Villefort forced himself forward. His wife's corpse lay stretched across the doorway to the sitting room where Edward must be. Those glaring dead eyes seemed to guard the threshold. Her lips bore a terrible, mysterious smile.
Through the open door, he could see part of the sitting room, an upright piano, a blue couch.
He took two more steps and saw his child lying on the sofa. Asleep, surely just asleep.
Joy exploded through him, a single ray of light piercing his darkness. All he had to do was step over the body, scoop up his son, and run. Run far away.
He wasn't a civilized man anymore. He was a wounded tiger, teeth bared against the pain. He'd stopped fearing reality, now only phantoms haunted him.
He leaped over his wife's corpse like it was burning coals. He grabbed the child, hugged him, shook him, called his name.
Edward didn't respond.
Villefort pressed his lips to the boy's cheeks. Ice cold. Pale. He felt the rigid limbs. He pressed his hand over the small heart.
