Snow by Tracy Lynn

Author:Tracy Lynn [Lynn, Tracy]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Publisher: Simon & Schuster, Inc.
Published: 2009-11-30T13:30:00+00:00

Chapter Sixteen

MEANWHILE, BACK AT THE CASTLE …

The duke hired investigators to look for his daughter, who was presumed to have run away. Some were at the estate, looking for clues. Some traveled abroad. Farmers and locals were searching the forests and surrounding land. The kitchen staff was mourning, and gossiping. The duchess was doing her best to look like she was helping.

Alan was practicing Beethoven and thinking very hard.

It’s almost like the spell weakened. He thought back to how close he came to telling Snow the truth about the duchess. It had hurt him; his head had hummed like a beehive for hours afterward. But despite the cursed charm around his neck he had been able to warn her. Maybe love does have the power to break spells. Or at least bend them.

The wretched bell rang. He sighed, put his fiddle down, and hurried up to the duchess’s room. She rarely wanted him to play for her anymore these days, except to mask the sounds of things in her laboratory.

As soon as he entered her room, Alan almost had to turn around and leave.

“My Lady,” he said in shock.

The duchess was clad in the lightest of cloths, the filmiest, flimsiest stuff; probably inspired by one of those Italian paintings she bought, he thought as he lowered his eyes. She reclined on her sofa, gazing into her mirror, but could only see her head and shoulders—hence the summons, he guessed. “Oh, don’t be such a dullard, boy. Come in and pick up the mirror,” the duchess said rolling her eyes but keeping them fixed on Alan as he came over and lifted the thing. She was still quite beautiful, though she lacked the plump nubility of the oil nymphs she was trying to imitate. Her hair was rougher than theirs as well, though it cascaded nicely down around her shoulders.

Alan kept his head down as he raised her mirror and turned it lengthwise. A beautiful would-be murderess.

“Ahhh. Perfect.” She narrowed her eyes and studied herself in it, playing with a tress of her hair. “Margaret Murray Huggins wrote me something of interest about mirrors in her last letter.”

“She is a very fine and noble lady, My Lady.”

“Yes. But rather plain, and boring in person, I am told.”

Alan sighed to himself.

“So.” She changed the subject. “Who is the most beautiful in the land?”

“With young Mistress Jessica gone,” he answered, as carefully and as neutrally as he could, “there is no doubt but that it is you.”

“Mmmmm….” She flicked her lashes and peeped up through them, admiring the effect in the mirror. She ran her hand down to her waist and over her belly. “Still young,” she murmured. “Again,” she added.

The mirror was getting heavy. Alan shifted his weight carefully so he wouldn’t tip the mirror. Her room was unnaturally cold and clammy for such a fine early summer day. Alan thought about apple blossoms and new hay and prayed she would get tired of admiring herself soon.

“I ate the heart of a young human girl,” she announced unexpectedly.

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