“Don’t you ever,” I hiss, “ever, do anything like that to me again.”
Turning on my heels, I run headlong out the door and down the length of the hall, past the faces of all the previous Mrs Montagues and their judgemental eyes, my footsteps sounding like the pitter-patter of rain on a tin roof. Finally, several halls later, I reach my bedroom, and throwing open the door, launch myself at the bed, flinging myself upon it and bawling my eyes out, great racking sobs of despair and fear and self-loathing.
But when I’m finally all cried out, I am also resolved, tomorrow I will escape.
Creeping from my room wearing a black velvet gown that I have hacked at the knees, sorry Yves St Laurent, I follow the hallway past my door as far as it will go, before making a sharp right down the long corridor towards the armoury.
I know of a secret door, an unlocked door, in an older section of the manor that I figured he rarely if ever visited. The armoury contains a range of, well, as you would expect, armour, but also weapons, stuffed animals, curiosities from a range of cultures ancient and more modern, and a doorway that leads out into the field on the eastern side of the manor. And from there, I hope to escape.
But not tonight, I’m not stupid.
I plan to wait until tomorrow when he is in his crypt or whatever the hell he sleeps in during the day, and then I will run.
I test the door to make sure it is still unlocked and turn, quietly, to make my way back to my room. I wish I had my phone, any phone actually, any way to contact the outside world, but I’d scoured every unlocked room over the past few weeks – nothing.
And who would I call anyway? Daniel? No, I wouldn’t want him to end up dead; it had to be James. He was the only living person who would understand my predicament and was prepared to kill a vampire. Especially now Lucy had been decapitated – surely, he would be even more motivated to destroy Nicholas. But I don’t have his phone number. I have no idea where he is. Perhaps if I write a letter and address it to the school, it will find its way to him, either directly or forwarded. I can only hope.
I’m still chewing my way through this contemplation when I get to my room and undress, deciding a bath might be the most relaxing option before my big day tomorrow.
There is only one light on in the room, a small bedside lamp made of multi-faceted stained glass, and I leave that on until the bath is full, before switching it off too and plunging the room into darkness.
Walking to the bath, I sink into the inky, scented water and turn my head to stare out the window at the moon and stars, the landscape below, my eyes adjusting slowly. At first, it looks like empty fields, just as it had in daylight, trees way in the distance. But beyond the trees, perhaps three or four kilometres away, or maybe more, the lights of the village glow softly on the horizon.
“If I can make it through the forest, I can make it to the village,” I whisper.
Closing my eyes, I lean my head back and try to relax, but my shoulder aches tonight, possibly due to the force I applied to Nicholas’ face, and my headache, never far away, is returning. Sighing I decide to rise and, pulling the plug with my toe, I stand, trying to remember where I left my towel. But as I cast my eyes around the room, a movement out of the corner of my eye draws my attention, and I look to the window just in time to see someone, or something, flit away.
‘Was it my imagination? Did I just see a face at the window?’
Gasping, I run to the window and look out, and down, but there is nothing.
“I’m three floors up. Can he turn into a bat? Can he fly? God, fuck, tell me no,” I moan.
Turning, I make my way to the small ornate writing desk near the door and wedge the matching chair under the door handle, just to feel more secure.
Chewing my lip, I dry myself, dress in my hacked black dress once more and hop into bed. Too wired to sleep, I switch on the bedside light and pen my letter to James, then move on to write my recipe for Ricardo’s sauce underneath my mother’s pasta recipe. I use blue pen to distinguish my notes from hers, our handwriting is otherwise, very similar.
Smiling at the thought that one day I might have a daughter who will read recipes from both her mother, and grandmother, I resolve to dream sweet dreams of a future filled with love and laughter, a future far, far away from here.
But my dreams are full of blue eyes, sharp teeth and a handsome man holding me, saying “come,” and when I wake, I am not rested.
5
Easing open the armoury door, I take one last look at the array of stuffed animals and their glassy, dead stares and shake my head. The two baby bears that stand either side of the doorway look back at me, I think, sadly, and I momentarily wonder what kind of fucked-up person shoots and stuffs baby bears.
“But I know exactly what kind,” I murmur, shaking my head, “wish me luck, Paddington.”
Scooting through, I carefully close the door behind me and lean on it, surveying everything around me. The fields are empty. I can hear a motorbike in the distance, and lawnmowers, but the side of the manor I have found myself on is hidden in deep shade at the moment, so I know no one will notice me.
I shudder at that thought but shake my head. I’d put enough sedatives into the butler’s tea to ensure he slept for a month – there was no one else watching me.
I scoot along, my back pressed flat against the brickwork, to the corner of the building, the side facing the forest, and eye the distance between the manor and the forest speculatively. Once I’m in the tree-line I know I just have to keep walking East and I will eventually reach the village. I can only foresee three problems. Number one: I’m barefoot, there was no way I could wear the high heels supplied with the wardrobe full of gowns on a trek like this. Try as I might, I’d been unable to break off the heels to turn them into flat sandals. I’d ventured during my attempts that Margarita had sent an invisible shoe-protection fairy to save their lives. Number two: I’m not terrific with direction; there is a possibility I will get lost once I’m in the woods. Number three: I have to get to safety, to human civilisation, before sunset.
Ignoring all three issues, I bite my lip as I stare at the trees in the distance and hunch down, ready for my flight. I’d been torn about running or walking, worried that if I ran, I might draw attention, unsure if Nicholas has security or anyone else that might question who I was and what I was doing on his land. My plan, at least five minutes ago while talking to the bears, was to walk casually across the field and enter the woods.
Now though, with adrenalin shooting through my veins and fear fuelling me; I know I am going to run.
Without further pause, I sprint away from the manor and head in a direct line for the forest. As I run, I hear the motorbike I had noticed earlier. Its engine appears to be getting louder, perhaps coming closer, but I can’t run any faster than I am, so I continue to aim straight for the trees. I’m not puffed yet, not by a long shot, and I’m just starting to feel confident I will make it when a dog looms in front of me, a large dog, a large red, hairy dog. Before I can stop myself, I trip right over the mongrel as it yips in pain and I tumble, headlong onto the grass, winding myself terribly.
