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Yasmeena wakes to the sound of coffee beans roaring away in the grinder and a slow smile spreads across her face—Gregor must be home. Finally.
Yasmeena and Gregor had been married only a few months—five months and twenty-nine days to be precise, she notes, as she sits up and lets the comforter slip away—but they’d hardly spent any time together after their whirlwind courtship and shotgun wedding. They haven’t even had a proper honeymoon yet, though Yasmeena suspects Gregor will surprise her with a luxurious vacation at their anniversary dinner tonight.
As she pushes the comforter and bedsheets away, Yasmeena can’t help but wrinkle her nose at the acrid smell of coffee wafting down the hall from the kitchen. She’s not much of a coffee drinker—not much for caffeine, in general—but Gregor swears by the stuff. Yasmeena climbs out of bed and throws open the closet doors, selecting a slinky silk robe and fur-lined slippers. Gregor fancies the finer things in life—Yasmeena included—and she enjoys wrapping herself up for him like a gilt-edged present.
Perhaps he’d unwrap her after he’s had his morning dose of caffeine. They hadn’t made love in weeks, not since Gregor went off on his latest work trip.
Yasmeena sits at her vanity and drags a brush through her sleek black hair. There are dark circles under her eyes; frowning, she pulls out a satin makeup bag and digs around for liquid concealer. After she dabs some under her eyes she assesses her appearance in the old dirty mirror—which she really should clean and buff before Gregor finds his way to the master bedroom. It wouldn’t do for him to see his beautiful things in such a state of disarray.
Yasmeena finishes primping and fluffing, then slips her feet into her slippers and cinches her robe around her waist. She can hear Gregor knocking around in the kitchen, banging pots and pans, slamming cupboard doors. A staid female voice drones on in the background, in a low buzz. It sounds like Gregor’s housekeeper, Mrs. Kindall.
That fussy old woman has been more constant a companion to me than my own husband, Yasmeena thinks, before scolding herself. Gregor has provided me with everything I could possibly want! Even when Gregor could not be by my side, he left me with a companion. How could I be so ungrateful?
Yasmeena glides out of her gilded bedroom and floats down the hall to greet her husband and his housekeeper.
Yasmeena finds Gregor hunched over the coffee maker, his brow knotted and his lips pursed in displeasure. The machine lies gutted in front of him, bits of broken plastic and springs littering the granite countertop. Mrs. Kindall is fretting by his side, one thin hand hovering over his arm.
“Has the old thing finally given up the ghost?” Yasmeena asks, announcing her presence from the doorway.
Gregor glances up at her, his ice-blue eyes slipping and skating over her features, as if there’s nothing about her that could hold his attention. Yasmeena resists wrapping her robe even tighter about herself.
“Damn thing’s broken,” he mutters, shoving the wreckage aside.
“Perhaps I could take a look at it,” Yasmeena offers, but Gregor just barks out a harsh laugh.
“You?” His beautiful, lush lips twist in a smirk that’s almost cruel.
“I—I’m sorry, Gregor,” Yasmeena stammers. “I just—”
“Forget it, it’s fine,” he says, waving her off with a flick of his hand. “We’ve other matters to discuss.”
“Other matters?” Yasmeena twists the sash of her silk robe in her tiny, bejeweled hands.
“Yes,” Gregor says, flicking his eyes briefly to Mrs. Kindall before letting them come to rest somewhere just beyond Yasmeena’s shoulder. “I’m going on another trip tonight.”
“Another trip, Gregor? But we’ve hardly—” Yasmeena protests, then quickly swallows the rest of her recrimination when Gregor narrows his pale eyes at her.
God, he’s a handsome man, she thinks, even as her knees quake in the face of his disapproval. With his pale-as-ice eyes and hair so black it could almost be blue, the two of them turn heads wherever they go. When they actually manage to go out together, that is. Yasmeena’s rightful place is by Gregor’s side, her small hand hooked into his bent elbow, yet they’ve hardly gone out together since the wedding. It’s as if he stashed her away like a doll on a shelf once the moment he slipped his ring on her finger. Sometimes she feels like another one of Gregor’s possessions, a fancy bauble he comes by to blow the dust off of every now and then.
But I mustn’t be ungrateful, Yasmeena reminds herself. She flutters her eyelashes and pulls her mouth into a pretty smile for Gregor.
“Yes, another trip,” Gregor snaps, eyes flashing. The crease between his heavy dark eyebrows deepens. “I must travel for my work, Yasmeena. You knew this when you married me.”
“Of course,” Yasmeena demures, “but perhaps I could take on some work too. To ease the burden—”
“Nonsense,” Gregor says, his tone digging under her fingernails like needles. “I need you here, at home.”
“But Gregor—”
“It’s not up for debate, Yasmeena,” Gregor says. A brief glance passes between Gregor and the housekeeper, and the woman bustles away.
After Mrs. Kindall has slipped out of the kitchen and clopped up the stairs, Gregor turns his attention back to Yasmeena. She almost sags with relief to have his attention squarely back on her, despite the nature of their conversation.
“I just hate being so far apart from you for so long,” she says, stepping around the kitchen island to Gregor’s side. Yasmeena rests a hand on his arm. “I miss you.”
Gregor glances down at her. His eyes still slide over her features, almost searchingly this time, before his gaze snags on something in her face. In her eyes, maybe.
“It won’t be forever,” Gregor promises, soothingly, his tone honey-sweet. He dips his head to press his lips against her forehead. “I’m working my way to a promotion. Soon we’ll have more money than we’ll know what to do with. It’ll all work out in due time.”
Yasmeena lets her eyes drift shut. “Of course,” she agrees. “I’m sorry for questioning you.”
“It’s fine,” he says, pulling away, stepping back to hold her at arm’s length. “I have something for you.”
“An anniversary gift?” Yasmeena asks, delightful warmth fizzing through her veins. Gregor isn’t one to dispense with gifts and trinkets lightly; if he’s giving her a present it must be important to him that she have it.
“Of a sort,” Gregor says, slipping a hand into his pocket. Yasmeena struggles to contain her disappointment when he draws his hand out and she sees it’s not a piece of jewelry or tickets to the opera, but a small plastic card.
“What is it?” Yasmeena reaches for the card but Gregor snatches it away and holds it over her head.
“It’s a key card,” Gregor says, dangling the card from his fingers, over Yasmeena’s head. “For the west wing of my fortress.”
Yasmeena gazes up at the pearlescent plastic. “Fortress? You’re so silly, Gregor,” she teases him, vaulting up onto the tips of her toes to reach for the card again.
Gregor grits his teeth, jaw bulging for a moment, before he swallows down his evident disappointment with her. “Perhaps citadel or stronghold would be more appropriate then,” he says, his tone bone-dry. “Either way, as per our agreement, you’ll recall that you haven’t been permitted to enter that wing of the house since our engagement. And you still won’t be permitted to enter, but as a token of my trust…”
Gregor places the card in Yasmeena’s palm. She brings it up to her face, inspecting it closely, but it appears to be like any other card.
“If you enter the west wing I will know,” Gregor booms, his blue eyes flashing like lightning. “You won’t be able to fool me, Yasmeena. I have eyes all over this house. I have eyes in the back of my head.”
He means Mrs. Kindall, Yasmeena thinks, feeling uncharitable. She tucks the card into the pocket of her robe.
“I appreciate that you trust me this much to leave the key card with me,” Yasmeena says because it seems like the right thing to say. “I promise I won’t go into the west wing.”
Gregor nods firmly. “And you absolutely must stay out of the room at the end of the corridor. You must never go into the west wing and you must not let yourself into that room with that key.”
Suddenly, it feels as if the card is burning a hole in her pocket.
“Why not?” Yasmeena asks.
“Because I said so,” Gregor says. He doesn’t elaborate on that, just stares at her with his chilling blue eyes.
Yasmeena slips her hand into her pocket and curls her fingers around the card. “I understand.”
“Good girl,” says Gregor. He glances in the direction he’d sent Mrs. Kindall off to. “I should start packing.”
Gregor pulls away and heads for the door, but Yasmeena reaches out and catches the sleeve of his shirt.
“Gregor, what about our anniversary dinner?” Yasmeena asks.
Gregor looks blankly back at her. “Well, obviously, I won’t be here. Have dinner with Mrs. Kindall.”
Yasmeena opens her mouth to protest but Gregor sweeps her up in his arms and seals her mouth shut with a fierce kiss. Yasmeena drapes her arms around Gregor’s neck and feels all the protest leak hotly out of her body, leaving her a quivering mess pressed into her husband’s strong chest. Gregor’s hands are tight on her waist, clasping at her with something that’s not quite passion. But Yasmeena doesn’t care, this is the first time she and Gregor have been this close in weeks and beggars can’t be choosers.
Gregor grips Yasmeena by the shoulders and pushes her away from him, keeping her at a distance. Yasmeena’s lips tingle and she reaches for him, but he gently bats her arms down.
“I really must go,” he tells her, swiping his thumb across his full bottom lip as if to wipe away her taste. “I won’t be gone so long this time.”
Gregor turns on his heel and marches out of the kitchen, leaving Yasmeena a crumpled heap of silk and frustration.
After Yasmeena gathers herself back together and tightens her sash around her waist, she heads back to her room to change. As she slips out of her silken robe and drapes it over the end of her four-poster bed, the plastic card falls out of the pocket and lands at her bare feet.
Yasmeena stares down at the card for a moment before stooping to pick it up. As she turns it over in her hand, ticks her manicure nails against the glossy plastic, she remembers Gregor’s words—threat?—reminding her that he’ll know if she breaks her promise to him.
How could any wife not be curious about a forbidden wing of the house, though, Yasmeena wonders, as she continues her close examination of the key card. How could any wife keep from exploring her husband’s home?
Yasmeena drops the card on her vanity and sweeps over to her wardrobe to riffle through her many outfits for something to wear.
Someone coughs delicately from the doorway and Yasmeena looks up to find Mrs. Kindall looming, eyes directed firmly to the space between her booted feet.
“What is it, Mrs. Kindall?” Yasmeena asks, yawning widely, stretching her arms overhead.
“I was just—ma’am,” Mrs. Kindall says, sounding almost scandalized.
Yasmeena glances back over at the woman and realizes she’s blushing at Yasmeena’s nakedness. Yasmeena quickly grabs a pretty pink sundress off a hanger and tosses it on, tugging the diaphanous material down over her head.
“I’m sorry, I forget I’m not alone sometimes,” Yasmeena apologizes, smoothing the wrinkled material of the dress.
“My apologies, ma’am,” says Mrs. Kindall, lifting her head to meet Yasmeena’s eyes. “I should have knocked.”
“It’s quite all right, Mrs. Kindall,” says Yasmeena, padding over to the woman. “Is there something I can do to help you?”
“I’ve prepared lunch, ma’am. It’s waiting for you in the dining room,” Mrs. Kindall says, turning, angling her body toward the hallway.
Yasmeena reaches out, taking the woman by the arm. “Please, call me Yasmeena. Or Yaz. What should I call you?”
The housekeeper looks back at her, baffled, as if no one has ever thought to ask her that question before. “That wouldn’t be proper, ma’am.”
“Gregor’s not here,” Yasmeena leans in and whispers, offering Mrs. Kindall a conspiratorial smile. “It’ll be our secret.”
Mrs. Kindall’s cheeks flush a deeper shade of pink. “I don’t think the master of the house would approve of us becoming so familiar,” she says.
“I’m not going to tell him. Are you?” Yasmeena asks, teasingly.
Mrs. Kindall lets out a soft sigh. “If you insist… Yasmeena.” She presses a hand to her chest. “My name is Marigold, but you can call me Mari.”
“Marigold,” Yasmeena echoes. “That’s a pretty name.”
Mrs. Kindall’s—Marigold’s cheeks flush pleasantly. “Thank you, ma’am. I mean, Yasmeena. Yaz.”
Pleased, Yasmeena takes the housekeeper by the hand. “Come, Mari, show me what you’ve made me.”
For the first night in a long string of them, Yasmeena’s empty bed doesn’t feel quite as lonely and oppressive as it once did. Normally, she’d stare at the ceiling and trace the cracks that spiderweb out from the corners in an effort to get to sleep—she has such a terrible time sleeping without Gregor by her side. But not tonight, no. Tonight, the plastic key card sits in the pocket of her slacks, feeling impossibly heavy.
Yasmeena pulls the card out of her pocket and turns it over in her hands, examining it for flaws. Of course, there are no flaws; nothing of Gregor’s has any flaws.
Yasmeena whacks the card against her palm and it snaps pleasantly.
She can’t help but wonder what Gregor hides in that wing of the house—and behind that door, specifically. He’s always been very vague about what he does for his work, though Yasmeena knows he’s some sort of scientist.
It’s all very top secret, hush-hush, he’d told her when they first started seeing each other. He’d needed clearance from the government and the president herself so that he could bring home samples of his research—they’d looked like nothing more than microchips to Yasmeena’s inexpert eye—to show off.
Inevitably, Yasmeena’s mind wanders to the subject of her husband’s housekeeper. She wonders if Mrs. Kindall is allowed behind the locked door. Curiosity—and a tinge of jealousy—start tugging at the fraying threads of Yasmeena’s resolve.
She grips the card tight in her hand and gets out of bed, glancing nervously toward the door.
Yasmeena can’t be blamed for her curiosity. It’s Gregor’s own fault for presenting the key card to Yasmeena with so much pomp and circumstance, and then—like God and Eve in the Garden, with the tree of the knowledge of good and evil with its tempting red fruit—forbidding her from ever using it.
He probably expects her to use it. In fact, he probably wants her to.
Yasmeena sneaks out of her room and scurries quietly down the hall like a tiny rat in search of cheese. She only hopes that, unlike the rats, she avoids the traps her husband has almost certainly laid out for her.
Gregor’s magnificent house truly is like a fortress, Yasmeena thinks as she creeps through claustrophobic passageways and darkened corridors, lit only by candlelight. The place seems almost like a snowglobe trapped in the past, at times. In the beginning, Yasmeena found herself swept up in the dark, sumptuous glamor of the house and its master, in the candlelight and decadence both promised.
Now, as she sneaks through the halls toward that forbidden corridor, those early romantic notions seem rather silly; the place is too large for just two people, more a citadel than a home one could start a family in. It’s cold and drafty too, and when the wind whistles through the cracks and the candlelight gutters, Yasmeena swears she sees shapes in the shadows that dance across the ancient stone walls.
As she finally reaches the west wing, she half expects Mari to jump out of the shadows at her and finds herself just the tiniest bit disappointed when she steps over the threshold and the housekeeper is nowhere to be found.
It’s almost too easy. Yasmeena realizes he’d done this on purpose, that he’d known she would feel the need to sate her curiosity and go exploring in all the darkened, forbidden corners of his mansion.
She wonders what he could be hiding from her. The results of his research? A mistress or secret children, perhaps? Maybe a mentally unstable first wife, like the horrid husbands in all those pulpy novels Yasmeena used to sneak out of her mother’s library and read under the covers with a flashlight at night.
Yasmeena draws the key card out of her pocket and picks her way across the thick red carpet, her footfalls sinking quietly into the decadently lush pile.
When she gets to the forbidden room, she swipes the card through the reader and waits, breath held tight in her lungs. Anticipation burns through her like a wildfire.
The electronic lock lets out a shrill beep and then the door swings open with a hiss that sounds eerily like a sigh. It feels as if the room has been waiting for Yasmeena to come to it.
She steps through and fumbles in the dark for a moment, fingers groping for a light switch. When she finds it, the room floods with light and she glances about.
It’s nothing like she expected it to be. There are no secret children or deformed wives. There are no scientific experiments or research, or even trinkets and junk. She counts twelve oil paintings in total, evenly spaced throughout the room, each paired with a gleaming bronze plaque and an ornately decorated urn. On the wall opposite Yasmeena, there’s an empty space just the right size for a framed painting.
She marches up to the first painting and peers at the plaque and its inscription.
Dolores Blaubart. First among women. The portrait depicts a pretty blonde with a placid smile, a sprig of iris clasped in her hand.
“Odd,” Yasmeena murmurs under her breath.
Frowning, she moves on to the next painting.
This one depicts a severe, unsmiling brunette. Matilda Blaubart. Protector.
The next painting: a chubby redhead with downcast green eyes. This one bearing a plaque for Lilith Blaubart. The less said, the better.
They’re wives, Yasmeena realizes, like a slap to the face. Gregor’s past wives. And that empty spot at the end is for me.
Yasmeena grabs the key card out of her pocket and spins around for the door. Mari looms in the doorway, blocking out the flickering candlelight, steeping Yasmeena and this horrible mausoleum in shadows.
“Did you know about this?” Yasmeena asks, standing straight and steeling her spine.
“Of course I did,” says Mari, softly, thin lips twisting into a grim facsimile of a smile. “No one knows Gregor better than I do.”
“He—he killed them?” Yasmeena questions, though she knows. Deep down inside, she knows the truth.
“I’m afraid he did,” Mari says, managing to look genuinely aggrieved.
“And he’s going to do the same to me, too,” Yasmeena concludes, tightening her fingers around the plastic card until it digs into her skin. “He gave me the card knowing I would unlock the door.”
“They all do,” says Mari. “Unlock the door, that is. Each and every last one of them.”
“Let me pass,” Yasmeena demands, holding her head high, trying to project a strength she doesn’t currently feel.
“I can’t do that,” Mari murmurs, glancing away from Yasmeena. “He would be so angry…”
“What does he have over you?” Yasmeena asks. “He must have something to keep you helping him.”
“I know there’s a good man in there, somewhere,” Mari insists, though her words trail off into uncertainty.
“He’s a monster,” Yasmeena says, jabbing a finger at the portrait of Dolores, then Matilda, Lilith, Rosemary, Cecilia, Evelyn. The blank spot on the wall that’s waiting for Yasmeena.
Mari presses her fingertips against her mouth. “I can’t.”
“Let me pass and we can leave together,” Yasmeena says.
Mari shakes her head. “Where would we go? He’d find us.”
“Anywhere else is better,” Yasmeena says, gripping the card tight.
There’s a barely perceptible shift to the atmosphere just then, a soft sound like a sigh, as if the entire house is drawing in its breath. Yasmeena shivers and glances beyond Mari to the door. Candlelight flickers in the hallway, and there it is—a shadow in the shape of a man moving across the stone.
Her husband is home.
“Yasmeena,” he calls out for her, his voice curling at the edges with cruel delight. “I know you’re in there. I can smell you.”
Gregor steps into the room. His lips curve into a mocking smile when he spots Yasmeena, standing stock-still in the middle of the room with her feet bolted to the floor.
“G—Gregor,” she stammers.
“What are we going to do about this, Yasmeena?” he asks, tsk-ing his disapproval at her.
“I’ve done nothing wrong, Gregor,” she insists. “You tricked me.”
“Be that as it may,” he allows, circling her slowly, every movement deliberate. “You must be punished for your disobedience. Your betrayal.”
“Did you do the same to these other women?” Yasmeena asks, gesturing to the portraits, the gilded urns.
“They all failed me in some way,” Gregor says, leaning in close enough that Yasmeena can feel the heat from his skin against her own. “You always do.”
“You gave me the key knowing I would use it,” Yasmeena says. “It’s hardly fair.”
“I gave you a choice,” Gregor hisses, dipping his nose into the curve where Yasmeena’s shoulder meets her neck. “You made the choice, Yasmeena. No one else coerced you.”
Yasmeena shudders. It seems so long ago that she was longing for her husband’s touch, for the weight of his body against her own, and now the fact he’s so close to her revolts her. It disgusts her.
“Gregor,” comes a soft, willowy voice.
Both Yasmeena and Gregor look up to find Mrs. Kindall standing before them, clutching a crystal urn against her chest.
“What is it, Marigold?” Yasmeena’s husband huffs, his tone dismissive.
“I’ve found the perfect urn,” the housekeeper says. “For Yasmeena.”
Yasmeena feels the betrayal slide in between her ribs like a blade. She turns away, unable to let Mari see how she’s wounded her.
“Perfect,” Gregor says, approvingly, reaching out to run his hand over the urn’s glossy surface.
“I knew you’d be pleased,” Marigold says.
“Go on, put it in its place. I’ll be done with Yasmeena shortly,” he says, already turning the spotlight glare of his attention to Yasmeena. Gregor offers her a grim, thin-lipped smile. “I am sorry, you know. I really had hoped you be different.”
He advances slowly, stretching his hands out toward Yasmeen, fingers brushing against her silk blouse.
“Gregor,” Yasmeena protests. “Please, I—”
Gregor lets out a sharp, surprised grunt of pain before dropping like a pile of rubble at Yasmeena’s feet. Mari stands behind him, the urn—now dripping crimson with Gregor’s blood—clutched in her trembling hands.
Yasmeena stares in disbelief at the figure of her husband, crumpled on the floor in a heap.
“Is he dead?” Mari asks, letting the urn slip from her hands to the floor beside Gregor’s body.
“I—I don’t know.” Yasmeena drops to her knees beside Gregor and presses her fingers to his neck. His pulse is faint but steady. “I think he’s unconscious.”
Mari clutches at her face and starts to wail. Yasmeena pushes away from Gregor’s inert body and grabs the housekeeper by the arm, dragging her toward the exit.
“We have to leave.”
“I can’t,” Mari cries, shaking Yasmeena off.
Mari kneels by Gregor’s side and brushes some of his hair away from his forehead, presses her knuckles against his cheek. Yasmeena can see the back of his head is damp and dark with blood.
She doesn’t want to leave the woman behind, not after she’s saved her life, but she isn’t going to wait around for Gregor to come back to life. She’s done enough waiting around for him.
“You can stay if you want, but I’m leaving,” Yasmeena says.
“Yes, you need to leave,” Mari says. She picks up the plastic key card and holds it out to Yasmeena. “Lock the door behind you when you go.”
Yasmeena snatches the card—her freedom—away. “But…”
“I helped him, you know,” Mari says, looking up at Yasmeena imploringly. “I knew what he was and looked away because he was like a son to me. His crimes are mine as much as they’re his.”
Yasmeena backs away from the macabre tableau spread out before her—Mari has pulled Gregor’s limp body into her lap and now the front of her pale gray dress is smeared with his dark black blood.
The thought of leaving the woman behind with her monstrous husband’s body feels wrong, but Yasmeena can see Mari has made up her mind.
“Thank you for helping me,” she says.
“And thank you for helping me,” Mari says.
Yasmeena’s heart clenches in her chest. She backs toward the door.
“I—I’ll send someone out here once I’m safe,” she promises, nodding at the room and its contents. “So that their families will know what’s happened to them.”
The two women’s eyes meet and Yasmeena feels something pass between them. Mari tips her chin up and quirks the corner of her mouth in the barest hint of a smile.
“And we’ll be here waiting,” comes the cryptic reply.
Yasmeena knows when she’s being dismissed and so she goes, fleeing through the winding corridors and hidden passageways, up the stairs to the master bedroom where she pauses only long enough to toss together a small bag of the bare essentials.
Then Yasmeena flees into the night, leaving Gregor and his fortress behind her forever.