12
Marguerite ran.
As fast as she could, as hard as she could, she ran. She did not know when her slippers fell from her feet. She did not quite know as it much mattered. The stones of the castle floor dug into skin. But she barely felt it. All that consumed her was terror.
“Marguerite!”
She did not turn. She knew she was being pursued. She could hear him behind her, heavy footfalls echoing in the hallways as she made her way for a door to the outside. To away, and to freedom.
Leopold was right. Gideon the Necromancer was a monster.
And he was her husband.
No, no, no! It was all a nightmare. It had to be. This could not be real; this could not be happening to her. She wished it all away. She wished it to vanish in the morning sun like all the other frightening dreams she had ever experienced.
But as she scraped her arm on the jamb of the door as she fled out of the castle, she knew this was no illusion. She could feel the hot sting as flesh gave way and knew she was bleeding. But she did not stop to worry over it.
“Marguerite!”
Perhaps it was the panic that inspired her. Or perhaps she was faster than she would have expected. But it seemed that Gideon could not keep up with her. His scream of her name was farther away than she would have thought.
But she was a deer running from a wolf, and there was no doubt in her mind that if she hesitated, his teeth would sink into her heels before she could begin to run again. So, she would not stop until she was certain she was safe.
Stone gave way to grass. Grass gave way to sticks and pine needles as she ran into the woods. Her heart pounded in her chest, the blood deafening in her ears. The bark of the trees scraped at her palms as she disappeared farther into the woods. When her legs felt as though they were going to collapse beneath her, she finally stopped.
Perhaps it was a mistake, but she could help it no longer. She was not accustomed to such activity, and she fell into the needles and pinecones beside a great, tall tree beside her, pressing her back to the trunk.
She felt as though she were going to be sick. She was dizzy. Her heart was racing louder and harder than it ever had in her life. And tears—her ever-present companions—were streaking down her cheeks.
Clutching her knees to her chest, she buried her head against them and tried to breathe. Tried to think. Tried to be as silent as possible. Minutes passed, and she heard nothing from around her. When her heart had finally calmed to the point where it did not risk exploding in her chest, she stretched out her legs and took in a slow, shuddering, hitching breath.
And waited.
When the sounds of the morning forest were all that greeted her, she leaned her head back against the bark of the pine. The sun was streaming through the branches, and she could hear the birds chirping high above. Creatures—squirrels and the like—rustled in the underbrush around her. For all intents and purposes, it was a beautiful morning.
Save for the fact that she was married to an inhuman monster.
Her arm stung. Lifting it, she inspected the wound that stretched from her elbow to halfway to her wrist. It was bleeding, but it was not deep. She would be all right. Her feet, however, had also not gone unscathed. Wincing, she picked up her foot and brushed some of the gravel and sticks that had embedded themselves into her. Bits of blood flecked where they had broken through the soles.
It did not matter.
But in the silence left after the panic, she began to think through her predicament. Where was she to go? She was a few miles from the nearest town, and she did not speak a word of German. And even if she managed to reach them before she was devoured by far more literal wolves, what then? Where would she go?
Would they hide her? Help her? Or were they all undead creatures in service to the necromancer, and she would wind up back in his clutches before nightfall?
She could not go home to the palace. She had no home to speak of. Leopold was dead. All her friends and allies were gone. But perhaps she could go home to France. Find her way back to her home country, and find some peaceful village where she could work in a tavern until…
Until what?
My life has never been my own. I have always lived in service to the plans of others. And now…I do not know what to do with my future.
There was no “until” worth considering. Shaking her head, she resolved herself. She would walk to the nearest village, find someone who would take pity on her, and then begin to travel back to France. If she found a tavern worth hiring her along the way, she would settle there. She would work in exchange for a pile of straw in the barn and food in her stomach.
She had never much valued the comfort of palace life. She would miss it, but she did not require it. It did not sound like such a terrible life to be a peasant, all things considered.
Especially with the alternative that was waiting for her in the darkness of his castle.
Tearing strips of linen from the bottom of her underskirts, she began to wrap her feet. It would slow her down too much to walk feeling every rock and pebble jabbing at her. Using what she had left to wrap the wound on her arm, she climbed back up onto her shaky legs.