done, and he’d never been one to wallow in misfortune. When something was finished, he forgot about it. He would forget about Ursula, too, as soon as he’d finished with her.

16

The fire was not difficult to start, given the recent dry weather. Charlie Brazil watched the flames leap higher as they consumed his broken frames, the bits of scutch he’d been saving for this night. The bullock he’d tied to the tree nearby lowed softly, alarmed by the fire’s scent. Charlie leaned over to pick up a cup from the ground, and reached into his pocket for a penknife. He approached the frightened animal, moving slowly and speaking softly to allay its fears.

“You’re all right, now. It’ll all be over soon. Just keep still.” The nervous bullock stamped its feet and eyed Charlie suspiciously as he inched nearer. He made a small but deep incision above the animal’s left foreleg, and held the cup to the wound to collect the blood that flowed from it. When the cup was half-full, he pulled it away; the blood continued, coursing in a small stream down the bullock’s leg. Charlie set his cup on the ground and reached into his pocket for a folded paper packet. He opened it and took out a flattened tangle of spider silk, and pressed it firmly against the wound. The bullock’s dark brown eyes shone in the moonlight.

He returned to the fire, feeling its heat against his face and chest and thighs. He dipped his first three fingers into the blood and sprinkled the warm liquid into the fire, repeating the motion three times. The droplets sizzled as they came in contact with the flames. He murmured the old charm:

Three over me,Three below me,

Three in the earth,Three in the air,Three in heaven,Three in the great pouring sea.

Then he poured the remaining liquid into the blaze and heard it hiss and sputter. He sat, knees drawn up to his chest, imagining that he saw fires on other hilltops in the distance, waiting for the flames to die down. By what he did tonight, he was making sure that Ursula Downes could not harm him, or anyone else, ever again.

17

The thudding music from the next room was giving Rachel Briscoe another grinding headache. She checked the clock; not time yet. Better to wait until after twelve, when it was really and truly dark. She closed her eyes and lay still, trying to quiet the thoughts, the colors and shapes that moved in her head.