“My lord,” I called again, hoarse from yelling
and the strange cold that perpetuated this place.
Ah. The window was open, which is why the
cold and snow had drifted inside. Underneath the
window, lying supine and motionless upon a long
desk, was a woman. She had been dead long enough
that constant cold of this place had frozen her sunken
cheeks, and her skin was as white as snow, her lips as
blue as the sea. But she was untouched by decay. She
was in negligee, a lacey shift, and her exposed neck
was dark with handprints that had wrapped around it.
Her eyes were open. Old world beauty and innocence
shown in them, even in death. She was my lord’s late
wife.
I turned to leave, to lock this room forever
and bury the knowledge of it in the pure white snow.
I found him standing in the doorway.
“The fire—” I said weakly.
“Put out,” he said. “We heard your cries and
came with water. The maid and I stomped it out.”
It occurred to me, then, what a dangerous
body he had. I suppose that’s what made it so
appealing. Thick and muscled hands that could fit
around my small throat so easily. I could freeze and
turn blue and sunken in this place myself, his
handprints a blotch on my own neck. He might take
the ruby off her neck and lie it close to the stilled
chambers of my own heart while I stared, lifeless and
empty, at the statues of men and boys.
39