Page 68 of The Unseen
“Rhys will wait until you’re ready. He has great respect for your process and is completely in awe of your ability.”
Quinn chuckled. “My ability can be compared to a besieged castle. Everyone on the outside wants to get in and everyone on theinside wants to get out. Rhys would give up a vital organ to be able to see what I see, but I would gladly give up this curse once and for all.”
“Would you really?” Gabe asked, smiling at her in that way that suggested he knew better. “All you have to do is wear latex gloves when handling objects, and you’ll never see anything. Yet you choose to get involved with the victims. You feel compelled to tell their stories.”
“Very few people throughout history were important enough to remember. Most were born, lived—some longer than others—and died. But when you delve into the past, you see that their lives were not nearly as ordinary or uneventful as historians would have us believe. The common view is that most women’s lives could be summed up by three events. They were christened, married, and buried, leaving virtually no mark. For every Elizabeth Tudor, Mary Stewart and Margaret of Anjou, there are millions of women who’ve been completely forgotten. I feel obligated to give them back their voice and to applaud their bravery in fighting for a better life and the right to be happy in times when men held all the cards and a woman could do nothing more than cope with whatever was done to her.”
“So you wouldn’t give it up?” Gabe asked, still grinning as if he’d just proved his point without saying a word.
“I don’t think I can.”
“Then tell their stories and allow Rhys to be your tool. He might not be able to see what you see, but he gives you free rein. This is your show, Quinn. This is your platform.”
“You’re right, as usual. God, that’s annoying.” Quinn laughed. She felt lighter after talking to Gabe, and ready to face whatever had happened to Valentina. The women she saw were long gone, so the events could no longer hurt them, but it was important to vindicate them in the eyes of history, and she was the only one who could do that.
THIRTY-EIGHT
NOVEMBER 1918
London, England
The day had been dreary and wet, the type of day when all one wanted to do was stay at home, close to the fire, and read or talk quietly before retiring for the night. And that was exactly what they had done. Valentina read, while Dmitri and Elena played several hands of whist. Dmitri had taught Elena how to play, and she’d fallen in love with the game, always ready for a rematch. Tanya sat quietly, just staring into space, a small smile playing about her lips. She was a dreamer, preferring to indulge in her own fantasy rather than the product of someone else’s imagination, like Valentina.
“Are you still reading that book?” Tanya finally asked.
“It’s very long, and very difficult for me to understand,” Valentina complained. “There are so many words I still don’t know. I can only get through a few pages a day since I’m reading so slowly. I try not to move on until I fully understand what’s happening.”
“Must be some story,” Tanya said as she yawned. “Well, I’m off to bed. This weather is perfect for sleeping.”
“Good night,” Valentina replied wistfully. She wished she could go to bed and forget the despair that had been gnawing at her for the past few days. Dmitri looked relaxed and happy, his demeanor betraying nothing of what went on beneath the surface. Valentina had taken his good nature at face value, assuming he was sincere in his regard for her family, but now she knew better. Dmitri had known all along that Valentina would agree, and had bet on it, in fact. And now that the day was upon them, he was solicitous and kind, treating her as if she were precious to him. Shesupposed she must be, if he was going to make as much money off her as he hoped.
Valentina lowered her head so her mother wouldn’t see the panic in her eyes. She knew what would happen tonight, but it still seemed surreal. Would Dmitri really force her to go through with it? Would he allow her to change her mind if it came to that? Probably not. The arrangements had been made, and tonight money would change hands, money so filthy, she didn’t know how it wouldn’t soil Dmitri’s hands when he touched it.
What kind of man forced a young woman to debase herself to prevent her family’s ruin? There were many such men, she realized with bitter clarity, ranging from fathers who sold their daughters into advantageous marriages to pimps who preyed on defenseless women and took a large chunk of their earnings to “protect” them from violence, which they themselves would readily inflict should the women refuse to cooperate. She wouldn’t be the first, nor would she be the last, to suffer at the hands of a ruthless and greedy man. She should have demanded a percentage of her earnings, but she knew what Dmitri would say. She had a debt to pay, a debt that accrued with every passing day. Only yesterday Dmitri had taken Elena to collect her new winter coat from the fashion salon. It was made of fine blue-gray wool and adorned with the sumptuous fur of black fox at the collar and cuffs. It hadn’t been cheap, but Dmitri had encouraged her to order whatever she liked, reassuring her that nothing would give him greater pleasure than to make her happy.
“Do you need a new coat, Valya?” Dmitri had asked back in September, his eyes brimming with concern for her well-being. “It promises to be a cold winter.”
“My coat should last for another year or two,” she had replied. She’d never ask Dmitri for anything ever again. She couldn’t bear to.
Valentina’s innards tightened into intricate knots as the evening wore on. A part of her wanted to stall forever, but another part wanted to get the deed over with. All she wanted was to lockher door, climb into her bed, and lose herself in deep sleep. She’d borrowed a few drops of laudanum from her mother and mixed them into a glass of water she’d left by her bed. She planned to drink it when she got home and slip away into opium-induced oblivion. She knew she wouldn’t be able to get to sleep on her own and would lie awake for hours, reliving the awful minutes spent in Timothy Mayhew’s company. She hoped it would be minutes and not hours. She simply couldn’t bear the thought of having to keep up the façade for longer than was strictly necessary.
At last, Elena wished them a good night and went to bed. Dmitri turned to Valentina, the smile slipping and his eyes boring into her in a way that warned her not to try any delaying tactics. “Are you ready to go?”
She nodded, too terrified to speak. Her mouth had gone dry and her heart hammered in her chest, her panic forcing her to recall the night her father and Alexei had died. She hadn’t thought she’d ever be so scared again, but here she was, in a warm, comfortable house in Belgravia, deceptively safe in a civilized, cosmopolitan city, about to become the victim of a man she’d trusted and even loved.
She donned her coat and hat and followed Dmitri into the rainy night, to the motorcar he’d left parked around the corner from the house so the noise of the engine wouldn’t wake Elena. She would know nothing of her daughter’s plight. Nor would Tanya. This sordid secret was between Dmitri and Valentina.
“Wipe that look of abject misery off your face,” Dmitri said as he pulled away from the curb, his eyes on the foggy road. “No man can possibly enjoy making love to a woman who looks as if she’s about to vomit.”
“I’m frightened,” Valentina admitted, immediately sorry that she’d shown him her weakness.
“There’s nothing to fear. Timothy is a gentleman. He won’t hurt you, nor will he treat you with disrespect. Could be a lot worse.”
How would you know?Valentina thought angrily. She huddled deeper into the fur collar of her coat and stared straight ahead, bracing herself for what was to come.
The drive wasn’t long. Valentina wasn’t sure what she’d expected, but the building they pulled up in front of wasn’t a posh hotel in the center of London, but a small, nondescript establishment. It was called the Falmouth Arms Hotel, and its name was probably the grandest thing about it. Valentina briefly wondered if Mr. Mayhew had paid the concierge to turn a blind eye to a young woman going up to a man’s room, something a finer establishment wouldn’t allow. The foyer was small and cozy, with a trio of sofas arranged around a low table stacked with newspapers and magazines. The reception desk was to the left of the door and manned by a middle-aged man who instantly perked up when they walked in.
“Good evening, Mr. Ostrov,” the concierge said.
