Chapter 2: At the Mercy of Strangers

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  The sound of a lock clicking registers in my subconscious, and I’m immediately torn from sleep. I half expect the door behind me to swing open and make me topple backwards onto the feet of whoever is leaving the house, but nothing happens. Instead, a familiar crown of deep auburn hair appears near the gable end to my left. It seems that a discreet door connects the scullery to a small courtyard partly hidden from view by the overgrown grass and a few bushes. Now, in the morning sun, parts of a stone fence are visible through the greens and browns.

  Still not functioning properly, I remain sitting on the doorstep, slowly rubbing the sleep from my eyes as I observe the mean, voiceless woman. She seems to be filling a bucket. Nice to finally know where the water pump is.

  At the sound of water splashing, my throat suddenly feels like it’s lined with sand. Wetting my lips longingly, I climb to my feet, ignoring the way every muscle feels tight and heavy like a brick, how my sore feet burn against the damp leather soles, and how my ankle throbs painfully in protest to being disturbed so soon.

  Before the woman slips back inside, she makes sure to offer me a sharp sideways glance to let me know that she knows I’m still here and that she intends to do nothing about it. Then the door snaps shut behind her, and she’s gone.

  Perhaps I’m a fool for insisting on them offering me refuge when they don’t owe me anything. But what else am I to do? I have no idea how far the nearest village is - and even if I did, I have no money nor anything of worth on me to pay for a lift home. My kidnappers weren’t so considerate as to wait for me to grab my purse before dragging me outside and hauling me into their wagon. It seems the one solution I can afford is to wait it out; once my foot has healed enough, I may be able to find my way back through the forest and then follow the road home from there, even though it’ll probably take me the better part of a fortnight or more.

  In the meantime, I need to convince the strange couple to let me stay until I’m ready to travel. But that would require an audience at some point, and they don’t exactly seem like the most sociable types…

  The stone fence around the paved courtyard is tall enough to pose a challenge for someone of my height and current mobility, but with some effort I manage to heave myself over it. The landing is not particularly elegant; my still clammy skirt slaps heavily against the cooled, rough tiles as my hands and tailbone do the same. Gingerly, I climb to my feet and brush off the layer of sand and tiny rocks now embedded into my palms. Luckily, they don’t seem to have drawn blood - I already have enough injuries to tend to as it is.

  I pump the handle a few times, making the rusted metal whine in protest, and soon a portion of water shoots from the spout and into the small stone basin below, spilling over its sides. I drink greedily until even my hunger seems somewhat sated, then summon a final spurt to rinse the still raw wound on my arm. I really ought to wrap it, but I’m back to having no materials except the very clothes I’m wearing, and the thought of ripping my favorite dress apart on purpose isn’t very tempting. Of course, it has already sustained some noticeable damage during my escape through the forest, but, in its current state, it’s nothing I can’t fix later. Besides, the fabric is not particularly clean right now; the white of my chemise and the mossy green of my dress are both coated in brownish-black sludge from the hem to my waist. That’s a sure recipe for infection.

  In pure defiance, I spend the next few hours camped on the small doorstep to the scullery, waiting for the woman to eventually come back out for more water. This time, she will have to engage with me to be let through, and I’ll get my shot at bargaining.

  With nothing more than liquid in my belly, I can’t hold off the inevitable for long, so at one point I get up and find a bush around the corner to squat down behind, then begin to climb my way back over the stone fence when I’m done.

  Unexpected movement catches my attention, but not from the house itself.

  Somewhere behind the mansion, a gravel path cuts through the overgrown meadow, likely coming from inside the forest. I can’t see the path itself for the grass, but I hear it fine on account of the crackling pebbles beneath the wheels of the arriving wagon.

  I try to swallow the lump in my throat. Much to my regret, I know that wagon. A large, closed one, neatly painted in reds and black. It almost looks like a carriage, but I know for a fact there are no seats inside. No, this one was made for transporting goods - and to avoid prying eyes from knowing what, exactly, those goods are. Only unfortunate souls have witnessed the interior firsthand.

  One of the men - the brown-haired one - is seated at the front, steering the pair of horses. I assume the other is inside the wagon, keeping an eye on the captives and making sure nobody else tries to slip out and run, especially after I nearly kicked the door to splinters during my break-out, when they were out hunting for their next victim. I doubt they’ve had time to repair it already, so guarding it is most likely necessary. In other words, escaping has become much harder because of me. And I doubt I could do it twice.

  Stolen story; please report.

  I’m crouching behind the wall of stone, chewing my bottom lip a bit too hard and watching them intensely as they move along the pathway curving past the house. My first thought is that they must have followed me to the mansion last night and then went back to get the wagon before coming to get me, but nothing in the driver’s face indicates that he knows I’m here or intends to stop. It might be pure coincidence they’re here - unlikely, but not impossible. A meager hope blooms in my chest.

  A gust of wind makes the world rustle around me, and just as the wagon is about to breach the skirts of the forest and disappear again, the driver’s head snaps in my direction, eyes immediately alert and searching. I duck behind the fence, certain that I never made a sound - and hoping the man soon realizes that it was merely the wind.

  The gravel stops crackling.

  Hiding behind one of the bushes jutting over the edge, I sneak a cautious peek through the latticework of twigs and the last few yellowed leaves holding on to dear life. Gaze still raking the area, the driver climbs down from his seat, knocking thrice on the wagon in the process. Like summoned, the other guy pops his blonde head out of the tattered door in the back, visibly confused - but he, too, seems to quickly catch whatever it was the first one picked up.

  I begin to back up toward the door as stealthily I can, but my crutch works to my disadvantage. One thud against the pavement is all it takes; two sets of eyes are on me in an instant. Before I can take another step back, both of them have begun moving, leaving the wagon unguarded and momentarily forgotten.

  “We were wondering where you went, little mouse,” the flaxen-haired man calls. He is handsome and well-dressed, his voice warm and soft as melted butter - exactly like I remember him from the night at The Rabbit and the Rooster. The other one, just as charming and sightly, flashes his teeth in a broad grin, but nothing in his smile seems pleasant now. In the tavern, they caught my attention in a way that none of the other patrons have ever managed to, but now I know they are nothing more than pretty-looking faces trying to lure unsuspecting prey into their trap with a much-needed dose of attention and flattery. And fuck me, it worked.

  My heel meets the doorstep, and I stumble backward, back colliding with the door to the scullery. I fumble for the handle but find the door locked - of course - and try pounding with a fist instead, not daring to take my eyes off the men even for a second.

  Closing in, they split up, clearly intending to flank the fenced courtyard and trap me between them. Something about them reminds me of huge, two-legged felines prowling smugly mere moments before going in for the kill.

  “Open that God-damned door,” I bark, hammering again. Of course, my plea goes unheard once more. I even expected as much. Those people don’t give two shits about others, do they?

  I have no other option than to try to fight the men off, so I tighten my grip around the staff, prepared to whack whoever reaches me first. I haven’t decided if I’ll go for the head, the crotch, or the legs in the initial attack, however, but I guess I’ll find out soon enough. Although I’m nothing more than a serving wench, I might have picked up a thing or two from our doorman, Bryard. Or at least I hope so.

  “There is no need for violence, sweetheart,” the blonde coos as he jumps over the stone wall to my right. “Come willingly, and you will be spared much pain.”

  Without warning, I swing left, landing a solid hit on the brown-haired man’s forearm as he somehow manages to shield his face in time. Then, pulling the staff back, I drive it straight into the blonde’s stomach, expecting to send him back into the fence, but he takes the blow like a boulder.

  Before I can attack to my left again, the man has moved within reach. Grabbing my forehead with one hand, he sends the back of my head into the black-painted wood behind me with such force that my vision goes white for a moment.

  “Watch it,” hisses the blonde. “Not her face, remember?”

  The branch is torn from my grasp and tossed into the sea of grass somewhere beyond the courtyard. But I still have my hands - and a set of nails opportunely in need of a trim.

  “Cut the crap, Chess,” replies the brunette as he kicks my good leg, forcing me to my knees. I lunge for his abdomen, but he catches my wrist easily before I can strike. “There is no way she looks like her.”

  “Have you ever seen–”

  The door behind me opens. I watch their eyes go wide. The man in front of me tears his hand away from me as if scalded, and I nearly fall forward, still a tad light-headed.

  “Leave my property this instant.” I recognize the master’s voice from behind me, but can’t tell if he’s annoyed or tired. It doesn’t seem to matter, though, because his presence alone appears to be enough to send the two men scurrying for their wagon.

  The red-headed woman from earlier steps past me on the doorstep to watch the men retreat.

  Once the horses are set in motion, the master sighs heavily and runs a hand through his tousled, silver locks. Tired, it would seem. The black silk robe sloppily tied around his frame also suggests he came straight from bed, despite it being almost noon.

  The man and the woman both look at me, cool indifference on their faces, as I finally manage to climb to my feet, awkwardly using the doorframe for support. I don’t know if it’s merely a trick of the shadows in the scullery, but the man, despite appearing only a few years older than me, looks… sick. Weakened. Dark circles under his eyes, cheeks sunken in, skin ashen. What happened to him?

  “Do not make too much noise. And stay out of the library,” he says, then turns away to head back through the kitchen. “Chiselle, fetch her staff. And draw her a bath; she reeks of piss and looks even worse.”