Page 63 of Lady Gambit
The Frenchman encouraged her to toss back the drink. It wasn’t sherry—she realised once it was too late—but perhaps some other fortified wine that tasted far too bitter. Every muscle tensed as it slid serpent-like down her throat.
“The drink, it will relax you so I might access your memory.”
“It’s not sherry,” she gasped.
“I did not say it was.”
Then what in God’s name was it?
Amid the rising panic, nausea roiled in her stomach. She clutched her throat. There was no time to prepare. She had reached the point of no return. She was trapped, about to plunge into the darkness, into a mysterious maze of fog only this stranger could help her navigate.
“I’m here. You’re safe.” Dorian knelt before her, clasping her face in his warm hands, reassuring her all was well. “I’ll not leave your side, not for a second.”
If only that were true.
Indeed, she hoped it took forever to solve the case.
Blinking to clear her vision, she looked for Monsieur Chabert. “Promise me I won’t forget him. Promise me I will feel the same when I wake from this strange stupor.” She would forsake every lost memory to keep her love for Dorian alive.
The Frenchman gave a curious hum. “Ah, you are lovers,non? Be assured, madame, I do not meddle with the heart, only the complex tunnels of the mind.”
Dorian was more than her lover.
He was her friend, her confidant; he was everything.
“I cannot forget him,” she reiterated.
“Of course. And if your heart is true, nothing will change.”
Monsieur Chabert instructed Dorian to help her from the sofa to the wooden chair facing the richly painted mural. “Stand behind and keep your hands resting on her shoulders. You will be a constant reminder of the present. The reason she will return.”
The fellow swept across the room and closed the heavy red curtains. Darkness descended. Though the feel of Dorian’s strong hands on her shoulders brought an instant wave of comfort.
While Monsieur Chabert busied himself with lighting the many candles dotted about the room, Dorian bowed his head and whispered, “Don’t be ashamed to say what comes into your mind.” His thumbs caressed her neck in lazy strokes that had her closing her eyes and rocking gently to the soothing rhythm. “We keep no secrets from each other.”
She had a secret.
A secret love that grew stronger by the day.
Indeed, as her mind turned woozy, and she felt herself slip back from reality, she feared she might make a confession.
The Frenchman appeared before her, and she became fixated with the swirling pattern on his waistcoat. “Look into my eyes, madame.” He spoke softly, like a melody one could not get out of their head. He tilted her chin so their gazes locked. “Hold this tower and place your finger gently on the bottom step.” He cupped her hands around the stone form. “Close your eyes and listen only to my voice. When I tell you, you will begin counting the steps. Each one leads to a door in your memory.”
She did as he asked.
In a deep, soporific tone, he began describing the cylindrical tower, telling a story of how it was built and how the staircase curved round and round. Every word bewitched her, the spell like a persistent hand drawing her down into a peaceful abyss.
Upon hearing his instruction, she started counting, letting her finger climb each tiny stone step. She lost count when she reached twelve, though she was not awake or asleep but somewhere in between. That’s when Monsieur Chabert lifted her eyelids and peered at her pupils.
A lengthy silence ensued before he asked his first question.
“You open a door. Inside, you see your ten-year-old self waking in the entrance to a baker’s shop. Picture it for me, the sounds and smells of the city. Do you remember why you chose to rest your weary head there?”
It took a little more prompting before an image formed in her mind’s eye. She recalled being cold but thankful it was summer and not the dead of winter. She remembered being terrified. Helpless. Alone.
“B-because the step was deep and hidden in shadow,” she said but then realised someone else had made the suggestion. Someone had guided her to that specific place on that particular night. “I was told to stay there.”
“By whom?”
