Chapter 7 - THE DUMBWAITER
The inside of the dumbwaiter shaft was pitch black, freezing cold, and suffocatingly tight.
Clare’s shoulders scraped against the rough brick walls as she pulled herself upward, inch by painstaking inch, using the old hemp rope that hung down the side. Dust coated her throat, making her want to cough violently, but she clamped her teeth together, forcing herself to remain silent.
If the rope snapped, she would fall three stories down to the concrete basement floor.
If she made a sound, the guards standing in the hallway outside the shaft would hear her.
One foot... two feet... three feet...
Her muscles burned with sheer exhaustion. Her palms were scraped raw by the rough rope fibers, but she kept pulling. She pictured Adrien sitting in his room, completely unaware that his cousin was about to poison his tea. She pictured her father’s face in that old photograph.
I won't let them win, she repeated in her head like a mantra. I won't let them kill another man I care about.
After fifteen agonizing minutes, her hands touched the wooden latch of the third-floor access hatch.
She paused, listening intently through the thick wood.
She could hear muffled voices inside the room.
"...he's still sleeping, Mr. Vincent," a guard’s voice said through the wall. "The tea cart is ready."
"Good," Vincent’s voice replied. "Bring the tray in at 7:30 PM sharp. Make sure he drinks every drop before we wheel him down to the ballroom."
Footfalls receded. A heavy door clicked shut.
Clare waited another two minutes until absolute silence returned to the room. She carefully pushed against the wooden hatch. It groaned softly, revealing the dark, private bathroom attached to Adrien’s master suite.
Clare squeezed out of the shaft, tumbling onto the cold marble floor of the bathroom, covered in soot and cobwebs.
She picked up her brass candleholder and scrambled through the door into the main bedroom.
Adrien was sitting on the edge of his bed, wearing a black suit jacket and crisp white shirt. He was attempting to fasten his cuffs, his fingers straining with effort.
He snapped his head toward the bathroom door, his dark eyes widening in shock as he saw Clare covered in dust, bleeding from her palms, holding a brass candleholder.
"Clare?" Adrien whispered in disbelief. "What happened to you? How did you get in here?"
Clare rushed to his side, catching her breath. "The tea... don't drink the tea, Adrien! Dr. Reeves put a paralytic toxin in it! Vincent plans to mute you before the council vote at eight!"
Adrien’s expression transformed into pure, lethal rage. "That bastard."
"And there's more," Clare said, her voice shaking as she gripped his arm. "Vincent’s guards are coming to take me to the boathouse at seven. They're going to kill me, Adrien."
Adrien grabbed her hands, ignoring the dust on her skin, his dark eyes locking onto hers with terrifying intensity.
"No one is killing you," Adrien swore, his voice echoing with absolute promise. "Not tonight. Not ever."
He pulled her down beside him on the bed. "Listen to me carefully. The council meeting is in the main ballroom downstairs at eight o'clock. Vincent thinks he has set a trap for us. But we are going to turn his own trap into his execution."
"How?" Clare asked. "You can barely walk five steps!"
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Adrien looked down at his legs, then raised his eyes to meet hers, a fierce, terrifying smile touching his lips.
"Then five steps will have to be enough," Adrien said quietly. "Here is what we are going to do..."
