Page 11 of The Madman and his broken Princess
“I don’t think he’ll be successful.”
Nestore didn’t say anything. He finished the food and then leaned back with a deep frown. He pushed up the sleeves of his shirt, and my belly dropped. The bruises, cuts, and burns on his arms made my chest ache for him. What did he go through while I was comfortable upstairs?
The moment my birthday party was over, and the guests were gone, I snuck downstairs with a huge piece of my chocolate cake. Father had gone to bed completely shit-faced, and the staff was busy cleaning up after the crowd, so nobody paid me any attention.
Nestore’s eyes widened when he spotted me in my blush-colored ball dress.
He pushed to his feet and came toward the bars. “What—” He snapped his lips shut. “Your birthday?”
I nodded. I hadn’t told him about the party. I had felt too horrible talking about something like that when Nestore’s last birthday had ended in a nightmare, and he’d been locked inside a cell for two months. Having to celebrate in the very ballroom so much blood had been spilled not too long ago had been a horrid experience I didn’t wish to repeat.
“Thirteen?” he asked.
“Yeah. I brought cake for you.” I took out the container with the chocolate cake and handed it to Nestore, who took it hesitantly.
“Happy birthday,” he said quietly, his eyes forlorn. “I don’t have a present.”
“You being alive is a present.”
He opened the container and ate the cake in silence.
“Do you like it?” I asked, unable to bear the silence any longer. Seeing Nestore eat cake in the dirty, cold cell made me desperately sad.
“It’s delicious.” He let out a sigh. “Sometimes I wish you wouldn’t still give me glimpses of good things in life like delicious food. Sometimes I just want to drown in the darkness down here.”
I gripped the bars. “Don’t give up. Promise me. We’ll find a way to get you out.”
He nodded, but he didn’t look convinced.
I wanted to distract him from his captivity. “Tell me about your favorite memory.”
He was silent for a long time. When he finally spoke, I had already given up hope for an answer. “My mother used to read me the same book every night. I loved it and couldn’t fall asleep without it. No matter what my father did to her, she always came to my bed and read meThe Tale of Peter Rabbit.”
I perked up. “Maybe I can find the book for you. Is it in the library?” I hoped it was. Father had removed everything from Nestore’s room and burned it.
Nestore shrugged. “I don’t know. The day my mother died, the maid took it out of my room, and I never asked for it again.”
I swallowed hard. “Do you want me to look for it?”
Nestore gave me a small smile. “Yeah.”
I gave a resolute nod. “I’ll do it tonight and bring it to you tomorrow.”
“What about you? Do you have a favorite memory of your mother?”
My face became taut. “No, at least I don’t think it’s a memory. I was only two, too young to remember anything, but sometimes I dream of a woman singing a lullaby, and I see my mother’s face.”
“The subconscious is powerful. It might be a deeply buried memory that your mind can only access during sleep.”
“I like to think it is,” I said with a soft smile, then pushed to my feet. “I’ll be back withThe Tale of Peter Rabbit, okay?”
“Okay.”
I left the basement and made a beeline for the library door, which was in the corridor behind the ballroom. The oak door creaked when I pushed it open and snuck in. I spent plenty of time in this room, so nobody would be surprised to find me here, even at night.
My eyes caught on a stack of photos on the desk in front of the window. Those hadn’t been there this morning. I moved over to the desk and froze. These were photos from Nestore’s birthday party. The top photo showed Flavia in her bloodred dress standing behind Father as he chatted with Benedetto. I quickly rummaged through the photos until I found a photo of Nestore and me on the balcony. Nestore was more than a head taller, and we were smiling at each other. I folded the photo and slippedit into my neckline, then checked the other photos, but stopped when the first images of executions appeared. Had Father really made the photographer capture the brutal murders?
I grimaced and backed away from the desk, then focused on the task that had brought me here in the first place.
