Fearless

‘The wrong girl? Oh no.’ Troisclerq was as soft as moss in the woods. ‘Don’t fret. I always select my prey carefully. It’s what has kept me alive for nearly three hundred years.’ He nodded at his servant. ‘You will give me what I want. Like all the others. And even more so.’



The servant placed a pitcher on the table. The evening light glistened through the crystal like splinters of a dying day.



Troisclerq got up and stroked Fox’s naked shoulder. ‘Fear has many colours, did you know that? White is the most nourishing kind, the fear of death. For most, it is their own death they fear more than anything. But I knew right away that you are different. And that made the hunt even more enticing.’ Troisclerq scattered a handful of withered flowers on the table. ‘I left a very clear trail. I’m sure he’s already on his way. Wouldn’t you think so?’



Jacob.



No. Fox would forget his name, so Troisclerq could never find it in her heart. She felt her fear choking her.



A few white drops materialised at the bottom of the pitcher.



Troisclerq gently stroked her cheek. ‘The labyrinth that surrounds my house,’ he whispered, ‘will let only me pass. Everybody else gets hopelessly lost. They forget who they are, forget why they came, and they just wander aimlessly between the hedges until they starve to death. They end up eating poisonous leaves and licking dew off the gravel.’



Fox splashed her wine into his face. She gripped the glass so tightly that it shattered in her hand. The wine turned Troisclerq’s shirt red, as red as the blood that now trickled down Fox’s fingers. Troisclerq offered her his napkin.



‘He loves you, too, you know. Even though he tries hard not to notice it.’ No voice could have sounded more tender. He pushed back his chair. ‘From here you have a good view of the labyrinth. If a swarm of pigeons rises from it, that means he’s caught in it. I’m not expecting any other guests apart from Jacob.’



The floor of the carafe was now covered with a milky white puddle.



Troisclerq walked down the long table. Past the empty plates. Before he closed the door, he said to her, ‘It may be a consolation to you that the fear will kill you as well. Love is a deadly affair.’



She wanted to bite his throat. Choke his velveteen voice with blood. But the vixen was as lost as Celeste.



CHAPTER FORTY-ONE



THE HUNTER’S TERRITORY



As soon as they entered Champlitte, Jacob knew they’d found the right place. Many of the houses were freshly painted, and the evening streets were glowing under gaslights – a luxury usually found only in the largest cities behind the mirror. Bluebeards made good neighbours. They never hunted where they lived, and they gave money for roads, churches and schools. The silence thus purchased was their best protection. Jacob was sure many eyes were following him and Donnersmarck from behind the curtains of Champlitte.



Most Bluebeards lived in remote country houses surrounded by sweeping landholdings. There was only one house nearby that fitted that description. It lay to the south of the town. Jacob turned his horse northwards, so none of the good citizens would deem it necessary to notify Troisclerq of their arrival.



They left their horses in a little wood. Even wolves would leave devil-horses alone, and Jacob had replaced their reins with chains to keep them from freeing themselves. His stallion had actually befriended him and snapped amicably at his hand as Jacob pulled the backpack from his saddle.



The evening smelled of blooming trees and freshly ploughed fields. Everything around them seemed peaceful, a sleepy paradise. But they didn’t have to walk long before they came upon a sycamore-lined avenue where a carriage had left deep tracks in the wet gravel. A little later, an iron gate appeared between the trees.



The deceptive peacefulness, the locked gate . . . even the avenue had looked similar when they’d been looking for Donnersmarck’s sister. They’d come too late then. Not this time, Jacob.



He could have thrown up with fear. He’d lost count of how often during that endless ride he’d caught himself looking around for Fox. Or thinking he could hear her breathing next to him in his sleep.



‘What’s the greatest treasure you ever found?’ Chanute had asked him not too long ago. Jacob had shrugged and named a few objects. ‘You’re an even greater fool than I,’ Chanute had growled. ‘I just hope you won’t have lost it by the time the answer dawns on you.’



The gate was covered with iron flowers. Donnersmarck silently pulled a key from his pocket. Jacob had once owned one just like it, but he’d lost it, together with too many other things, in the fortress of the Goyl. A key that opened any lock . . . Some worked only in the country where they were forged, but this one worked fine here. The gate swung open as soon as Donnersmarck pushed it into the lock.



A coach house, stables, a wide driveway between dripping-wet trees, and at its end the house they’d seen from a distance. It was surrounded by evergreen hedgerows.



The labyrinth of the other Bluebeard had been dead and wilted because he’d already escaped. Jacob and Donnersmarck had hacked their way through it with their sabres. This labyrinth, however, was still alive. Good, Jacob. That means he’s still here. The hedgerows rustled as the pair approached, as though the evergreen branches wanted to warn the murderer they were shielding. Troisclerq. This time he had a name and a familiar face. All the evenings they spent together in coach stations, drank together, exchanged stories about the jealousy of Fairies and merchants’ daughters, about duels lost and won, good blacksmiths and bad tailors. And he saved your life, Jacob.



He wanted to kill Troisclerq. He’d never wanted anything as badly.



A flock of pigeons fluttered up from the hedgerows. Jacob looked after them with apprehension. What if Troisclerq killed Fox as soon as he noticed him and Donnersmarck? Stop it, Jacob. She’s still alive.



He repeated it to himself over and over. She’s still alive. He’d go crazy if he allowed himself to think anything else.



I’m sure we’ll meet again.



He was going to kill Troisclerq.



CHAPTER FORTY-TWO



WHITE



Pigeons. Their feathers as white as her fear. Their wings writing it across the evening sky.



Fox pressed her hands against the window. She whispered Jacob’s name, as though her voice could guide him through the Bluebeard’s labyrinth. He had freed her from a trap before, but back then she’d been the prey. Now she was the bait.



She was so happy that Jacob had come.



She wished so badly that he’d never found her.



Behind her, between the empty plates, the carafe was filling with her fear.



CHAPTER FORTY-THREE



LOST



Jacob wished he had a ball of untearable yarn, or one that could find the way on its own if he placed it on the gravelled path that disappeared into the hedgerows ahead. But Donnersmarck had searched the Chambers of Miracles in vain for such an item. The yarn Jacob was now tying to a bush at the entrance of the labyrinth came from a tailor’s shop in Vena, and there was nothing magical about it except for the skill involved in spinning common sheep’s wool into a firm thread. This was going to be their thread of life, their only hope of not losing themselves between the shrubs.



Jacob carefully ran the thread through his fingers as he and Donnersmarck stepped into the twilight between the branches. The predator had cast his green web very wide. Just a few turns in, they stumbled over a rusty sabre. They found bones that had been nibbled clean, rotten boots, an old-fashioned pistol. Soon enough they no longer knew which direction they’d come from, yet their greatest worry was the white flowers growing in the shade of the shrubs. Forgetyourself. No point in crushing them or pulling them out. Their effect just got stronger when the blossoms wilted. Jacob and Donnersmarck tied kerchiefs in front of their mouths and noses and walked on, repeating each other’s names, or places and things they’d done together. But their memories faded with every step, and their only connection to the world they were fast forgetting was a thread of yarn.