Midnight Angel (Stokehurst #1)

Midnight Angel (Stokehurst #1)
Lisa Kleypas


Prologue

St. Petersburg, Russia

1870

“They say you're a witch.” The guard entered the shadowed cell and closed the door. “They say you can read minds.” A coarse laugh erupted from his throat. “What am I thinking now? Can you tell me?”

Tasia kept her head down, while her muscles went rigid. It was the worst part of her confinement, having to endure the frequent encounters with Rostya Bludov. He was a disgusting lout, swaggering around the prison as if the guard's uniform buttoned over his fat girth could fool anyone into thinking he was someone of consequence. He hadn't dared to touch her—yet—but every day his insolence grew worse.

She felt him staring at her as she sat curled in a straw-stuffed pallet in the corner. She knew the past three months of imprisonment had taken their toll on her. Always naturally slender, she was now painfully thin. Her ivory skin had faded to a stark white that contrasted sharply with her heavy sable hair.

The guard's footsteps came closer. “We'll be alone tonight,” he muttered. “Look at me. See what you've got coming. I'll make your last night something to remember.”

Slowly she turned her head and gazed at him without expression.

There was a grin on Bludov's pitted face. He was fondling the crotch of his ill-made trousers, arousing himself as he stared at her.

Tasia focused on his face. Her unblinking eyes were deep-set and slanted at the corners, the legacy of a Tartar ancestor. They were the cold, pale shade between gray and blue, like the water of the Neva in winter. Some people feared she could steal their souls with her gaze. Russians were superstitious. Everyone from the lowest peasant to the tsar himself treated anything that was out of the ordinary with deep unease.

The guard was no different from the rest of them. His smile died away, and his erection collapsed abruptly. Tasia stared at him until a clammy sweat broke out on his face. Stepping back, Bludov looked at her in horror and crossed himself. “Witch! What they say is true. They should burn you instead of hanging, burn you to ashes.”

“Get out,” she said in a low voice.

Just as he moved to comply, a knock came on the cell door. Tasia heard the voice of her old nursemaid, Varka, asking to be let inside. Tasia's composure nearly cracked. Varka had aged visibly during the ordeal of the past months, and Tasia found it difficult to look into her grief-stricken face without crying.

Pulling his lips back in a sneer, Bludov admitted the servant and left. “Filthy, black-souled witch,” he muttered, closing the door behind him.

Varka's bulky form was swathed in gray, and her head was covered with a cross-patterned scarf that would ward away evil spirits. Crossing the threshold of the dank cell, Varka rushed forward.

“Oh, my Tasia,” the old woman said brokenly, staring at the girl's shackled legs. “To see you like this—”

“I'm all right,” Tasia murmured, reaching out and clasping her hands comfortingly. “Nothing's real to me. I feel as if I'm in the middle of some terrible dream.” A bleak smile curved her lips. “I keep waiting for it to end, but it goes on and on. Here, come sit by me.”

Varka used a corner of her scarf to blot her dripping tears. “Why has God allowed it?”

Tasia shook her head. “I don't know why any of this has happened. But it's His will, and we must accept it.”

“I have endured many things in my life. But this…I cannot!”

Gently Tasia shushed her. “Varka, we have little time. Tell me—did you deliver the letter to Uncle Kirill?”

“I placed it in his hands, just as you told me to do. I stood there while he read it, and held it to a candle flame afterward, until it was nothing but ashes. He began to cry, and said, ‘Tell my niece that I will not fail her. I swear it on the memory of her father, my beloved brother Ivan.’”

“I knew Kirill would help me. Varka…what about the other thing I asked of you?”

Slowly the servant reached inside the square woven pouch hanging across her sagging bosom and withdrew a tiny glass vial.

Tasia took the object in her hand, turning it so that the black liquid slid back and forth with an oily shimmer. She wondered if she could really make herself drink it. “Don't let them bury me,” she said in a detached tone. “If I do wake up again, I don't want it to be in a coffin.”

“My poor child. What if it is too strong a dose? What if it kills you?”

Tasia continued to stare at the vial. “Then justice would be served,” she said bitterly. If she weren't such a coward, if she had faith in God's mercy, she would meet her death with dignity. She had prayed for hours in front of the holy icon in the cell's corner, begging silently for the strength to accept her fate. It had not come. She had thrown herself against an invisible wall of terror, again and again, battered and desperate for escape. All of St. Petersburg wanted her dead. A life for a life. Even her great fortune couldn't silence the howl of the mob.

She deserved their hatred. She had killed a man—at least, she supposed she had. Motive, opportunity, evidence…everything at the murder trial had pointed to her. There had been no other suspects. During the long months of her imprisonment in this cell, where prayer had been her only link to sanity, no new information could be found to throw doubt on her guilt. Her execution would take place tomorrow morning.