Illusions of Fate

I try to break through but I can’t, and I’m twirled and danced farther and farther down the line of bodies, an endless path.

Just when I can bear no more, Finn pulls me close and finally meets my eyes. “I am so sorry,” he says. And then he spins me into the sharp man, whose arms wrap around me once more, turning into great black wings.

I am smothered in feathers and pulled into darkness so complete I cannot even scream.

Eight

I GROAN, MY HEAD ACHING WITH SHARP PULSES. For a moment I am utterly disoriented—I was home—but no, I’m in Avebury, and . . .

I sit up, the soft shuffling of feathered wings sending panic through my whole body. I am not home, nor am I at the hotel. I’m in a study of some sort. Dark and masculine furniture with bulky rigid lines takes up more space than required. The room is paneled in wood, the single window shuttered and letting in only the merest mention of light. A fire burns in a stone fireplace covered with an ornamental iron gate, and the room smells overpoweringly of resin. Books line the walls, but there is something off-putting about their unmarked black spines.

Perched on the back of an imposing leather armchair, a single black bird with wicked eyes glares at me. I avoid its stare, hoping that if I ignore it, it will cease to exist.

Nothing is familiar, no clues as to where I am or whose couch I was sleeping on. I’m still in my red dress, my feet bare of shoes, stockings torn but in place.

I’m missing something. I scan my surroundings again. And then I realize: the room has no door.

I stand. I’m wrong. I have to be. I’m feverish or suffering the ill effects of something strange in the drinks from the gala. Keeping the demon bird in my peripheral vision, I pace the walls, pushing on bookcases, searching for seams, but there is nothing, no egress. The window shutter will not move; I cannot even budge the slats to see outside.

“Tea?”

I scream, spinning around to find a man sitting in the now birdless leather armchair, perfectly at ease, as though he did not just appear in a doorless room. My heart races with fear.

“How did you get in here?” I ask.

He smiles, lips thin under a stylishly clipped mustache. He is older, handsome in the way of Albens. Carefully styled black-and-gray hair sets off his pale skin, so white it is nearly blue in this light. There is nothing remarkable about him, though I know I’ve seen him before. “I should think myself perfectly capable of entering my own study.”

“But there are no doors!”

“Oh?” He raises his eyebrows as he stirs a cup of tea—where did the tray come from? That coffee table was empty before, I know it was. And then I see over his shoulder, plain as day, a door.

I stumble forward and collapse on the couch. “My apologies, sir. There is something wrong with me. There was a bird, and no door, and—” I pull off a glove and put my hand to my forehead, but it feels cool to the touch. “Where am I? How did I get here?”

“I found you out

side the conservatory. Fearing you had too much to drink and that others might take advantage, I had my man carry you to the carriage and brought you here.” He smiles knowingly and I try not to bristle—one glass of fizzy champagne would never render me unconscious.

“I thank you for your gracious actions, sir, but I cannot account for the circumstances.” I shake my head, remembering the birds, and the man, and the dreams. “I suspect I was drugged.”

“Doubtless.” But his smile indicates he doubts it very much. There is something wrong with his face, with the way it moves—almost mechanical, the lines of his eyes not matching the expressions, his lips not quite keeping pace with the words he speaks. “Sugar?”

He holds out a delicate teacup and I take it, staring down at the milky brown liquid as though it has answers for me. I set it on the table without drinking any, and then stand. “I should be going. My friends will be worried.” I’m unnerved and have no desire to remain in a room alone with a man I do not know.

“Sit down,” he says.

I sit.

“Drink your tea,” he says.

I reach for the cup and bring it to my lips, but smash them shut before I can take a sip. My arms trembling, I set the tea back down on the table. “I am leaving,” I say, and now I am certain I am still trapped in a dream, one of those horrible nightmares where I tell my body to run but it does not listen to me. I force myself to stand, every movement slow and labored, like the very air around me has solidified.

The man laughs, and the film around his face parts for a split second. I see the sharp teeth and sharper eyes of my nightmares.

“You,” I whisper. Wake up, wake up, oh please, Jessamin, wake up.

“Stubborn. Any good Alben girl would have downed the whole pot of tea at the slightest suggestion. I’ve spent a remarkable amount of force on you.” He cocks his head, the movement like a bird, and his blue eyes flash to black.

My legs shake. I am telling them, screaming at them to move toward the door, fighting the overwhelming urge to drink that accursed tea.