The house was no longer shaking, and the intruder that had tried to invade the room only moments ago was making no more attempts. Surely, some of the servants would have felt the ground shaking, but would they even search for their master all the way down here? Could it have been Laurent’s frantic imagination?
Everything was deathly still.
At first, Laurent was too stunned to move, but then the need to have William off him became so visceral he screamed out in panic, as if he were still being attacked, and he pushed the lifeless body to the side. Blood from William’s stomach covered Laurent’s chest, the precious tailcoat, his hands, and his hair hung in sticky streaks, as if dripping with raw egg.
What was he to do now? His knees were soft, his fingers trembled, and he stared at the carnage he’d caused in disbelief. He gagged the moment he swallowed some blood-infused saliva.
Only when he tried to crawl away from the body was he brutally reminded of the shackle digging into his wrist. Laurent whimpered like a kicked dog, and looked at the metal cuff in panic. William had put the key to it on the chest of drawers, along with his other things, and it was far beyond reach.
What would happen if Laurent was forced to stay here with the body, and the severed arm too long? He was sure he would go mad. A terrible vision in which he feasted on William’s corpse to survive longer made him spring into action and get up.
He started pulling on the chain frantically, hoping the iron ring attached to the bed could be somehow pulled out of the wood, but Marcel had been bigger than him, so if he hadn’t managed to free himself, Laurent surely wouldn’t either.
He twisted away from the dead body, angry that his eyes were welling up, because it made his vision even less clear, but he leaned in to have a better look at the shackle. He couldn’t discern much detail by watching it, so he employed his fingers instead, probing the iron cuff around his wrist.
It wasn’t too tight, so there was some hope left for him, and despite the sense that William had somehow cheated Laurent into believing he’d died and was about to attack from behind, Laurent persisted. Moment by moment, he twisted his hand in the cuff, adding some spittle as lubrication. His progress was slow, but the more he focused on the task at hand, the more subdued his anxiety became. When he reached the point where his hand was at its thickest, the pain on his joints intensified, but he trudged on, knowing that survival was within reach if he only freed himself. At worst, he’d dislocate his thumb.
But then even that wasn’t necessary. He ended up rubbing some skin off the side of his hand, but that was a small price to pay.
He took a deep breath.
He’d killed a man. A man no other than Mr. William Fane. Would anyone believe Laurent that he was only defending himself? They surely would if they saw this room? They would also find Marcel’s arm, and they couldn’t possibly assume that Laurent brought it with him, could they?
His throat was becoming too tight to breathe. It would only take hours, maybe days until someone discovered what happened here, and Laurent would be found guilty somehow. He would end up dead for killing a man in selfdefense, just because no one would ever suspect the good-hearted Mr. Fane of being the ugly monster that he was on the inside.
Laurent covered his mouth and slid down the wall with a sob. His whole life was melting away because of the one thing he’d tried to reach for, and he hadn’t even tasted freedom out of his indenture at the bookshop. Fane had never cared for him and was a cruel madman, attracted only by Laurent’s looks. Surely, none of their conversations had mattered to the murderous villain.
There was a tap, loud and clear, as if someone rapped their fingernails against glass.
Laurent looked up in panic, getting back to his feet. “Is anyone here?” he asked, stumbling forward to grab the bloodied scissors. Was there someone still held captive here, or was this a threat he needed to deal with?
He froze when his gaze fell at the tall object—like a door, or a wardrobe—covered in thick black fabric. He’d noticed something of the shape and color when he came in, but now he saw it with perfect clarity, even though the walls next to it were blurry.
He approached with caution yet stepped back when the knock came again, repeated three times in even intervals. Laurent swallowed hard, watching the curtain in silence.
“Who’s there?” he asked, grabbing the scissors in a way that would allow him to use them as a weapon once more. His skin covered in itching goose bumps as he waited for an answer.