Demon's Bride by Zoe Archer Page B

appeared without being summoned. Perhaps things ran differently in a household that never went into arrears and paid their servants on time.
    “Has my clothing been unpacked?” Nearly all of her garments had come straight from the mantua maker, but some were hers from before.
    “Yes, madam. Is there a particular gown you want?”
    Anne realized she had no idea what constituted her new trousseau. Everything had been purchased so quickly, with hardly any consultation on her part. Still, she didn’t fancy the idea of the servants knowing that she’d come to their master nearly penniless.
    “I trust you, Meg,” she said.
    The girl brightened and hastened to the other clothespress. Eventually, she emerged with an open gown of peach-and-green Indian cotton, as well as all necessary undergarments. Anne resisted the impulse to peer into the clothespress to see what other gowns had been purchased for her, just as she fought the urge to admire the quality and newness of the gown Meg now helped her into.
    As Meg fastened the dress, Anne looked at herself in the cheval glass and felt as though she put on another woman’s skin. The thought made her shudder, thinking that a woman’s flayed body lay somewhere, its muscles and innards exposed as the corpse cooled. She had a sudden vision of an attic chamber, perhaps in this very house, where other brides’ bodies hung.
    You haven’t married Bluebeard, for heaven’s sake.
    As if to counter her own fears, she said aloud, “Do hurry, Meg. I want to join my husband for breakfast.”
    The maid blinked up at her. “He’s gone, madam.”
    Now it was Anne’s turn to look blank. “Gone?”
    “I only started working here last week, making ready for you, but the master always leaves the house by seven.”
    “Where does he go?”
    “To Exchange Alley, I reckon.” Meg glanced at her from beneath the frill of her mob cap, perplexed by Anne’s ignorance of her own husband.
    “Of course,” Anne said, far more brightly than she felt. She pasted on a smile. “I’ll just take chocolate and rolls in here, then.”
    “The master had Cook fix you a proper breakfast. Eggs, bacon, seed cakes. It’s waiting for you downstairs.”
    She couldn’t refuse, not without possibly insulting the cook. Since Anne would be responsible for consulting with the cook about meals, she must be politic and make herself eat a meal she did not truly want. “Sounds delightful.”
    After Meg finished her toilette, Anne quit the bedchamber. The hallway was very quiet, almost sepulchral in its stillness, barely interrupted by the sounds of servants attending to their daily tasks elsewhere in the house. If Anne had not left Meg in the bedchamber only a moment prior, she might believe herself completely alone. Maybe even the last person alive in the entire world.
    Stop this ridiculous ghoulishness! She never indulged in thoughts of the macabre—she stayed clear of the hangings at Tyburn, and even went out of her way to avoid the occasional traitor’s head piked on Temple Bar.
    It was simply nervousness at her unfamiliar surroundings, and trepidation as a new wife. Last night had been very tumultuous, so there might be lingering emotions. But there was truly nothing to fear. These awkward first days would soon pass.
    Yet as she made her way down the stairs, that prospect seemed dim. It felt even farther away as she entered the dining room. Without all the guests from the day before, the chamber was an empty cavern scoured by gray morning light. All signs of the wedding celebration were gone—not even a crumb or wine stain on the carpet. Almost as if it had never happened, save for the music and laughter ringing in Anne’s remembrance like broken glass.
    The large table was laid for one, and as Anne moved farther into the room, a footman hurried in from a side door to pull out her chair. She smiled her thanks and sat, and helped herself to far more food than she wanted. There was nothing she could do but force