Disclaimer: Still don't own anything more than I owned during part I.
No. Can't be. Not possible. She turned the paper back to the front, checked to make sure of what she was reading. The Epoque. Reliable, as papers went. She tore back to the advertisements. No. It's a—a—mistake. A misprint. Or a cruel joke.
Yes. A cruel joke. Her eyes narrowed. Yes, a cruel joke. Exactly the type of cruel joke her dear old friend would play on the world, wasn't it? Of course it was. But what was the point? So few knew his real name. She did, two or three others, including Raoul, whom she had told. What could be the purpose of such a joke?
Ah, yes! To get to her. For her friend was sometimes terribly cruel. A result of his horrid past, no doubt, but that didn't make it any easier to endure him. Surely this was a last jab at her, perhaps to make her feel guilt or simply to toy with her mind, to console himself that while she may be betrothed to another, he still wields power over her. Yes, this must be it.
"Well done, Erik," she whispered. "You almost had me that time. I almost fell for that one." She sighed. Read the next advertisement, then the next and then next.
She stopped again.
What if that wasn't all he'd hoped to accomplish? He had power over her, yes... but the power to make her jump and quiver, miles away at her fiancee's country estate was, though intriguing, hardly a useful power at all.
The realization sunk into her slowly like a shadow of something terrible looming.
He did this to draw me back.
For he had made a promise to her. He sent her off for her own happiness, but first he made a promise that he would ensure that she was informed of his death when it came time. She, in turn, had promised to return to him, return the ring he'd given her, place it on his finger, and see that he was buried in the place where he had first held her in his arms. She closed her eyes and could feel his trembling arms about her now. She felt faint. She opened her eyes, gripped the table. Yes. This message was a message for her, she felt sure. He was calling her to keep her promise, the promise to bury him. But surely he could not be dead so soon, for it had been only three weeks since the promise was made.
She felt her lips curl into a strange smile. He calls for me, she thought. There is no telling what he will do with me once I am there, but he knows that this message will call me to him.
She was on her feet before she reached the end of the thought. She was in her closet, dressing hurriedly in a travel dress. She was running down the hall calling to the servants to get her a carriage. She was hastily writing a letter to Raoul explaining that she'd had some urgent business to attend to, would explain later, do not worry, my dearest love—and she cringed as she wrote that part, but it was true. She loved Raoul entirely, though not desperately, not passionately—I will travel safely and return promptly. Sincerely, yours always and forever, Christine, and she sealed it in an envelope and pressed it into the maid's hand, then snatched it away again and left it in a place she knew Raoul would find it and asked that the maid instead direct him to it rather than hand it to him. This way, if the maid forgot, Raoul might still find the letter. He mustn't worry. She mustn't worry him, the poor dear, no telling what would become of him if he didn't know where she was. Then she was running again, to her room, to the closet, then back down the long corridor with her shawl. The carriage was just outside. She was running, throwing open the door of the carriage without waiting for the doorman. Then she was sitting, but in her mind she was running still, leaning forward urging the driver to urge the horses still faster, for she could not wait.