No sooner have I said this, though, than there is a short, sharp rap on my door, and Nicholas strides in, his face a thundercloud. I watch from the bath, only my head visible above the line of the porcelain and wait for him to discover me. As his eyes meet mine, and he marches angrily towards the bath, I sink lower down into the water but raise my chin resolutely, waiting for whatever chastisement or punishment he plans to impose.
I meet his gaze steadily. But taking in my expression, I see his eyes soften.
“You’ve been outside,” he says quietly.
“Yes.”
“You tried to run away?”
“Yes.”
“My gamekeeper is ex-military. It was unwise.”
I shrug.
“Did he hurt you?”
“He didn’t shoot me,” I mutter.
“Have I ever hurt you?”
I nod.
“Physically?” he quantifies.
I reluctantly shake my head.
“Then why?” he reaches down and rubs his thumb gently against my cheek, along the tracks my tears have left on my as-yet unwashed face.
I say nothing. There is no point; he knows why.
He sighs and sits on the edge of the bath, frowning when he notices my feet and running his eyes over the rest of me, taking in that I am still in my black dress, hacked at the knee and now torn and wrecked from hours spent crawling and pushing through undergrowth.
“You didn’t like the dress?” he asks gently, his lips just turning up slightly at the corners, as though he wants to smile, but knows, given my expression, it might just push me into hysteria.
“I hate all the clothes you have bought me,” I mutter, sinking my mouth under the water and telling myself, firmly, not to engage further with him.
“Oh,” he raises his eyebrows, clearly surprised. “I thought only to please you. They are all of the highest quality… you like high-quality food. I expected you would like only the best fashion.”
I raise my mouth from the waterline and mutter with my lips half in, half out, so it sounds all bubbly. “You don’t know me at all.”
“Then enlighten me, Josephine,” he says, waving his hand at my inert form under the water, “I want to get to know you. Tell me what you like, what you dislike.”
“Ilike jeans and t-shirts,” I frown at him, angry now, my melancholy slipping away in the face of my ire, “Idislikebeing held prisoner.”
He sighs and shakes his head ruefully.
“I thought you wore such things due to your poverty, not because you liked them.”
“I wasn’t poor,” I snort. “I was focussed. I spent my money on ingredients to pursue my dream. I don’t care about clothes, I never have. Margarita is the clothes-horse, or was before she became a zombie.”
“Ingredients,” he murmurs, ignoring my jibe about Margarita.
Rising, he walks towards my wardrobe, opening the doors and shaking his head at all the gowns hanging, most still in their zip-bags bearing designer names, row after row.
“And apart from clothes,” he turns and strolls back to the bath, looking down at me, concerned, “what else do you wish for, here, while my guest?”
“Guest.” I snigger. “I want deodorant, make-up, a hairdresser, a television, a stake and oh yeah, my freedom.”
