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There were many rumors about him—the one they called Bluebeard—but none of the villagers could say with any degree of certainty which were fact and which were fiction. There was a particularly persistent tale which alleged Bluebeard killed and ate his wives, though, of course, no one had ever presented any evidence as proof. Still, the stories of a murderous lord who consumed women the way other men consumed food was as seductive a tale as any of the romance stories Catherine and her sisters used to whisper to one another under their bedsheets at night.
That no one had seen any sign of the women Bluebeard claimed for his marriage bed once the ring had been slipped onto their finger was proof enough for even the most discerning village gossip. Catherine usually tried to be objective about the whole thing—how could a man dispose of so many women and girls without anyone kicking up a fuss, she often found herself wondering—but even she was beginning to believe the stories. And belief in the story was what gave it its power—it didn’t much matter if Bluebeard had never lifted a finger to touch a hair on his wives’ heads; to most of the villagers he was as good as guilty.
Catherine hadn’t known any of the missing girls personally, though her sister Ada had been friends with one—or so she claimed. One day, Ada had said, Delphine had been making preparations to apprentice with the town’s apothecary. The next day, Delphine was gone, whisked away by a beautiful man with ice-cold eyes and hair so black it shone blue in the silvering moonlight.
There were stories about other girls, of course, in their town and those nearby. Story after story of dirt-poor peasants persuaded with gold coins, rubies, emeralds, fat chickens, wheelbarrows full of grain, to give up their girls to marriage. Catherine hoped if it ever came to it that her parents would value her life above that of a chicken or a pile of coins.
She’d soon find out her bride price, because the one known as Bluebeard came for Catherine as he’d come for many others before her.
Catherine returned home that fateful day, her eyes wet and her cheeks stinging from the cold. She unwound her scarf from around her neck and shook the snow out of it, then hung it up next to the door. When she turned to the fireplace, she was surprised to find it cold.
“Mama,” Catherine called out. “Papa?”
Neither of her parents responded, though she could make out the sound of hushed voices wafting from the kitchen. Frowning, Catherine followed the bits and pieces of conversation her ears picked up.
“… what you ask, what you demand,” she heard her mother murmur, “it is a price we cannot pay.”
“She is our only daughter,” Catherine’s father said. “You cannot—”
“You lie,” a strange, rough voice snarled, cutting Papa short. “I know you have two daughters. I want the eldest one for a bride.”
Catherine approached the kitchen slowly and put a hand upon the door, though she made no move to push it open.
“I need them both for the harvest,” Papa insisted.
“You’ll be generously compensated,” that horrid voice thundered.
Swallowing past a lump in her throat, Catherine pushed the door open. Her parents sat at the table with a large, hulking form; with his back to her, she couldn’t make out any distinguishing features, aside from lank black hair that brushed the collar of his heavy coat.
Catherine tried to hold herself as quiet as a mouse, yet this man heard her footfalls anyway and turned in his seat to face her. She almost cried out in horror—it was him. The legend. The man they called Bluebeard.
He reached out a hand to Catherine, beckoning her near. “You are to be my next wife,” he told her.
Catherine glanced at his hand, at his rough-hewn palm and his thick, callused fingers. She suppressed a shudder when he snagged her tiny hand in his and dragged her closer.
“Haven’t—haven’t I got a say in this?” Catherine stammered, trying to dig her heels in but finding no purchase. She stumbled and pitched forward, falling into Bluebeard’s side.
Catherine’s father glanced at the bag of gold coins Bluebeard had pushed at him. “Times have been so tough here, Catherine,” he told her, slipping his hand around the bag, and Catherine realized her parents’ minds had been made up. “I’m sorry, darling.”
“We had no choice,” Catherine’s mother blurted.
“I’ll bring my carriage around. Have her dressed properly and ready to go,” Bluebeard ordered, pushing to his feet. He shoved Catherine roughly away and strode out of the tiny kitchen, ducking his head as not to hit it on the ceiling beams.
Catherine looked after him, her heart clenching in her chest, before turning on her parents. “Have you both lost your minds? You’ve heard the stories!” she hissed at them from between her teeth.
Catherine’s father lowered his eyes, unable to look at her any longer. “He didn’t give us much of a choice,” he said, reaching out and taking his wife’s hand in his.
Her parents sat united—against Catherine, she realized—hand in hand, defiant. They’d made their choice and had decided to live with the consequences.
“He gave you a choice. Your greed and selfishness won out over your love for me,” Catherine snapped, then added, her voice dripping with bitter recrimination: “If you ever had any to begin with.”
Catherine’s mother had the good nature to flinch. “You don’t know that the stories are true. He could be a good husband,” she insisted. “He’s attractive and wealthy, a good provider. He’ll give you many sons.”
Catherine tightened her hands in her skirt to keep from lashing out. “I don’t want a husband!”
“The decision has been made and there’s no going back on it now,” Papa said, tipping his chin up and glaring at Catherine coldly. He’d already detached himself from her, no longer seeing her as his flesh and blood but as a bargaining chip. “Every baby bird must leave the nest eventually.”
“I’m not a damned bird, Papa,” Catherine said. “I am your daughter. What will you tell Ada?”
A look passed between Papa and Mama before Catherine’s parents turned to face her, presenting a united front.
“She’ll understand,” her mother said.
It’s not an answer, not to the question Catherine had asked, but it’s answer enough. They’ll say whatever they feel they need to say to justify this—this transaction.
They’d just sold their oldest daughter off for a bag of coins, some chickens, and a wheelbarrow of grain.
The heavy thump of a fist on the door jolted Catherine and sent her heart galloping. It thudded against her sternum as if seeking an escape.
Her future husband. Bluebeard. The monster, the legend. She’d be sharing a bed with him in a matter of hours; the thought of lying so close beside him shot a bolt of fear down her spine.
She turned her back on her parents then, grabbed her coat and slid her arms through the sleeves. She knotted the scarf around her neck.
“Aren’t you going to pack before you leave,” her mother called after her as she reached for the little brass doorknob.
The door rattled again as he bashed it with his fist a second time and called out, impatiently: “I don’t like to be made to wait, woman.”
Catherine looked over her shoulder at her parents. “There’s nothing in this house that I need,” she said, and stepped through the door.
Catherine was thankful Bluebeard didn’t attempt to make much conversation during the carriage-ride from her parents’ cottage to his castle. The place Catherine would soon be calling home sat atop a crumbling cliff, looming over the village like a bird of prey searching for carrion to pluck off the bones of the dead and dying.
There was nothing welcoming about the place, as there was nothing warm or welcoming about the cold, dour man who sat beside her in the carriage. Though he was handsome, it was a remote sort of beauty, the kind one might find in a lifeless statue in some overpriced museum.
“When shall we be wed?” Catherine croaked past dry lips and a tight, parched throat.
“In two weeks’ time,” said Bluebeard. He kept his gaze fixed on some distant point ahead of them. “I must make arrangements first.”
Catherine gave a stiff nod. “Of course,” she said, folding her hands in her lap and gazing down at her knuckles as the moonlight silvered them.
“I’ll be going abroad,” Bluebeard announced, slipping a hand into his pocket. He drew out a large black key, turning it over and over in his palm. “Do you know to what room this key belongs?”
“I’m afraid I don’t,” Catherine said.
“This key unlocks any door in the west wing of my castle,” said Bluebeard, snatching up Catherine’s hand and pressing the key into her palm. “You must never use this key in any of the locks of the west wing. Especially not the last room on the left.”
“Why not? What’s in that room?” Catherine asked, hefting the weight of the iron key from palm to palm.
“Because,” Bluebeard snapped, his eyes flashing dangerously in the dark. “It is where I keep my most intimate secrets. No one knows what’s in that room, not even my most trusted housekeeper. And certainly not my wife.”
It felt suddenly as if the key was glowing, burning, searing her skin. Catherine hastily stuffed it into her pocket. “I won’t, I promise,” she said.
“See that you won’t,” Bluebeard said. “I would hate to have to punish you for your insolence.”
Catherine curled her fists in her skirt to keep from attempting to unlatch the carriage door and fleeing. “Thank you, my lord.”
Bluebeard gave Catherine’s knotted fist a gentle pat; even then, his light touch felt onerous and heavy.
Catherine stared ahead; a lone orange glow shone ahead of them. As they got closer, the orange glow got bigger and bigger until Catherine realized it was light glowing from one of the many windows of Bluebeard’s castle.
“That is the forbidden room,” Bluebeard told her, his breath suddenly warm and sour against her cheek; she hadn’t realized he’d moved closer to her as they rode on in stifling silence. “That is the room you must never enter.”
Catherine swallowed hard and nodded curtly. “Of course, my lord. I understand.”
“Good girl.” Bluebeard pressed a moist, whiskered kiss against her cheek.
When he turned from her, Catherine brought her hand up and swiped away the feel of his lips and his beard from her skin.
Bluebeard left shortly after installing Catherine in her suite in the eastern wing of the mansion. She had her own fleet of servants to wait on her hand and foot, to see that she lacked nothing. When Catherine decided she needed to wash off the grit of her travels, a young, pretty maid not much older than Catherine herself drew her a bath. She filled the tub with rose petals and scented crystals that turned the clear water pale and milky, then gently took Catherine by the hand to help her into the water.
“Thank you…” Catherine trailed off, still lightly clasping the maid’s hand. “What is your name? I'm Catherine.”
The girl jerked her hand away from Catherine, her cheeks flushing a deeper shade of pink. “Sophie, ma’am,” said the girl, twisting her fingers in her starched white apron. She averted her gaze from Catherine’s bare, rosy skin, modestly. “And you’re welcome.”
Catherine laughed. “You don’t need to call me ‘ma’am,’” she said. “Just Catherine is fine.”
“Oh, I couldn’t,” Sophie said. “It’s improper, ma’am!”
“I insist,” said Catherine.
Sophie lifted her gaze and met Catherine’s. Her eyes, a pretty shade of violet, twinkled in the dim lamp light. “If you insist, ma—Catherine,” she said, with a bright peal of laughter.
Catherine laughed too, splashing her hands in the warm, fragrant water. “I’ve never had a bath quite like this before,” she admitted.
“No?” Sophie asked, as she turned to gather some fluffy towels out of a cupboard.
“Oh, no,” Catherine said, plucking up a rose petal and bringing it to her nose. It still smelled sweet. “My parents are—were—I didn’t come from much. I bathed in a nearby creek more often than not.”
“Ah,” Sophie said, bringing over a stack of fresh, folded towels. “Well, here you are, Catherine.”
“Thank you,” Catherine said, then gave pause. She wondered if this young maid knew anything about that secret room Bluebeard had forbidden her to enter. “Might I ask you a question? You’re free to refuse me, of course.”
“Certainly, Catherine. Anything,” Sophie said, amiably.
“There’s a forbidden room in the west wing of the mansion,” said Catherine. “Blueb—my lord has told me I’m never to enter. Can you tell me what he keeps in that room?”
Did Catherine detect a hint of sorrow in Sophie’s eyes as she gazed back at Catherine? She had only a moment to puzzle over the odd response before Sophie blinked her eyes and pasted a pretty, placid smile on her face.
“It is where he keeps all his work, ma’am,” Sophie said.
“His work?” Catherine asked, unplugging the tub and getting to her feet. She grabbed one of the towels and ran it over her damp body and up, into her hair. “What is it he does?”
“He—he’s—” Sophie stammered, growing flustered. “Why, I don’t know.”
Catherine wrapped the towel around her body and stepped out of the tub. “He’s never told you?”
Sophie shook her head. “I’m only a maid. There’s much I don’t know.”
Catherine sighed and ruffled a hand through her damp hair. “He’s given me an iron key and told me never to use it, and especially not for the last door on the left.”
Sophie tilts her head, her gaze narrowing, growing shrewd. “He gave you that morsel of information, planted in your hand the key to unlock the door, and then bid you never to use it?” Catherine nodded. “Why, ma’am, it sounds as if he wants you to go exploring the west wing!”
Catherine had suspected as much, somewhere, deep in the back of her mind. The entire journey to Bluebeard’s castle, she felt the key jostling in her pocket every time the carriage juddered and shook.
He wanted her to use it to open that door, but why? What was it that he wanted—no, needed her to see?
“I’m going to do it,” she said. “I’m going to see what’s in that forbidden room of his.” Catherine stepped out of the tub and gave Sophie a decisive nod.
“Shall I come with?” Sophie asked, twisting her hands in her apron front.
“If you want,” Catherine said, though part of her hoped the girl would come along.
“All right,” Sophie said. “I’ll wait for you in the hall then, ma’am.”
“Sophie,” Catherine scolded her teasingly, quirking her lips in a half-smile. “What have I told you about my name?”
“Catherine, I should call you Catherine,” Sophie said, the pink in her cheeks deepening. “I’ll try to remember.”
“See that you do.” Catherine slipped out of the bathroom and went to find herself a fresh change of clothes.
A short while later, the two of them were wandering down the winding corridor that led to the west wing. Catherine clutched the iron key in her hand like a talisman, occasionally stroking her thumb over the teeth, while Sophie held aloft a candle in a brass holder; in her other hand, Sophie tightly gripped the handle of a knife.
“Is the knife necessary?” Catherine asked her, as they plodded on.
“You never know,” Sophie replied, with a shrug. “I’m sure everything will be fine, but…”
Catherine supposed the girl had a point. They continued on, the candle flame projecting their overlarge shadows onto the opposite wall. They looked like a shadow play, the two of them, creeping along the wall as not to make too much noise and disturb the other servants.
“They’re far more superstitious than I,” Sophie said. “I’m convinced Magda, the cook, practices witchcraft in her spare time.”
Catherine chuckled. “Sounds a little bit like my mother,” she said.
“Do you miss your family?” Sophie asked.
“I suppose I do,” Catherine said. She was still stinging from her departure, and the cold way her parents had sold her off. She didn’t suppose she’d ever see them again.
“You aren’t sure?” Sophie asked.
“They gave me away to Bluebeard for a bride,” she spat out, bitterly. “For a bag of coins, some hens, and grain.”
Sophie sighed. “I’m sorry, Catherine.” She paused for a moment, as if gathering her reserves. “My parents sent me away. Not as a bride, mind you, but as a servant. It’s not really that much different from your situation, is it?”
Catherine had no witty response to that. Sophie was right. They’d both been given away to different types of bondage.
Finally, finally, they reached the door at the and of the long, carpeted corridor. Catherine slid her hand into her pocket and drew out the key, which gleamed in the glow of candlelight. She slid it into the latch and twisted until the heavy oak door unlocked with a click.
Catherine drew in a breath, held it in her lungs, and pressed a palm against the door. She began to push it open, then stopped when Sophie grabbed her by the hand.
“Are you sure about this?” she asked in a hushed whisper.
“I am,” Catherine said. “Bluebeard wanted me to see what’s beyond this door.”
Catherine and Sophie stepped into the room, their fingers laced. Sophie lifted the candle holder and peered about.
“Oh,” Catherine gasped aloud.
The walls were lined with crystal coffins. And in each coffin was a woman! At first, Catherine had thought—hoped—they were dolls, life-size wax effigies perhaps. But as she drew close to the first one, she soon realized they were women. And they were all dead.
Something caught in the periphery of Catherine’s vision and she turned, drawn to a thin band of gold on one of the women’s ring fingers.
The world around Catherine snapped into sudden, sharp focus. She understood why Bluebeard had wanted her to go exploring in the west wing. She understood why he told her about this secret room. He wanted her to see those that had come before her, the wives who’d disappeared, the ones the villagers had been whispering about since the beginning of time.
All the rumors, all the stories about him are true ribboned through Catherine’s mind.
“He’s a monster,” Sophie breathed.
Catherine was inclined to agree.
“We must leave at once,” Catherine said, grabbing onto Sophie’s arm. “We must leave this castle and make our way back to the village.”
“You’ll do nothing of the sort,” a horrid voice snaked into her ear. Buebeard’s hot breath blasted sour and damp on her cheek and one large hand wrapped around her waist, holding her tightly against his chest.
“You’re a murderer,” Catherine said. “You won’t get away with this.”
“But I already have,” said Bluebeard, brushing his whiskers against the shell of her ear in a cruel mockery of a husband’s embrace. “I’ve been getting away with it for years and no one’s yet been able to stop me.”
Catherine brought her foot down on his, hard, grinding the heel of her boot into his toes. “You picked the wrong woman,” she said, as he cried out in pain and shoved her away. Catherine turned to Sophie and held out her hand. “Sophie, let’s go.”
Sophie wasn’t looking at Catherine, though. She was staring at the last coffin, into the pale, waxy face of the woman contained within.
“What is it?” Catherine asked.
“I knew her,” Sophie said, pressing her fist to her mouth. “We were friends as girls. Then, one day, Yvette just disappeared. I thought she’d run off with a boy. But all this time…”
“I’m sorry for your friend, and for your loss,” Catherine murmured. Her eyes fell on the knife Sophie still held onto.
Sophie’s eyes fell to the knife too. They both looked over at Bluebeard, who was leaning against the wall, one of his elbows propped up obscenely on the top of a crystal coffin.
“I see you’ve been introduced to my girls,” he said, with a triumphant crowing laugh. “I knew you wouldn’t be able to resist. I just wish you hadn’t given in so quickly. I prefer more of a challenge than what you’ve given me.”
Catherine slipped the knife out of Sophie’s hand and hid it in the pleats of her skirt. “You’d do well not to underestimate me,” she said, marching over to him, chin tipped up in defiance. “I’m a peasant’s daughter. We don’t take lightly to threats.”
“You are just like the rest,” Bluebeard said, lip curling in a sneer. He chucked Catherine in the chin. “From the prissiest highborn lady to the lowliest of the low, you’re all the same. Foolish girls with more curiosity than brains in their heads.”
“And what are you, then?” Catherine asked. “Some sort of hero? An avenging angel?”
“Me? I'm just a man,” he said, pushing away from the wall and advancing slowly, every step heavy and deliberate. “I’m just a man and you’re just a woman.”
Catherine knotted her fist around the handle of the knife. “Your arrogance will be your downfall.”
“We’ll see about that,” Bluebeard said, reaching out for her.
Catherine drew out the knife and-plunged it into his belly to the hilt. When she slashed the blade, everything that was vital spilled out through the front of his shirt onto the slick wooden floor.
Catherine dropped the knife and stared down at her red-splashed fingers, at her gleaming knuckles, as if her hand no longer belonged to her. As if it was no longer part of her body.
“Catherine,” Sophie cried out, fumbling for Catherine’s hand. “Catherine!”
When Catherine turned to the sound of her voice, she realized too late that the forbidden room—this death chamber—was on fire. Crackling flames devoured the ornate draperies that had been drawn back from the crystal coffins.
“We have to get out of here,” Sophie gasped, taking Catherine by the hand.
Catherine nodded and the two of them ran for the exit.
“C—Catherine,” came his voice. His wheezing death rattle.
Catherine turned her head. Bluebeard lay on his side, in a dark puddle. He reached a hand out to her, his palm stained red like Catherine’s own. She was a killer now, as he was.
No, she told herself, not as he was. He killed to consume. Catherine had killed to liberate. It was different. Wasn’t it?
“Don’t leave me,” he moaned.
Catherine stared at him for a moment. Flames danced in his eyes, and all around them.
Shaking her head, Catherine turned her back on Bluebeard—on the myth and the man—and let Sophie lead her out of the forbidden room, out of the west wing, to freedom.