Gareff lifted her chin with a finger and smiled at her. Then he leaned down and roughly kissed her forehead. "Corne," he said briskly. "Let us see what Ranya has set out for our supper."
Clarisse swallowed the bitter taste of bile in her throat and followed after him as the shadows gathered outside the library's windows.
The days that followed seemed as dreary to Clarisse as the ancient air that filled Evenore's chambers. She tried to content herself with matters about the house, but to little avail. A day of trying to tame the manor's garden left her hands burning with nettle stings, and she quickly gave up that pursuit. Nor, she found, did she have the patience for embroidery or sewing or other domestic pursuits. It helped matters little that Lord Harrowing was away more than ever, at times leaving in the middle of the night and not returning for days on end. When he did return, he seemed haggard and distracted, hardly noticing Clarisse except to kiss her cheek fondly now and again.
Finally, one chill autumn day, Clarisse sat down to pen a letter to her father. Gareff was off on one of his mysterious journeys again, and Ranya had walked to the village that morning to visit an aunt taken ill.
The storm-swept sky outside the library's windows was dark and angry, and Clarisse was forced to light a candle to work by, though it was only midafternoon. In smooth, delicate script, she wrote of how lonely the country was, and how dark the manor, and how desolate she felt so far from the city. But when she lay down her quill, she knew she could not post the letter. Her feelings meant nothing to her father. He had bought his nobility with her, and he had obviously found the price more than fair.
Slowly, she stood and carried the parchment to the fireplace and placed it carefully in the flames. She watched as its edges darkened and then caught fire. The letter blackened and curled in on itself like a dying spider. Then it was gone.
Clarisse stood, sighing. She paced despondently before the fire for a time. Then, almost without thinking, she moved to a bookcase on the far wall. She counted five shelves up from the floor and then ran her finger along the gilded spines of the tomes. She pulled a small volume bound in green leather from the shelf and undid the brass hasp. Inside, the pages of the book had been cleverly hollowed out into a small recess. Nestled within was an iron key.
Gareff's skeleton key.
Clarisse did not allow herself a moment to pause and consider what she was doing. Suddenly she was burning to know what lay behind the tapestry in the attic. She grasped the key and returned the book to the shelf. Swiftly she ascended the stairway, glancing back over her shoulder. She had to be careful. Ranya might return at any time.
Moments later found her breathless before the attic storage room. Hand trembling, she fit the key into the door's lock. It turned easily. She slipped within and pressed the portal quietly shut. A flash of crimson light caught her eye. There — she had not imagined it. The ray of sunlight danced across the bodice of her gown as she approached the tapestry. Swiftly she pushed aside the threadbare weaving.
It was a keyhole.
She could see no doorway, but there in the middle of the stone wall was a lock. It was from this that the ray of light emanated. A thought struck her.
"It can't be. . "she whispered to the silent air.
She lifted the skeleton key and brought it to the keyhole. It slipped easily within. She held her breath for several heartbeats, then turned the key. There was a faint click. With a gust of stale air, a section of the wall swung inward. She blinked against the flood of crimson light that poured forth. Hesitating only for a moment, she stepped inside.
Clarisse had found the hundredth window.
It dominated the entire far wall of the small room, a chaotic mosaic of jagged, colored shards that made her dizzy to gaze upon. Sunlight streamed through the nightmarish stained-glass window, tainted by the colored glass, and only dimly did Clarisse remember that, when last she looked, the sky outside had been dark and brooding, concealing the sun. The writhing patterns of the window dazed her. Then her gaze locked upon an image in the center of the window. It was a man.
Slowly she approached, fascinated. He seemed a noble, clad in a coat of black velvet and golden breeches. A red ribbon held back his long, raven-dark hair. The portrait was exquisitely done, tiny fragments of glass rendering his grave, handsome features in perfect detail. She supposed it was only a trick of the light, but there was a fire in his eyes of smoked glass. It was almost as if he were gazing at her. . gazing at her with passion. She shook her head. It was a look she had never seen in Gareff's eyes.
"Who can this have been?" Clarisse mused aloud. "He seems so. . so melancholy."
"Indeed, my lady," a rich, masculine voice spoke behind her," he has good cause to be."
Clasping a hand to her mouth to stifle a scream, Clarisse spun around. There was no one else in the room. All she saw were the patterns of light thrown upon the far wall by the stained-glass window.
"Who's there?" she called out, trying to keep the fear from her voice. "Where are you? "
"Why, I stand here before you. . Clarisse."
Impossibly, Clarisse watched the patterns of colored sunlight on the wall swirl and move. Suddenly she realized what she was seeing. It was the man. The light coming through the stained-glass window cast an image of him upon the wall. And that image was moving. Even as she watched, the ghostly man on the wall bowed to her. He straightened then, and smiled. Clarisse felt her heart racing — from fear, yes, but something else quickened her blood as well. A strangely disconnected thought passed through her mind. She had never before seen a man so handsome.
"Who. . who are you?" she managed to speak. She took a step toward the wall. "How is it that you know my name? "
"I am Domenic," the glowing image of the man answered. His smile deepened. "And I know much about you, Clarisse. I have waited so long for you to find me here. But I knew that one day you would come, that one day you would free me from this prison in which I am wrongfully bound."
Clarisse shook her head. This was maddening. Yet she felt a powerful, dizzying excitement as well. "How can this be?" She gazed to the window, and then to the image of the man on the opposite wall. "Your portrait in the glass does not move, but your image upon the wall does."
Domenic spread his hands. "Glass is brittle, Clarisse. It does not flow. But sunlight. . "He laughed, a sound like horns. "Ah, sunlight flows like water."
His laughter seemed to catch her, buoy her, and set her adrift. She found herself laughing as well, for the first time she could remember since coming to Evenore.
Domenic's laughter faded. "Now, Clarisse, will you release me?" he asked intently. "There is a way."
She shook her head. Why was it so hard to think? The crimson light seemed to fill her mind. "I. . I don't know."
He appeared to reach a hand toward her, though his image was confined to the flat plane of the wall. "Set me free, Clarisse, and I will set you free as well. I can take you away from this — from this lonely manor, this bleak countryside. "Her heart skipped a beat. "And yes, Clarisse, away from him. I'll take you back to Il Aluk, if you wish it, and each night we will dance in a different ballroom, until we have made them all our own."
She took a step nearer the glowing wall. "But how. .how did you come to be imprisoned so? "
"It was a wicked man, Clarisse. "He shook his head sadly. "A man of evil, and a wizard. I dared to stand against him, and he bound me in the glass with a spell. But do not fear. When you free me, I will deal with him." Domenic's smoldering eyes bored into her. "Go to the window, Clarisse."
Before she even thought of whether to do as he asked, she found herself standing once more before the hundredth window.