Brimstone Bride. Barbara J. Hancock
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be so. No more bruises. Your skin...some of us have scars we can never erase, but your bruises will fade and your skin will not be marked again,” Turov said.
He didn’t speak of killing the monk. She didn’t have to pretend she hadn’t seen the sword or heard the head roll away. She covered the bruise on her arm with her opposite hand.
“Please. Don’t bother with pledges. It’s nothing,” she said.
“A line in the sand is everything. It’s how a man is defined. By the limits of what he will allow or withstand. By what we can endure. The mark on your cheek is nothing to you. It’s heresy to me,” Turov said. “If you’ll excuse me, I’ll let you finish your meal in peace. I’m no fit companion for a civilized meal.”
He fisted his hands as if frustrated he couldn’t kill the monk again for her slight injuries. He turned and walked away, his body in tight lines beneath the tailored suit and his posture determined. She’d been hurt before. Daemon hunting was risky business even for the hunter’s bloodhound. But she couldn’t remember anyone reacting to her bruises the way Adam Turov reacted.
Victoria cooled when he left. The flush in her cheeks drained away until her face chilled. Her entire body cooled until, bereft of his Brimstone heat, she sat shivering in the morning light.
* * *
After she left the table, Victoria returned to the cottage. She changed out of her sundress into more practical celery-green pants that she cuffed above sturdy canvas sneakers. She paired the pants with a snug black T-shirt and a soft loose sweater in complementary green. She wasn’t supposed to care how she looked for Turov. Meeting him in his favorite vineyard block wasn’t a date. To prove it, she did nothing with her hair, leaving it clipped up. She planned to wander around the house and grounds during the day until it was time to meet the vineyard manager at the equipment shed Turov had pointed out to her while they ate.
Victoria expected to encounter servants and staff in the main house, but cool and quiet darkness greeted her with hushed shadows instead. Age showed in the house’s walls, where darkly stained teak wainscoting was topped by richly tinted wallpapers. Upon closer inspection, the textured papers had the faded sheen of silk or satin. Green, pale gold and burgundy tinged with scarlet were prevalent in the varying designs from room to room.
She stepped lightly. Her heartbeat felt obvious in her chest. She hadn’t been invited to tour the house. Around every corner, she expected an unpleasant reaction to her presence. The coolness of the air seemed deserted, empty of any living warmth, but it also held a hint of wood smoke scent that reminded her of Turov. This had been his home for a long time. His scent and the aura of all she touched and saw that belonged to him made her jump at every creaking floorboard and the whispers from each well-oiled door.
She wandered with no interruptions through hallways and rooms filled with framed memorabilia and photographs. Awards, newspaper articles and family photos all in black-and-white. Adam Turov wasn’t in many of them. When had he realized his longevity meant he shouldn’t be photographed?
Victoria found only a few solid hints of him. His tall, lean back and dark cap of black hair were in one photograph with a couple that was probably his parents, although they seemed like his grandparents. The man was in an old-fashioned suit with wide lapels and cuffed trousers. The woman was in a shirtwaist dress with a fabric belt. On her chest was a brooch. Vic leaned in close enough to see that the gem-encrusted pin was in the shape of a bird. They were seated at a table in the garden. She wished the photograph was in color because a large bouquet of dark roses was placed in the center of the table. She imagined they must have been lush and red. The couple looked at Adam with great affection. Not like he was a monster. They’d loved him in spite of the Brimstone.
And he had been all alone since they’d passed away?
An army of servants who seemed to wait on him without direction wasn’t the same as a family that adored him.
Added to the photographs and memorabilia was a vintage collection of birdcages of varying sizes and shapes. Some were quite elaborate, created from a twining of fine metals such as copper and brass. Others were simple and crafted of wrought iron. All of the cages were empty.
All had their doors opened wide.
From the delicate and small to the large and ornate, the cages were so prevalent that they were obviously a beloved collection and not simply a decorative theme. When she saw the myriad of cages in the main house, she remembered that there were several in the cottage as well and she promised herself she’d look closer at them when she returned to her rooms.
It was fitting, actually, for Nightingale Vineyards to have a collection of birdcages, but there seemed to be more to it than that. Especially when she leaned closer to one or two and saw the open cage doors could easily swing close and latch if someone hadn’t decided to keep them open, as if to be sure no bird was ever trapped inside.
The upper stories of the house were silent and still. Hallways branched from the main staircase in a labyrinthine confusion. Occasionally, she heard footsteps and doors open and close. She assumed Turov had many maids in his employ, but she never encountered one. The solitude suited her clandestine intrusion, but it also made her avoid silent shadows that seemed darker than they should be. The house was too big. Too empty. It seemed almost like a museum or mausoleum. Turov had lived long beyond his natural time. There was obviously a price to his longevity beyond the damnation he ultimately faced. Isolation. Loneliness. He lived in a house that must once have known love and laughter, but was now dusty with all humor long forgotten in gray photographs.
Finally, she found a room that drew her curiosity even more than the birdcages. At its heart was a large glass case—the glass waved with age—and within its protection sat a Russian tea service decorated with an elaborate design. The wallpaper throughout the house must have been chosen to complement the tea service with its antique pot and dainty cups. The motif on the porcelain featured an exotic bird with boldly colorful feathers outlined in glimmering gold. The gold also accented the handles and the rims of the cups as well as the curved spout of the pot. The whole service rested on black velvet that was faded and dusty even within its case. It hadn’t been used in a long time. She chose not to disturb it now.
But she did note that an open gilded birdcage was a part of the background design.
On a card table nearby she found a copy of a book with illustrations similar to the tea service. She picked up the volume and found it delicate from frequent use and age. Its spine was cracked. Its cover was worn. It wasn’t dusty under glass. No children lived in the house, but the book wasn’t forgotten. The title page was translated, The Firebird. The rest of the book was in Russian.
Again, she noticed an open birdcage featured on one of the pages.
She would look up the tale on her laptop when she had a chance. For now, she reluctantly put the beautiful book down after quickly skimming through the illustrations.
Victoria explored the rest of the room with more urgency. The book wasn’t abandoned. That meant the room wasn’t as abandoned as it had first appeared, although the chairs were covered with linen sheets gray with age.
Low on an otherwise empty shelf, she found a wooden box carved all over in a design of grapes. She almost glanced over it, but something in its rough, dust-embedded surface called to her. When she opened the lid, she felt more intrusive than she’d felt so far. This had been someone’s keepsake box. It wasn’t meant for her eyes or fingers. Inside, nestled on a bed of scarlet velvet gone pale and worn, she found a ring of keys much like the one Turov had given her for the rose-covered cottage. In fact, exactly like. Her key must have been taken from this set. Only now did she realize the swirled design in the key’s grip was another firebird.
Suddenly, she remembered the woman in the photograph with Turov. His mother. Firebird Pinot Noir was named in her honor. Now, Victoria saw the meaning behind the name. The Russian fairy tale must have been a treasure to her. She’d worn a firebird brooch in the photograph. The tea set had been hers and this must have been her sitting room. The dust everywhere but on the book indicated Turov visited at times to mourn or recall.
Had