The Palace of Impossible Dreams (68 page)

There was a brazier in the outer guard room which took the chill off the air in the few feet surrounding it, but did little to heat the rest of the chamber. The Warden thought it might be prudent to arrange another blanket for the cell.

He didn't want to lose his head because he'd allowed his prisoner to freeze to death.

It was a lot of trouble to go to for a single prisoner, the Warden thought, but then Lebec Prison had rarely played host to such an honoured guest—certainly never one so well connected, or with so many powerful enemies.

“Sir?”

The Warden glanced over his shoulder at the feline who had hailed him.

“Yes?”

“They're here, sir. Just coming through the main gate.”

The Warden nodded, straightened his jacket and turned for the door. He followed the messenger down the stairs from the west tower, through the main body of the prison to the front entrance. Another guard opened the door as he approached. Stepping onto the landing, the Warden waited as a closed carriage approached, flanked by a full squad of felines wearing the livery of the Lebec. None of the felines seemed bothered by the drizzling sleet falling from the dull, overcast sky.

He waited under the cover of the awning as the carriage rocked to a halt, and the armed, human guard who had been riding with the driver,
climbed down to open the carriage door. He lowered the step and stood back as the lone passenger emerged, shackled hand and foot. When it appeared the prisoner was having trouble descending while wearing chains, the guard reached forward to aid her.

The woman spared him a thin, grateful smile and then looked up at the forbidding façade of the prison as if she was bracing herself to enter. She seemed a little thinner than when he'd seen her last. But she was still beautiful, still intimidatingly sure of herself.

But no longer under the protection of the King's Spymaster. Or married to the king's cousin.

Ah, but how the mighty have fallen
 . . .

The Warden took the steps down to the pavement two at a time, and bowed to the prisoner before he could stop himself. “Lady Desean.”

“Warden.”

“I'd like to welcome you to Lebec Prison.”

“I'd rather you didn't.”

“I regret we could not meet again under more . . . convivial circumstances.”

“I'm sure you're heartbroken about it,” she replied with vast insincerity.

Bitch.

The Warden frowned. “We have your . . . accommodation ready. It's in the west tower. You won't be bothered by the other prisoners.”

“And they won't be able to hear my screams?”

He looked away uncomfortably. “My orders are to ensure you are not mistreated, your grace. Lord Aranville was most insistent on that point.”

“I believe he's saving that pleasure for himself, Warden. Can I send a message to someone? I believe I have a few friends left who would be happy to arrange representation for me.”

“I'm sorry, my lady, Lord Aranville was rather insistent on that point too. You are to have no contact with anyone other than your cellmate and the feline guards who currently accompany you.”

She looked around at her guard and seemed resigned more than worried.

“I'm to have company then?”

“So I have been instructed, your grace.” He didn't need to call her “your grace.” She was the common-born cast-off wife of a traitor. But somehow,
it seemed right. She still carried herself as a duchess, even if she wasn't one any longer. He stood back and indicated the maw-like entrance to the prison. “Ladies first . . .”

Arkady Desean negotiated the steps with some difficulty, but the Warden had no intention of releasing her from her shackles and making her progress easier. Let her struggle up the steps and another four flights of stairs. His job was to incarcerate her and keep her whole. Nothing in his mandate from the new Duke of Lebec involved making her comfortable.

It was slow going, making their way to the west tower. To her credit, the former duchess didn't complain once, despite stumbling several times and knocking her shins on the unforgiving stone of the stairs that led to her cell. When they reached the top floor he opened the door for her himself and stood back to let her enter, interested to see her reaction.

Arkady stepped into the tower room and look around. The circular room was divided into three wedges, two of them forming cells and one the anteroom with the brazier outside. The cell allocated to Arkady Desean was on the right, the barred door open and waiting for her. The cell on the left was locked, its occupant standing back against the wall, hidden by the shadows. The Warden had no idea why Lord Aranville had ordered Prisoner Two-Eight-Two moved into the cell beside Arkady's, and knew better than to ask. But he was curious, knowing the connection between the former duchess and the doctor Stellan Desean had ordered incarcerated without trial some seven years ago, about three months before he married his slum-born wife.

Arkady hadn't seen her cellmate yet. She looked around, apparently surprised she wasn't being chained to the wall in a damp, dark, dungeon somewhere underground.

“You'll receive two meals a day,” the Warden informed her. “And a jug of water to drink. Once a week, if you behave, you'll be allowed another bowl with which you may wash. You may see no one, speak to no one, write no letters, or have any contact with the other prisoners. Lord Aranville intends to visit when he has the time, but he's not seen fit to indicate when that might be.”

“How long will I be here?”

“That is up to Lord Aranville.”

Arkady nodded, more accepting of her fate than he thought she would be. She held up her hands and the Warden motioned forward the feline
who held the keys to her shackles. She undid the locks and released the duchess, who with very little to-do, stepped into her cell and allowed the feline to close and lock the door on her.

“Your cooperation is appreciated, my lady.”

She looked around and shrugged. “Given some of the places I've been lately, Warden, this is quite luxurious. If Lord Aranville was hoping to torment me, then he sadly lacks imagination.”

“I'd not be too sure of that, Arkady,” her cellmate said, stepping out of the shadows.

The prisoner was dressed in the faded remnants of a once fine suit. His head was shaved—a precaution against lice the Warden insisted upon as a hygiene measure—but hadn't been scraped for a while and was covered with short grey stubble. He was, according to the Warden's records, almost sixty years old. Prison life, little sunlight and a poor diet, made him look far older.

The Warden watched with no small amount of malicious satisfaction as the colour drained from Arkady Desean's face. She stumbled backward, away from the bars of the adjoining cell, all sign of her former composure vanishing in the face of this dishevelled prisoner, whose cultured accent belied his haggard appearance.

“In fact,” Prisoner Two-Eight-Two said, stepping up to the bars, looking at the former duchess with tears glistening in his world-weary eyes, “I fear you'll discover the man's a genius.”

Arkady Desean turned to the Warden, stricken with horror. “How can this be?”

He frowned, not at all sure what she meant. “Lord Aranville ordered it so, my lady.”

Arkady seemed speechless, shaking her head in denial.

The Warden was fascinated. “Ah, but then you know this man, don't you? I suppose you thought him dead.” He turned to the other prisoner and added, “That would explain why she's not been to visit you all these years.”

The duchess trembled wordlessly, her eyes fixed on the prisoner in the next cell as if he was a demon—or a ghost. The Warden wished he had more time to stay and watch, but his instructions were quite clear. He was to leave them alone as soon as she was confined.

The Warden dismissed the felines, and turned to study the prisoners one last time, wishing he was a fly on the wall in the days to come. But
Lord Aranville's orders had been very precise. Except for the felines permitted to bring them meals, Arkady Desean was to have no contact with anyone except the man in the adjoining cell.

Prisoner Two-Eight-Two. Doctor Bary Morel. Her father.