Tasha Alexander - Dangerous to Know

And the eerie cry again cut through the night.

Firmly in the grip of fear, grief and guilt lost their hold on me, and I did not miss them, my companions of these past months. The simple state of being scared was a pleasure in comparison—terror having buried in it a sort of thrill superior to hopeless sadness and a deadening sense of fault. Strengthened by this, I began to walk towards the house, planning to collect the key to the gate so that I might retrieve the ribbon.

I had taken no more than three steps when I heard a soft sound behind me and felt a firm grip around my waist, holding my arms tight, as a hand covered my mouth. I couldn’t breathe, couldn’t scream. All that was left to me was my legs, and I began thrashing at once, stomping down as hard as I could on my assailant’s foot before I kicked backwards, smashing into his shin. Then, with a flash of inspiration, I dipped my head forward and crashed it back into his.

That is, it would have crashed into his had he not released me and stepped neatly aside at just the right moment. I spun around and stared into Sebastian’s blue eyes.

“What are you doing?” I asked.

“Thought I’d pop in to remind you there’s a killer on the loose, Kallista darling.” His grin was maddening. “Where is that husband of yours? Surely he can’t approve of you wandering about in the middle of the night in what I must say is a rather shocking state of dress?”

“How long have you been here?” I asked, pulling my dressing gown closer around my neck.

“Just passing by on an evening tour of the neighborhood.” He brushed lint from his otherwise spotless tweed jacket. “Your friend Monet has thrown a spanner in too many of my plans. I’ve had to find other ways to amuse myself.”

“How dreadful for you.” I made no effort to disguise the sarcasm in my voice. “Is harassing ladies of your acquaintance the only other option you could conjure?”

“Not in the least, I assure you. Just this morning I called on your friend, Maurice Leblanc. Fascinating man,” he said. “He ought to abandon journalism for something with more panache. Crime fiction, perhaps. It seems to me all he lacks is the necessary inspiration.”

“And I suppose you think you could provide it?”

“I might.”

“How did you get over the wall?” I asked.

He laughed. “I could scale that asleep and in chains. If you had any concern for my emotional well-being you’d at least make an effort at challenging me.”

“Sebastian—” I began; he interrupted at once.

“How good it is to hear my name on your lips.” He leaned close, as if he would kiss me, then pulled back. “If only I’d met you before that wretched Hargreaves got you in his clutches.”

“You’re not even a decent parody,” I said. “But in all seriousness, I need your help. Did you see anyone else on the road?”

“At this time of night in the middle of the countryside? What would a person be doing? Pursuing some sort of nocturnal beast?”

I ignored his ridiculous question. “Did you hear anything?”

“Just you trying to sneak about,” he said. “You really ought to work on your technique, Kallista. You’re not completely without hope, but someone needs to guide you. There’s much I could teach you, you know.”

“Much though I appreciate what I’m sure is a remarkably generous offer, I’m afraid I must decline. There are others, however, who could benefit from your expertise.”

His eyes widened and his mouth slipped into a crooked grin. “Who would that be?”

“Your queen and country,” I said.

He sighed. “Don’t bore me with such drivel.”

“Wouldn’t you like to work on the right side of the law for a change?”

“I know, my dear Kallista, that you must be sporting with me. And if you’re not, pray don’t tell me. It would shatter all my dreams. The subsequent suffering would be unbearable and could only lead to certain and painful death.”

“You’re impossible,” I said.

“You noticed,” he said, swooping into a low bow and kissing my hand. “I’d begun to think you’d lost sight of all my fine qualities.”

“I wasn’t aware you had any.”

“You always were a tease.”

“Let go of my hand and be serious, Sebastian. Did you hear anything? A child crying?”

“A child? It’s after midnight. Don’t be daft.”

“I heard her from my window—it’s why I came outside.” I looked back at the ribbon, about to draw his attention to it.

“You must have been dreaming, Emily,” he said. It was the first time I could remember him calling me by my proper name. “And hardly surprising after what you’ve been through. You’re following the ghost of what you lost.”

“How did you—”

He kissed my cheek and gripped the stone of the wall, neatly scaling it in a few deft moves. “ À bientôt, my darling girl. I’ll call again soon to make sure you don’t require my services more than young Edward.”

“Sebastian, wait!” I cried, running after him. He stopped. “What if I need you? What if…”

“What if what?” he asked, his voice suddenly tender.

“How can I contact you? What if I have nowhere else to turn?” I felt suddenly very alone.

His eyes softened, his lips parted. He slid back down to me and pulled the cravat from around his neck. “Hang this from your bedroom window and I will come to you at midnight that night, here in this spot.”

“And if I’m not in this house?”

“I shall come and find you, somehow. You may depend upon it. Always.”

With that he disappeared from sight. I heard the thud of his feet on the other side of the wall, but no footsteps followed. I peered through the gate to see where he must have landed, but he’d already vanished, disappearing into the shadowy night. Sebastian, however, wasn’t all that had gone missing: the blue ribbon was nowhere in sight.

14 July 1892

Fête Nationale

I thought it might be amusing to plan some sort of observance of today’s anniversary of the French Revolution. I thought, in fact, my ever-disappointing daughter-in-law might be persuaded to participate in planning the festivities—that it might help improve her state of mind.

I was unable to discuss the matter with her last night, however, as she kept to her bed all evening due to some sort of poorly explained ailment—the sort of thing that lies somewhere between general malaise and a desire to avoid one’s social duties. I can’t say I disapprove entirely of the latter. Colin was in something of a state—worried about her health, I suppose—but after what I witnessed this evening, my entire view of the girl needs to be reconsidered.

She skulked into the garden well past midnight, and I saw her talking to that inexplicably interesting thief, Mr. Capet. He came upon her from behind and grabbed her with a frightening force. She fought him off like a professional and had vanquished him before I could make it to the door to offer my assistance. I’d no idea she was so tenacious. Her normal movements are full of a delicate and easy sort of grace—not the affected elegance of so many society girls. I’m afraid I mistook it for weakness and a lack of sophistication, but I see it is nothing of the sort. She moves with a confident knowledge of herself, without feeling the need to walk or gesture in a certain way.

I wanted to cheer when she so thoroughly schooled that man.

But I do wonder what he wanted from her. They conversed for some time, and she didn’t appear threatened, so I left them to their business.

Who taught her to defend herself so well?