Swiss Vendetta (Agnes Luthi Mysteries #1)
Tracee de Hahn
What is history but a fable agreed upon?
—NAPOLEON
DAY ONE
Chateau Vallotton, Switzerland
Felicity Cowell fled, her bare feet slapping the cold stone of the corridor. She tried to soften the sound, but her heart said run and she followed her heart until the corridor turned, ending abruptly at a steep flight of stairs. She stopped short, teetering on the top step. This path led to a ground-level door and the lawn. Another miscalculation. She needed a different escape.
It had started two weeks ago. “Welcome to our home,” the old biddy had said in her quiet voice that first day. Her polite and perfect English twisted by a French accent, the hospitality of the greeting so nuanced with insult that Felicity nearly left, for it was what she had expected. To call this place—this mass of stone and land and art—a home screamed privilege and arrogance.
The idea had been enchanting: a few weeks’ work evaluating art in the spectacular Chateau Vallotton on the shore of Lac Léman. Even that was a lie. Instead of the promised perfection of Switzerland, the days had been gray and wet, the chateau chilly enough to satisfy a Scotsman. She had known from the first greeting that the trip was a mistake.
Now she had proof. Everything she feared was coming true. She stood at the top of the narrow flight of stairs, trembling in a thin evening dress. She hurried down, her hands trailing the walls for balance. At the bottom, in the narrow back entry hall, she huddled out of sight, seeking solitude. She wrapped her arms around herself, silently cursing everyone she had ever known. The pressure in her chest was overwhelming, her lungs wouldn’t expand and oxygen couldn’t reach her brain. Questions. She couldn’t face their questions. Her anger returned, transformed into rage. She belonged here. This could be her home, her possessions, her life. She thought about them—all of them—and remembered what would happen if they knew the truth about her. She shuddered. It was the end of a dream.
Voices neared, no longer echoes but distinct words, and she smacked the wall in frustration. Countless rooms in the chateau and she had backed herself into a corner with nowhere to go but outside. She pressed her stinging palm to her face and choked back tears, wadding the folds of the borrowed evening gown in her fists. How had it come to this? How had she lost control of her life? She straightened, refusing to be trapped. Whatever happened would be on her terms.
She grabbed the handiest pair of boots and a coat, shoving arms and feet into their proper places before pulling the door open. She looked out at the frozen landscape in wonder. The afternoon rainstorm had transformed into a monster of ice. Wind whistled, racing off Lac Léman and slicing down the stone blocks of the chateau’s outer walls. She nearly slammed the door shut, but the consequences of staying were too great. Instead, she stepped outside. She knew a warm place where she could gather her thoughts unseen. The chateau’s Orangerie. Normally only a two-minute walk, she was certain she could make it. She had done hard things before, impossible things, and knew she could do this.
The force of the storm pummeled her, pushing into the down jacket and whipping her long skirt into a frenzied tail. She leaned forward, shoulders hunched, and eyes nearly closed against the onslaught. The rubber-soled boots were too big, but they cut through the ice that crusted the normally lush green lawn and she angled away from the chateau, her jacket hood pulled so low she could only see a slice of ground. Halfway there, she stumbled and fell.
She scrambled to her feet, frightened. She’d lost her bearings. Wind howled like the roar of a waterfall and the air was so dense with ice that she couldn’t see. She couldn’t tell which direction she was going. She concentrated on avoiding the lake, hoping to find her way back to the chateau. Damn the consequences.
When she reached a small grove of trees she leaned against a trunk, her body in revolt, muscles shaking. She lurched forward, falling more than sitting on a bench. She was scared and relieved in equal measure. At least she knew where she was. Parts of her were numb—legs, hands, nose—but she was beyond caring. She bent over, hunched against the wind, disbelief filling her mind.
Twenty-eight years and much to show for it: salary, respect, position. All legitimate, but not enough. Never enough.
The cold sank into her bones and her ears burned. At least here no one could ask questions. Maybe it was for the best. First numbness, then nothing. Easier than living with grinding worry and indecision. She sagged: a test of surrender. The wind slipped by in sharp needles. She was incapable of moving. Of reacting. For the first time in weeks her mind was calm. No more lies. An end to everything.
Unexpectedly something hit her like a hard slap on the back. She slipped from the bench and her hands flew out in front of her. She fell, striking the hard cold ground. The pain wasn’t in her cheekbone or even the wrist that twisted awkwardly under her torso; the pain was in her chest and down her arms. She was confused. Her cheek was pressed to the ice and it was too great an effort to push herself up; the cold ground contrasted with the strange warmth spreading inside her, like a coating.
With great clarity she thought of what might have been. She had allowed the past to confuse her. She could no longer judge time and it didn’t matter. She shook uncontrollably and her vision clouded. She whispered: “I was wrong, I don’t want to die.”