Isla was freezing. She lay on a cold, hard surface and wondered if this time she was finally dead. She had tried to be a good person, but wherever she was did not feel like heaven. “So, it’s hell for me, then,” she croaked, her voice raspy. She coughed and put her hand to her neck where Malette’s fingers had left bruises. The cold seeped into her bones, and she shivered. How many times could a person awaken from oblivion in one day? Perhaps she had gone mad.
When she was able to focus beyond the blinding pain in her head, she realized she was in a cellar, a jail, with three stone walls and a row of iron bars along the fourth. A manacle circled her ankle, and as she moved to examine it, she cried out involuntarily in pain.
“Find the anger, Isla!” Her hoarse sob bounced crazily off the walls, and her breath stuck in her throat as she sat upright. She coughed again, clutching her head, and considered the potential value in running into the wall with her face. Oblivion might be preferable to the pain. Everything hurt.
A heap in the corner caught her eye, and her heart thumped when she recognized Nigel’s inert form. A manacle on his wrist connected him to the wall.
“Nigel! Oh, no, no, no . . .” She scooted forward as far as the chain would allow, but she was still shy of reaching him by a foot or two. “Nigel, wake up!” She slapped the floor with her open palm. “Wake up!”
She looked up at the room’s single barred window; the storm still raged outside. She couldn’t tell if the dark sky was because of the storm gathering in intensity or because several hours had passed. She didn’t know if Nigel had tried to contact Daniel and the others, she didn’t know whether help was on the horizon, she didn’t know how she’d escape from a locked dungeon. She didn’t know anything.
She slapped the floor again. “Nigel, wake up! I don’t even have a hairpin with me to pick this blasted lock, which is entirely your fault because you abducted me in my nightgown! You had better hope you’ve got something useful on your person because if not, I will . . . I will . . .” Her voice faded on a pathetic whimper, and she almost wished for midnight.
“You’ll what?” Nigel’s voice was low, weak, and he still hadn’t moved.
She felt a surge of hope. “I will flay you with angry words, because I have no weapons, and I am fairly certain at least three bones are broken.”
His shoulders shook the littlest bit, and he turned his head. He was laughing, and her relief was overwhelming.
“You’re not paralyzed. And you’re speaking.”
“You’re celebrating prematurely,” he groaned and caught his breath. “I haven’t tried to move my legs, and I’m not sure I remember my name.”
“How many fingers do you see me holding up?”
“One, and that’s not very polite, Dr. Cooper.”
She laughed despite herself. “Why could you not have been this pleasant at home? We might have gotten along famously.”
“Enjoy it while it lasts,” he grunted and slowly stretched his neck. “If we cannot get out of here, I suspect I shall not be good company for long.”
“Can you feel your legs? Do you have sensation below the waist?”
He looked at her flatly. “In some places, yes. Less so in other areas.”
She scowled at him. “Can you pick a lock?”
He pushed himself upright. “I can pick a lock. I do not know that I have anything on me that will suffice.”
She was still sprawled on the cold floor and for the moment didn’t want to move. The pain exploded volcanically whenever she moved. She rested her head on her arm. “Tiepin?”
“Not presently wearing a tie.”
“Metal toothpick?”
“No.”
“Are any of your limbs constructed with synthetic materials?”
“No!”
“Telescriber?” she asked hopefully.
“My mother took it,” he muttered.
She snorted laughter, unable to help herself. “Your mother took your telescriber? Were you breaking the rules, contacting friends after bedtime?”
“It’s all fun and games until we never get out of here, and then nobody is laughing anymore.”
“At least your mother took yours. Mine never cared one way or another. Apparently, nobody in my life loves me.”
“Enough of that. Pity does not become you, and furthermore, you should realize that Malette is nothing but a bundle of lies from beginning to end. She takes ambiguity and twists it until it suits her and is just a shade shy of truth.” Nigel’s chain rattled as he stood, bracing a hand on the wall. “I suspect we are only a few hours away from evening, and I don’t relish the thought of being locked in here with a dead woman.”
“That is harsh.”
“But honest.” He patted his pockets and ran a hand over his shirt. He was dressed in shirtsleeves and trousers only. Goosebumps covered his skin, and she realized he was undoubtedly as cold and uncomfortable as she.
“Your boots!” she said and shoved herself upright with an agonized gasp.
“What of them?”
“Are there nails in the soles?
He lifted the corner of his mouth in reluctant admiration. He sat back down on the floor and muscled the boot off, and then examined the sole and heel of the boot. “Even if there are,” he muttered as he turned it this way and that, “they may be too short to be of use.”
“Certainly worth the effort. And at least you have boots.”
He looked up at her and then at her feet. “I apologize. For everything. I thought I was doing what was best and in reality, I do not think I could have bungled it more if I’d tried.” He shook his head. “I had thought that by leaving you without shoes, you would stay put in the cabin.” He glared at her, and she frowned.
She sniffed. “Apology accepted. And I forgive you, as you do not know me very well.”
“You’re the second person today to tell me that,” he muttered, trying to find leverage on the boot heel with his fingers.
“Who was the first?”
“Your besotted airship captain.”
She gaped. “You’ve seen Daniel? Today?”
He nodded and smacked the boot on the floor. “He’s here. So is Lewis.”
“Nigel!” She stumbled pathetically to the bars, grasping two of them and trying to peer out into the hallway. “You might have said something!”
“Figured you knew. How do you think I escaped?”
She turned back to him, still holding the iron bars. “She locked you up before?”
“Well, yes,” he said, his exasperation clear. “How do you suppose this happened?” He gestured to the bruises on his face. “I left you in the cabin, came here, mixed a spell in the library to confound her blasted crystal ball, and was in the process of gathering ingredients for your cure when she caught me.”
Isla turned and leaned against the bars. “You located the cure?”
“It’s in her spell book, which we have yet to locate, but I know enough of the basics she would have used that I decided to at least gather those as a start.”
She sighed. “I am sorry you’ve done all this for my sake. You wouldn’t even be here, if . . .”
“If what?” His cynical smile returned. “If I hadn’t agreed to spy on you for my mother to ensure that a nasty sleeping spell would mature and then put you into an eternal coma?” He shook his head. “Do not absolve me of anything. A good thrashing is the least I deserve.”
“How did the others know you were here?”
“They spoke with Port Lucy’s oldest resident gossip. Found the house and then me in one of the storage buildings.” He pulled the heel loose, revealing a U-shaped row of spikes protruding from the bottom of the boot. “These on the ends may be long enough.” He made quick work of pulling out five nails, and using one of them, began working on the manacle at his wrist.
“How odd that this was your home,” she observed as he worked. “And how bizarre it must be to find yourself locked in the dungeon.”
“This isn’t the first time,” he said and frowned at the manacle. “Spent half of my childhood in here.”
“What?”
“Well, perhaps not half.”
“Even a quarter, an eighth, is too much! Once is too much! She is truly an evil person. And she is so beautiful, it’s disarming.”
He laughed. “Yes. I learned quite early to mistrust beauty.”
“Learned to mistrust many things, I suspect,” she observed quietly.
“Stay out of my head, Dr. Cooper. There are places in there best left alone.” He paused. “There!” Metal clanked as the manacle dropped from his wrist.
“Why does she not lock these with charms?”
He grinned. “I can disarm those. She figures there’s always a chance I can’t pick a plain lock.”
“How long do you suppose we’ve been in here?” she asked as he began working on her shackle.
“If I had to guess, an hour, maybe more.”
“Then why haven’t Daniel and Lewis found us yet?” The thought swam uncomfortably in her head. “She may have caught them.”
“She may,” he acknowledged. “But this room is hidden behind the kitchen on the first floor. They wouldn’t think to look here. My guess is they may be hiding, waiting for her to either leave or turn her back. There are two places where she would have hidden the spell book. I disarmed the protective spell outside her bedroom so they could examine her cabinets in there, while I went to the library in case there were more protective spells there. That’s where I was when Malette swooped in with you.”
“Is there a definitive escape plan?”
“Before we entered the house, Pickett telescribed Samson to be ready with the airship, but not to hover within sight of the house. It was a loosely formed plan, but the best we could manage at the time.”
“So they know I am here?”
“Not yet. None of us knew for sure. We thought you were somewhere in the swamp. Bonadea and the Port Lucy constable are searching for you as we speak.” He shook his head. “I tried to scribe Daniel from the library when I heard you in the other room with Malette, but my charge had gone out.” He shook the chain attached to her manacle. “Sit, will you please?”
She slowly lowered herself to the ground and bit her lip to keep from crying out as she stretched the leg she’d twisted earlier. He was able to turn her other foot for easier access to the locking mechanism, and as cold as his skin was, the warmth of his hand on her foot was a welcome relief. She closed her eyes and leaned against the bars, breathing deeply. He stilled, and she opened her eyes to see his battered face tensely drawn.
“I am sorry. I am so sorry.” He held her foot in both hands. “I’m never sorry about anything, Isla, never bothered to see the aftermath of my actions.” He shook his head as if warding off discomfort. “You are an absolute mess, and it’s my fault.”
She laughed, her voice still raw. “We shall review your lessons on how to best express criticism to a woman.”
He smirked. “Do you believe Malette ever bothered with such lessons? There is no ‘review’ involved.”
“Do not trouble yourself about it, Nigel. The fact that you have a conscience, that you mean well, that you feel remorse—those are good things. Things that prove you are nothing like your mother. And once we get our hands on that spell book of hers, we’re going to scour it until we find a way to untether you from her.”
“Mmm,” he said noncommittally as he resumed work on her manacle lock. “I’m not certain there is such a spell.”
“Of course there is. By now I’ve realized that if there is a spell, there is a counter for it somewhere.” She frowned. “Unless it involves death, I suppose.”
“Even that is reversible, if you consider Resurrectionists.” He grinned and twisted the nail around the locking mechanism.
“Ugh. Nasty business. Even the good ones can raise only an approximation of the original person. A shadow of a soul is still just a shadow.” She shuddered.
The manacle clicked, and he opened it with a smile of satisfaction.
“Nicely done, sir.” She moved to stand.
“Wait.” He held up a hand and removed his other boot, and then both socks. Before she could protest, he put the socks on her feet. “Not the prettiest, perhaps, but they’re warmer than what you have on your feet now.”
She swallowed past the sudden lump in her throat, reveling in the temporary physical comfort. “Thank you.”
He held up the boots. “I would offer these as well, but they’re substantially larger than your feet.”
She shook her head. “This is wonderful. Thank you.”
He reattached the heel of his destroyed boot with the nails that remained, slipped both boots back on, and, grabbing a fresh nail, made his way to the lock on the iron bars. “It is past time to leave this place. When this business is finished, I shall burn it to the ground.”