The door latch clicked open, and she was slow to wake. She had been so comfortable in her bed, with the heavy down comforter swaddling her like a baby. It was thick and warm, and it smelled like cedar wood and honey – just like him. She opened her eyes to find him staring at her. He hadn't entered the room, just stood there in the doorway, regarding her silently. The fingers of his left hand were rubbing against his palm absently.

She smiled. "Good morning," she said.

"Good morning," he replied. His tone was flat. He didn't smile.

Reluctantly, she sat up and pushed the heavy blanket down to her waist. At the sight of her in her nightgown, he turned away, and stood in the entryway with his back to her. She smiled and felt a giggle trying to break through her lips. He was such a gentleman. She had the sudden impression that he could be so easily scandalized.

She stood up and crossed the room, standing just at his back. "I'll only be a moment," she said. She leaned in close to him and placed her hand on the door's slide bar, pulling it nearly closed between them.

He didn't say anything, and he certainly did not turn around. He simply nodded once, and stepped out of the way. She caught a glimpse of his expression, which she could only describe as being – grim.

# # #

Concentrate. It has to be done. Focus. Focus on the job at hand. Concentrate. Concentrate. Concen . . .

The door creaked open at his back and he turned.

Good Lord.

"So?" she said. She looked up at him, a coquettish tilt to her head. "What do you think?" she asked. She smiled, and two perfectly formed dimples appeared in the sides of her soft, puffy cheeks. They looked like clouds – like cotton candy at the fair – like the faces of freshly washed children, their curls still damp in his hand. Concentrate. Concentrate. Concentrate.

She was wearing the dress he had left her – in the box under the bed. He had tied a dark blue ribbon around the dress, and he could see now that she had removed it – tied it around her hair, letting her chestnut brown curls tumble loosely in a spray around the ribbon's bow. He stared at her, his heart like a trip hammer in his chest.

"Do you like it?" she asked. She smoothed down the folds of the soft blue fabric of the skirt, just a hint of shyness in her voice.

The ribbons were long. They hung down her back, brushing so lightly against the back of her shoulder blades. He wanted to smooth it. He wanted to . . .

"I mean, I – I really like it," she said. She looked up at him, and her eyes lost some of their playful quality. "I – wanted to thank you – for this," she said. She touched the fabric of skirt. "It's lovely – really," she said. She smiled, and her bright eyes looked up at him. What was that? Curiosity? Questioning? Hopefulness? Concentrate.

"And – and for the gown and the blanket," she said. She gestured into the cell behind her but his eyes were riveted to her face. She smiled and took a step closer to him. He had to force himself not to step away. "That was very thoughtful of you," she said. She smiled and looked up at him – so close – too close.

"No matter," he said, briskly. He gave a dismissive wave of his hand. "Can't let you catch your death now, dearie. You'd be no use to me then," he said. He leaned in a little – imposing.

But she giggled. She giggled like a little girl and when she looked back up at him, he couldn't – concentrate. Concentrate. Concentrate.

He clapped his hands together in front of him.

"Come along now, my dear," he said. He wrapped an arm around her and began walking her toward the kitchen.

She smiled and drifted along easily beside him, and instead of her leaning away, he wanted to. His arm burned where it touched her back. He wanted to pull it away. He wanted to cut it off. He wanted to shove her away from him. This was becoming a dangerous game. No. He had to stay in control. He had to stick to the plan. This morning he would teach her to fear him.

# # #

He was sitting back in his chair when she came in with the tea. He eyed her as she carried in the tray. But this time she didn't set it down at the opposite end of the table like she had the morning before. This time she carried the tray right up to him – set it down on the table just beside him – and began making his tea for him right there. He stared at her – hard. If she was unnerved, she didn't show it. Her hands gave not the slightest tremble, as they had the day before. It was clear this would be his last chance. If he could not scare her today – if he could not control her – then he would never be able to. She was so comfortable already – too comfortable. He had to stop it now.

"Is something wrong?" she asked.

Her voice cut into his thoughts. He had been staring at her, but he hadn't been watching. He had missed the little teacup that she had placed on the table in front of him.

"Is it not what you wanted?" she asked. She titled her head and looked at him. "I can get you something else."

"No," he said. He said it a little too forcefully and caught himself. "It's hot."

She gave that confused half-smile she had been giving him almost consistently since her arrival. She shook her head and gave a small laugh.

"I'm sorry, I don't understand," she said.

Damn – it – focus!

"It's hot," he said. He took his time so he wouldn't falter his words. "So I'm waiting for it to cool."

"Oh," she said. She laughed, that water on rock laugh, and shook her head. He saw the blush as she turned away, creeping down from her cheeks and spreading over her neck.

He grabbed her wrist – tight – so she couldn't run away.

She turned, her eyes widening. But she didn't recoil as he had expected – as he had hoped? She just stood there, looking at him and waiting.

He held her small wrist in his hand, the birdlike bones burning his palm like the edges of an anvil that had been left sitting in the sun. He forced himself not to let go. He forced himself to lean in and not to speak – to make her ask why he had grabbed her.

But she didn't ask. And he didn't answer. And he thought they might literally grow old and die right there if something didn't break this awful silence.

She smiled – almost gently then – and he was . . . embarrassed?

"Was there something you needed?" she asked. Her voice was supremely gentle, like she was talking to a small child – a small, broken child – with a head wound.

"Yes," he said. He snapped the word out, and then checked himself. Too quick. "Yes," he repeated more slowly. "I would like you to bring me some bread from the larder. I'm going into town today, and I won't be back for several hours, so I will take my breakfast before I go."

He said it very slowly, letting each word sink in. He watched the contours of her face, felt the quickening of her pulse in his hand, saw her thinking. That was it. Good. He wanted her to think. He wanted her to make a plan. He wanted her to try to escape so that he could catch her. And then the consequences would solve his problem.

"Of course," she said. It was whisper soft.

His eyes pierced into her.

"I'll go get it," she said. She applied a slight resistance to pull her arm away, but not much. She looked at him.

He locked his gaze onto hers. Steady. Piercing. He held on a moment longer. He let her feel who was in control. And then, very slowly, he let go.

# # #

He watched her re-enter the dining room, carrying a silver tray. There was a baguette on top of a silver charger. A long, serrated bread knife lay beside it. The tray rattled when she set it down – again, just beside him, as she had done earlier with the tea.

"There was some jam in the outside pantry," she said. She took the small, chilled glass jar and placed it on the table in front of him. "And I also brought some cheese in from out there," she said. The dimples creased her cheeks.

He eyed her coolly, his fingers steepled in front of him.

"I thought you might like to bring some with you," she said. "Since you won't be back here for lunch." She looked at him. Her blue eyes settled on his face and she stood still.

He leaned back and locked his gaze onto hers. "That will be fine," he said.

She smiled a little. Dimples. Cotton candy. Curls.

He watched her cut a few pieces from the heavy block of cheese with a small, curved butter knife. Then she wrapped them in paper and laid them alongside the jar of jam. She wiped the knife clean on a white, linen cloth and laid it down on the surface of the table. Then she drew out the long serrated knife and touched it to the crust of the bread.

He leapt lithely onto his feet, taking her wrist in his hand before she could move. He heard the softest rush of air between her lips. A gasp. His left hand was pressing against her back, and his right held her wrist tightly.

She turned, faltering, and looked up at him. Her face was so close to his he could feel the small puffs of breath escaping her mouth. He smiled, predatorily. If he could have made his pupils dilate, he would have.

"You'd better let me do that, dearie. I wouldn't want you to hurt yourself," he said. His lips parted, and he saw her eyes drop down to his teeth. That's it. Be afraid. He let his right hand slide with a heavy pressure down over her wrist and then her hand. He removed the knife handle from her grip. Her eyes didn't move from the surfaces of his jagged, sharp teeth. He stared at her, watching for the familiar flicker of fear he knew would be there any second. He gave his soft trill of a laugh, letting it sound a bit more maniacal than usual.

She smiled and blushed dark red. She giggled, the dimples pressing deep into the sides of her gumdrop cheeks, and shook her head. Her curls bounced off the surface of her shoulders.

"As you wish," she said. Her voice was satin and velvet, and she flicked her eyes up to meet his. Her gaze was laughing – teasing almost. Was she mocking him? Throwing his own words back against him?

She blushed and ducked her head, stepping away from the table.

"I'll, um, I'll go get you a bottle and make some cold tea for you to take with you," she said. She turned and fairly ran back into the kitchen.

He stood there, staring after her. Was that it? Had she shown the fear he had been waiting for? It hadn't looked quite right. It hadn't looked quite – fearful.

# # #

"Here you go," she said. She smiled brightly and held up a little bottle that was already half filled with cold water. She rejoined him at the table and stood shoulder-to-shoulder with him as he sliced through the narrow loaf of bread.

He gave a slight nod, acknowledging her return, but kept his eyes on the table in front of him. He trained his eyes on the knife, cutting smoothly through the loaf but watched her carefully out of the corner of his eye.

She gave a little flounce when she joined him, making a point to stand directly at his side. She smiled and glanced at him, looking much too pleased with herself. Did she think this was a game, that he was playing with her? Was he – playing with her?

He watched her place a brown sugar cube on top of the white linen napkin and then fold the napkin over it. She used the spoon to tap it lightly, breaking the cube into little brown crystals. Then she lifted the napkin, creasing it so that the sugar ran neatly down its fold and sprinkled into the bottle of water.

He had stopped cutting and was now just watching her.

She sealed the bottle and turned it over once, twice to mix the sugar in. Then she opened it and set it down on the table. She picked up the teapot, resting her first two fingers lightly on the cover to keep it in place, and then filled the rest of the bottle with tea. She mixed it again, turning it over a few times until the tea had evenly mixed with the water. Then she placed the bottle, the bread he had sliced, a few pieces of cheese and the jam into a leather satchel with a drawstring top. She drew the string tight and then tied it so there was a loop at the end, for carrying.

She turned to hand him the bag and then stopped. She seemed stunned when she looked at his face. Had she not realized he was watching her? It took her a moment to recover.

"Here," she started, but her voice faltered.

He watched her.

"Here you go," she said. She dropped her eyes so that she was not looking directly at him when she spoke but at a point around his shoulder instead. She held out the little bag, and her hand trembled just a little.

He took it from her.

Her eyes moved from his shoulder to near his neck, to a point off to the side and then finally to his face. Her expression was remarkable. It was a mixture of confusion and wonder and disbelief.

He titled his head, knitting his brows, and her eyes dropped like stones to the floor. She stepped back, away from him, until nearly two feet of space stood between them. She kept her eyes on the floor and didn't move. It was like she was trying to blend in to the furniture. He shook his head. Her reactions were so odd sometimes.

"Very well," he said.

Her eyes flicked up to meet his face.

"I suppose I will be off then," he said.

She nodded, not looking at him, and returned her gaze to the floor.

He turned, as if to leave, and then spun quickly to face her.

She actually jumped.

"One more thing," he said. He announced it jovially. This part he would make sound like a game. "I have something I want you to do for me while I'm away."

"Of course," she said. She smiled very lightly. "What is it?"

He set the bag down on the table and crossed the room in long, even strides. He stopped just next to the spinning wheel. He waited for her to follow, but she didn't. She seemed rooted to her spot on the floor.

"Come here now, dearie," he said. He smiled the way a tiger does when it first scents its prey.

She didn't make even the smallest of movements in his direction. Instead, she looked up at him, breathing lightly as if she couldn't quite catch her breath.

He held out his hand toward her. "Come to me now, dear. There's no need to be afraid," he said. He said it lightly, but low too, letting his eyes warn her that he was starting to lose patience.

Her first step was jerky, and the rest of her body seemed reluctant to follow. Then slowly she made her way over to him, keeping her eyes on the floor the whole time. She stopped when she was still at least two steps away. She hesitated there, looking at his outstretched hand like it was an animal she was afraid might bite her.

He smiled to himself. This was working already.

Then she looked up at him, and he felt the smile slipping from his face.

Her eyes were round and bright in a wounded animal sort of way. Her lips were parted slightly, and she was still taking in those quick puffs of breath. Her expression was open and utterly unguarded – achingly vulnerable. And then she laid her hand whisper-light into his and took the final two steps so that she was standing right in front of him, holding his hand.

He closed his hand around hers, squeezing it a touch. He reached out with his other arm and folded her against his side. He turned her and guided her to a seat at the wheel. Placing his hands on both her shoulders, he moved her until she was sitting on the small bench seat. She turned just her head and looked up at him, her cheek brushing against his sleeve when she did. She titled her head just a little. Her cheeks were flushed pink, but she gave him a small smile.

"Are you going to show me how?" she asked. Her voice sounded light – even hopeful.

"How to do what, my dear?" he asked.

"To spin," she said, "like you do?" She smiled a little more now, and he felt a knot in his stomach start to loosen. "I've never done it before," she said. She turned back toward the wheel and touched it with the tips of her fingers.

He almost laughed but stopped himself. "Oh no, my dear, it takes a lot more than a wheel and some straw to start spinning gold," he said. "No, what I want you to do while I'm gone is a little easier than that."

She smiled and looked up at him. "What is it?" she asked.

"I want to you to take the strands that I've completed," he said. He waved his hand over the bunches of crinkly, sparkly gold thread that were lying on the surface of the spinning table and collecting in a basket on the floor. "And I want you to wind them into spools for me. Can you do that?"

"Of course," she said. She smiled fully now. "I mean, yes, I," she said. She flushed a little more. "I can definitely do that for you." She tucked her mouth behind her shoulder when she spoke, seeming suddenly shy.

"Good," he said. "That's good."

She smiled and let out the softest jingle of a laugh.

"Oh, and there's one more thing," he said. He held up a finger. He waited until she met his eyes again before he finished. "You'll be wearing – these," he said.

She stilled completely when she saw what he was holding. They were heavy, wrought iron chains with thick metal cuffs, and he held them up in one hand as if they weighed nothing.

"Wh – Why?" she asked. She looked up at him.

He leaned in very close to her so that his face was inches from hers.

"Because, my dear," he said. His voice dropped so low it sounded venomous even to him. "I can't have you escaping while I'm gone."

She shook her head. She looked so confused. Hadn't the girl ever seen chains before?

"But I wouldn't," she said. She shook her head again and looked up at him.

"You'll forgive me if I don't take your word for it," he said. His voice dripped of honey and venom.

She tilted her head and seemed to consider this for a moment.

"Now," he said. He drew himself up to his full height and fixed his features into the most evil-looking grin he could manage. "Give me – your hands."

His skin prickled with the intensity of an electric charge, and he stood ready to pounce on her, to grab her wrists and snap the cuffs shut tight before she had the chance to pull back.

She looked down at her hands in her lap and then lifted them, holding her arms out to him. Her wrists were turned up, showing a long expanse of creamy pale skin so new and delicate that he could see the fine blue lines of her veins beneath the skin.

He stepped back, as if her touch would burn him.

She reached for him, straightening her arms at the elbows and offering them up to him to take. She looked at him – open and guileless – and reached, reached, reached – for him.

He wanted to slap her arms away, but he was as rooted to his spot as if the chains had been bolted around him. What manner of avarice could this be?

She sat, completely still, looking up at him. Her arms were held rock steady now, without even the slightest waver or tremor.

He knelt, incredibly slowly in front of her, and her eyes followed his all the way down. He took one of her wrists in his hand, as fine and thin as a herringbone comb, and tenderly – so tenderly – placed the cuff around it. He kept his eyes fixed firmly on hers as he latched the cuff closed with a click. He gave the slightest of nods, as if to ask if she were ok, and she nodded back.

Then he stood, holding the other end of the chain in both his hands and wound it once, twice, three times around the base of the spinning wheel. He blocked her view with his back as he worked so that she would not see that his hands had begun shaking. He steadied himself for a moment. Focus. Breathe. Concentrate. Then he stepped back in front of her and knelt down again, taking her other wrist in his hand and holding it more securely than he had the first one. He held her wrist and looked at her eyes, and she gave a bare, nearly imperceptible nod. He forced himself to move, to bring one hand to the other – cuff to wrist and then click. Concentrate. Concentrate. Concentrate.

He leaned back on his heel and studied her – appraising. He took a breath and then leaned in. He raised his hand, forcing it to be steady, and touched her face incredibly lightly.

"Now, I want you to listen to me very carefully, my dear," he said. He kept his eyes locked onto hers so that she couldn't look away. "Are you listening?"

She nodded, her cheek brushing against the inside of his palm where he was holding her face.

"I'm listening," she whispered.

"I want you to be good for me while I'm gone, do you understand me?" he asked.

She nodded again. Cheek. Brush. Palm.

"If you are not," he said. He held his free hand up in front of her face, finger extended in warning. "I will know. Do you understand me?"

She nodded again. "I understand," she whispered.

"And if I return to find that you've disobeyed while I was gone, then you will be punished – very severely. Do you understand?" he said.

"I understand," she whispered. She pressed her lips softly together when she looked at him, and he felt the small dimple appear in her cheek where he was touching her.

He sat back. "Good," he said.

He released his gentle hold on her face and began to move his hand away. And then she made this tiny movement – it could have been an accident – but she looked down and to the side almost like she was trying to look at his wrist. And that movement – it had the effect of pressing her cheek into his palm for just a second – like she was trying to hold on.

His hand dropped away, like she had slapped him, and he nearly jumped to his feet. He stared at her.

"When will you be back?" she asked. She rested her hands in her lap, the links of the chains spilling down over her legs and onto the floor. "Will it be long?"

"Yes," he said. He snapped the word out and then checked himself. "Yes, it will be dark when I come back."

There was a short intake of breath and then she nodded.

"Okay," she said softly.

He gave a regal bow, but there was no smile on his face, and he turned on his heel toward the table. He snatched the little satchel up in one hand and then forced himself to walk – slow – toward the door, even though he wanted to run.