Neferet's Curse (House of Night Novellas #3)(23)

I’d wanted to stand and dance and laugh with joy, but Arthur had taught me a valuable lesson. I had no intention of anyone, not even one of the servants, discovering my special place, so I remained quietly on the bench and imagined myself dancing and laughing in joy under my willow tree, and I promised myself then that someday I would be Lady of my own great house, and my Lord and husband would have kind blue eyes and a warm smile.

As I write this, remembering the evening, I do not believe my manipulations malicious. Arthur and his mother had paid me special attention. Was it wrong that I wanted to use their affections to escape a situation I was finding more and more difficult to bear?

The answer I find is no. I would be good to Arthur. I would be close to his mother. I was not doing an evil act by encouraging the Simptons.

But I digress. I must continue to report the horrific events that followed.

That night, the comfortable shadows beneath my willow tree had worked their usual magic. My mind had ceased its whirring and I’d felt a lovely sleepiness come over me. Almost as if I was in a waking dream, I’d slowly, languidly, left the gardens and made my way back through the dark, silent house. I was yawning widely when I reached the second-floor landing. I’d covered my mouth to stifle the sound when Father stepped from the unlit hallway.

“What are you doing?” His words were rough, and came to me on a wave of brandy and garlic.

“I just wanted to be sure everything was set to rights before I went to sleep. All is well, though, so good night, Father.” I’d turned and tried to continue up the stairs when his heavy hand caught my arm.

“You should have a drink with me. It would be good for your hysteria.”

I’d stopped moving the instant he’d touched me, afraid if I began to struggle away from him, he would only grasp all the tighter to my arm. “Father, I do not have hysteria. I only have weariness. The dinner party has tired me greatly and I need to sleep now.”

Even on the dim landing I could see the intensity of his eyes as his hot gaze took in my loosened night robe and my free-falling hair. “Is that Alice’s robe you’re wearing?”

“No. This is my robe, Father.”

“You did not wear one of your mother’s dresses tonight.” His hand had tightened on my arm, and I knew there would be bruised shadows there the next day.

“I refashioned one of Mother’s dresses so that it fit me. That is probably why you didn’t recognize it,” I’d said quickly, sorry that I had been so stubborn—so vain—and that I had given him an excuse to focus his attention on me.

“Your figures are very similar, though.” He’d lurched toward me, closing the space between us and making it thick with alcohol fumes and sweat.

Panic lent my voice strength and I spoke more sharply than I have ever heard any woman speak to him. “Similar, but not the same! I am your daughter. Not your wife. I bid you to remember that, Father.”

He’d stopped moving toward me then and blinked, as if he couldn’t quite focus on me. I used his hesitation to pull my arm from his loosened grasp.

“What is it you’re saying?”

“I am saying good night, Father.” Before he could grab me again I’d turned, lifted my skirts, and raced up the stairway, taking the steps two at a time. I did not stop running until I closed the door to my bedchamber and leaned against it. My breath had been short and my heart had been beating frantically. I was sure, quite sure, that I heard his heavy feet following me, and I’d stood, trembling, afraid to move, even after all sounds outside my room went quiet.

My panic finally subsided, and I’d gone to my bed, pulling the coverlet around me, trying to still my thoughts and find the calm within me again. My eyelids had just begun to flutter when there was a heavy footstep outside my room. I burrowed farther down within my bed linens and watched, wide-eyed, as the doorknob slowly, silently turned. The door opened a crack and I squeezed my eyes closed, held my breath, and imagined with all of my mind that I was back on my bend under the willow tree, safely cloaked in the comforting shadows.

I know he entered my room. I am sure of it. I could smell him. But I remained perfectly silent, not moving, imagining I was hidden completely in darkness. It seemed a very long time, but I heard my door reclose. I’d opened my eyes to find my room empty, though scented with brandy, sweat, and my fear. Hastily I’d gotten out of bed. Barefoot, I used all of my strength to push and drag my heavy chest of drawers in front of my door, barring the entrance.

And still I did not allow myself to sleep until dawn lightened the sky and I heard the servants begin to stir.

* * *

Sunday, I awoke and did what would become my morning ritual: I dragged the chest of drawers from before my door. Then I avoided Father the entire day. I told Mary that I was exhausted from the excitement of the dinner party, and that I wished to remain in my room, resting. I’d been quite firm, and Mary did not question me. She left me to myself, and for that I was grateful. I did sleep, but I also planned.

I am not mad. I am not hysterical. I do not know exactly what it is I see in my father’s gaze, but I do know that it is an unhealthy obsession and it only reinforces my determination to leave Wheiler House soon.

I went to my looking glass, stepped out of my day dress, and studied my na**d body, cataloging my attributes. I have high, firm br**sts, a slim waist, and generous h*ps that have no inclination to fat. My hair is thick and falls almost to my waist. Like my mother’s was, it is an unusual color—dark, but touched by rich auburn highlights. My lips are full. My eyes, again like Mother’s, are undeniably striking. It is a true comparison to name them emerald in color.