The Crone's Stone
The Sacred Trinity Trilogy
Book One
SueEllen Holmes
Smashwords Edition
Copyright 2011
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Chapter One
For an instant, the kitchen lit up so brightly it hurt Winnie’s eyes. She wasn’t supposed to be out of bed, peeking from her bedroom across the balcony to where she’d heard Aunt Bea through the open door. Snooping had got her in lots of trouble before, but it was hard to sleep cranky. They’d been travelling so long and only arrived in Sydney from South America hours ago. It was their fifth international move in two years. Why even bother unpacking? In her eleven years, Winnie spent more time in the jet than on the ground.
What could the three of them have to talk about so late? Or maybe two and a half considering Mrs Paget was teeny and never spoke. Curiosity won over the anger. Winnie popped her head around the door, checking for the pesky cats. They’d definitely trip her up and make a racket, not to mention all the trunks and boxes turning the hall into a maze. It was too dim to see anything properly. Risking it, she slid into the obstacle course, patting the way in the gloom. She’d barely crept ten steps when a stranger’s voice drifted into range.
“He has disappeared, Beatrice.”
Winnie nipped behind a crate, not daring to breathe unless she’d miss something. The words were soft to her ears, but weirdly loud in her head. He’d passed by without notice? Others were not allowed inside -- ever. Most people wouldn’t understand thousands of stacked human bones, ready for re-assembly, or the electric chair or the shrunken heads from Ecuador.
“Lost again, Enoch? You are the Watcher!”
“I am not infallible. It is inadvisable to journey without Seth’s location. I can only track the witch-demon through him.”
“So you are unaware of either of our enemies’ positions? Finesse could be at the front door.”
“I am sorry, Jerome. I shall keep you appraised should new information come to hand.”
Fortescue was called Jerome? It was funny to think of him as a person with a history and a first name, instead of as the butler who’d fussed over her always. Finesse? For some reason, Winnie felt a horrible squeeze in her tummy, almost the same as when she began a new school. Her knees went weak and she sagged against splintery wood.
Another blast flooded the kitchen. Hands flew to her eyes too late. From between clamped fingers a man stood where the box had been. Light surrounded him as if a star burst in the warehouse, the fluorescent afterglow blinding.
She blinked madly. “I only wanted a glass of water!”
“Do not be afraid, Winsome.” He smiled down at her, suddenly just a boring guy in a black suit and tie. She tried to find the right description for him and came up with colourless. His hair, his features, everything about him was difficult to hold in her mind. And she knew he was not the cause of her fear. “This isn’t your time little Keeper-in-waiting. Forget all mention of enemies. Hopefully, for many, many years to come.”
Coolness brushed her cheek. Winnie roused alone in a dark, cold corridor, wondering how she’d got there. She shivered, vaguely uneasy, and struggled to recall which new place this was. Sleepwalking had never been a problem before. Cherish’s silky head nudged her under the arm. She blearily hugged the huge cat’s neck, soothed by purrs. He hauled her back to slumber and the gift of ignorance.
***
Chapter Two
Junior Deputy-Sheriff Joliet swore as the cruiser stalled and lurched to a stop in a plume of dust far from the murdered woman’s house. Death would find him in days if he set foot inside her fence. As unaware as those before him, Davey ground the key in the ignition, freaking out.
“Come on. Come on!” he pummelled the steering wheel. “Piece of junk.”
In response to the insult the air-conditioning wheezed to an end, moisture invading the cabin. Heat rippled the view over the bonnet. He squinted at a jumbled car park crowding the gravel beyond huge iron-grilled gates. In common with everyone else, he’d driven as far as he could. The mechanical glitch made no sense, some wide-load officers as inclined to walk as perform a pirouette.
Davey frowned and bit his nails. A long, sweaty hike to a place he didn’t want to go beckoned. He couldn’t put his finger on why. Whenever the gossips at the Buy-Lo mentioned the area they reeled out the haunted tripe. Maybe he should have listened, for once. The house crouched on a hill in the distance, as if waiting to pounce. So did Uncle Horace, only that threat was real.
Fighting paranoia, he undid the belt and reached for the handle, wishing some other pathetic chump occupied his spot on the bottom of the urinal. The door stuck, obliging a shoulder barge. It had been fine when he’d collected it from the auto-pool this morning. A noisy swarm of blood-suckers queued for the smorgasbord when Davey stepped out.
“Damn!”
He’d forgotten repellent and slapped with abandon. It was almost mid-morning and he was hours overdue. Was it his fault the order pinned under the wiper like a ticket stretched longer than the coffee shop line? Weirdo lattes -- paprika, really? -- moccachinos with sprinkles and chai tea were the best of it. Leave off the sarsaparilla float and mint julep. He’d asked anyway, knowing it was stupid. Everyone in the café chuckled. His server with a nose ring and pretty red hair sniped she’d check out back for her, “lace parasol, a gentleman caller, oh, and an 1850’s recipe”. Davey’s real mature work buddies yanked his chain. Again. What a knee-slapping hoot.
On top of the forty-five minute coffee run, the trip took an hour along a pock-marked track worthy of a mountain goat -- axle-snapping in the dry, a bog in the wet that probably demanded a tow. Today’s drive rated a mere tooth-chipping on the off-road scale, the upholstery saturated with espresso. GPS failed out here, the camouflaged turn-off not marked on any map. Without the police tape draping the bushes by the drive’s entrance, Davey would still head for the Gulf of Mexico.
Hitching an equipment-packed belt, he balanced the tower of trays and kicked the door shut. Perspiration leached his forehead as he shimmied the gridlock. He no longer had hands available to scratch, skin already a graffiti of blotches. The allegedly ‘cool and breezy’ shirt (never believe the packaging blurb) clung like his stalker ex-girlfriend. At least she’d been cool and breezy in the beginning.
Nerves jangling, he wondered for the gazillionth time how Uncle Horace had managed to bully him into a career as a Police Officer. So what if his nephew was third generation? Davey had just wanted to teach history. And the hot secretary wasn’t the least impressed by his gun. She’d vaporised his top pick-up line, “Want to see my weapon?” with a glare. Maybe if he’d tried it on Little Miss Nose-ring she wouldn’t have called the manager when he’d asked for a ginger tart.
Now he found himself hiking through a creepy wasteland towards a place with a cruel reputation that spanned four centuries. Accidents happened here too often: disappearances, drownings, gator attacks, moccasin bites. Voodoo and superstition riddled this part of Louisiana. Maybe, rumours of black magic and devil-worship simply got the better of him today. And the coffees were so cold they were iced, a chorus of whinges louder with each stray minute. He had to get hustling and reluctantly bypassed the last vehicles: Forensics and the Coroner.
As a distraction, he scoured his brain for facts. The victim’s name was Baptiste, Raphaela. And she had never been spotted in Lafayette. None of her ancestors either; all nameless phantoms until today. His spine crawled, as though unfriendly eyes peered from the Cypress and Cottonwood shadows. Davey scanned the clearing. There was nothing, just shrieking insects and ancient trees riddled by Spanish moss. He trudged on, as relaxed as razor-wire.
According to a fuzzy satellite image from the beverage-stained report back in the car, her land was originally a wilderness of greenery and swamp. He’d frowned at the word ‘originally’, reading it over and over. What replaced the vegetation? An industrial grinder lay by the gate, required to shear chains broad enough to tether a tanker. It was not too late to hightail it back to the office. The whole team was out here anyway. Stimulants aside, they didn’t need an extra blow-in.
“Another schmuck fronting the Reaper with surgical gloves and crime tape,” he grumbled.
The concrete wall ringing the perimeter seemed better suited to a medieval fortress. He craned to glimpse its wide spiked top. What on earth was the victim trying to keep out? An odd petrol-haze triggered his asthma. He navigated the threshold via huge pillars, lungs deflating. Silence fell.
Juggling the trays, he fumbled his inhaler from an overstuffed pocket, sucking deeply. In an act worthy of a Las Vegas magician, Davey wrapped a handkerchief about his face with only one hand, gritting the tie in his mouth. It was even more suffocatingly humid in here. Beyond the columns, he couldn’t see his boots. A clinging tide of vapour swallowed his legs up to his thighs.
Despite treading cautiously a pothole turned his ankle and several cups tumbled. He wasn’t a blasted cafeteria worker! There was no way he’d go groping around for the dregs. He gasped for air, pain lancing his leg. An asthma attack this severe was a rarity since enrolling for swimming years ago. Even gone, the owner apparently didn’t welcome trespassers.
The fog eddied, chest spasming in the acid reek. No way was it sulphur! He coughed and retched, rearranging stacks to take an urgent slug from the puffer. Picking up the pace, he tried another diversion by inspecting his surrounds. It was a mistake. Charred trees twisted from the fume. Now Davey knew what became of the plant life, but wasn’t any less baffled. Their blackened carcasses reminded of that painting of a screaming guy, as if they’d tried to escape skyward.
Dumb to put the puffer away! He groped trousers, choking and ready to flee back to the sanctuary of the car, when Raphaela Baptiste’s residence loomed from its shroud. The atmosphere cleared as he gained the path and the panic settled to knuckled tension in his gut. Through burning eyes it was stylish, made sinister by a layer of soot and a moat of pitted craters.
His brow furrowed. A toxic spill? Opossums, frogs and lizards scattered her front lawn in some sham garden, their state of decay more advanced than possible. It took a while to understand the problem. The teeming bayou insects were absent, not one pelt buzzing with parasites or boiling with larvae. In fact, he’d not been pestered at all since the gate.
He sorely regretted not staying in the car, better still, back at the station. Ornate double doors were thrown wide from a generous veranda. Davey climbed the stairs and entered, panting as if he’d chain-smoked for decades. Boot prints grimed a floor of black-and-white marble and he tugged the kerchief to his neck, sidling through officers clotting the art-and-sculpture packed foyer. No-one noticed. They massaged the brims of hats, eyes darting. Whispers followed him: “She’s too young. Must be the great granddaughter…”, “-- packing stuff everywhere, bubble wrap and such forth --”, “There’s no trace. Forensics haven’t a clue…”.
Davey had never witnessed so many nervous cops crammed in one room. Dumping his reduced cargo on a fancy chair, he hoped they were the glass-half-full types. The brimming cap on Uncle Horace’s manly black, no sugar, inspired relief. Joliet Senior crawled beneath an antique side table, torch in mouth, gaberdine shined across a chair-polished rear.
“Sheriff Joliet!” Uncle Horace walloped the back of his stringy-haired head. The torch clattered to the tile.
“Geez, Davey!” He rubbed his scalp and unfolded a rangy frame, hauling to his feet. “A little warning? The ticker’s already in overdrive.” He halted and stared. “You look awful. You’re the shade of a honeydew melon. You didn’t fall for the ginger tart gag, did you?” His expression was far too sympathetic. “That serving girl’s as pleasant as a rabid cat.”
“It’s nothing. Just a little asthma.” Davey thrust the coffee at him, unwilling to admit the humiliation. His uncle took the cup and slouched to the table top.
“Thanks. You don’t have to stay, you don’t want. I couldn’t abide the lecture from your mother if you keeled over under my supervision.” He winked.
Davey’s curiosity burst forth. “What happened here?”
“Who knows? Make something up and we’ll be closer to the truth. This place is a museum. Nothin’s gonna wash out this stink. It’s plain unnatural.”
“Can I check it out before I leave? Maybe I’ll learn something.”
Horace smiled at this improvement in attitude and nodded. “You can’t miss her. The Chief’s got his dander up. Just follow the wounded bull roar. And Davey?” He paused and turned back to his uncle. “Don’t touch anything, no matter the temptation.”
A little credit! He was an academy rookie, not a fool. Davey made his way towards the rear down a long corridor that right-angled, the office at its end. Classy paintings, statues and furniture jammed every available surface. In his admittedly limited knowledge, it all looked worth a bucket.
Perfume eased his lungs the closer he got. He’d expected essence of cadaver. Arriving, Davey froze in the doorframe. The furniture cluttered one end, the rug rolled up. A mutilated dead woman sat Buddha-like in the centre of the room, three tall black candles molten around her. Under the blaze of spotlights, a transparent coating welded her petite frame in place. The glassy cage reminded horribly of Spielberg’s Jurassic mosquito.
Bustling investigators failed to eclipse his attention, as if time slowed in a halo about her. She was very beautiful. Gross as it was in her condition, Davey couldn’t help thinking it. Her big eyes stared a thousand miles, strands tumbling from a messy bun, varnished lips sealed forever, cream pants a marble carving. A bloody cavity peeled her ribcage.
He jerked his focus from her chest, bone and sinew visible. This tiny woman appeared to have stabbed herself, hands fixed in wilted prayer. But the blade was missing. Davey felt confused, amongst a turmoil of other less precise emotions. Such fuss over a suicide? If not, a robbery? The burglars weren’t so thorough, easily transportable gem-studded ornaments dotting the room. Besides, with all the security they’d have to be Ocean’s Eleven.
And every time he glanced away, a triangular frame filled with unknown symbols enclosing her in red crayon, flickered from the ground. No matter the strain, it vanished the moment he looked back. His intuition squirmed.
“That knife’s an heirloom! Worth more than my lifelong salary. It was there a moment ago!” the Chief bawled, his head lit-up like a fire siren. “How in the mothering disaster could somebody pilfer it? We can’t budge her!”
Four officers more florid than the Chief grappled Ms Baptiste’s limbs, pulling and heaving with much swearing and no movement. A closeby techy smirked, as if Davey had never seen a corpse.
“You okay, kid?” she asked. “If you’re going to chunder, take it outside. You don’t want to contaminate the scene.”
Davey fingered his baton, but didn’t have the nuts to utter a comment about her enormous butt matching her mouth. Besides, nausea was not the main problem. Could no one else see it? Or feel it? If he tilted his head and didn’t stare directly, it luminesced from the edge of vision. He rallied to speak, the words drowned by an outburst.
“Use a jackhammer for all I care. Get the whole lot to the lab! And find that bloody knife!” Heedless of the pun, the Chief barrelled for the door. “Make sure there are plenty of photos!” he barked over a shoulder.
Davey scuttled out of the way and tried again much louder. “Anyone see a drawing on the ground? A red triangle.”
“Ah, Sir?”
“What, Mumford? What!” The Sheriff lunged inside, jowls quivering.
“We,” the technician croaked, “can’t seem to photograph the scene.”
“I am not an artistic man, Mumford. But even I could capture a few unhappy snaps with that whiz-bang equipment the State generously purchases on your behalf. If you’re not up for the task, pass it to someone who is and sign-up to shoot toddlers at the mall. Stop wasting my time!”
The mouthy one stepped forward. “It’s not just Mumford, Sir. We’ve tried on four different cameras and video. The digital frames are black every time. I’ve taken film, but no promises.”
“Guess not.” Davey gave up, positive the red triangle existed.
If he concentrated, it actually seemed to throb. He pledged not to disregard the bad vibe yelling, “stay in the car!” ever again. This tomb should have been left sealed. The Chief devoted an opera to his disappointment and all present cowered. Davey didn’t catch a word. He tilted against the wall, transfixed by her, a terrible premonition knotting his bowels.
“Track down that unknown caller. Pronto! Goddamn it all to hell.”
“You mean the hell aside from this one?” Davey muttered, gnawing his nails to the quick.
He wondered if the Carter fellow felt the same on cracking his pyramid crypt, and so cursing his entire team. Someone cared, though, and phoned in details. Old Edith, who worked the switch, claimed she’d not heard a man more wrecked by sorrow in all her years. Otherwise, the Baptiste lady would rest undiscovered for eternity. Davey felt sure she was meant to remain that way. A monument keeping her dire secrets. But someone wanted a proper burial for her. Or to gloat.
***
Chapter Three
The doddering Languages Master, Werner, ripped the tape from Mallory’s mouth. I winced and prayed it was as painful as it looked, watching over a seething patchwork of heads from a bench on the fringe. Guilt surfaced. I’d earned the blame for once, breaking my promise to Aunt Bea to behave and undoing months of good work. The provocation of the liars and cheats and bullies swarming this place like flies on crap didn’t count. I was expected to rise above. Right now, the less than honourable hope I could worm out of it took priority.
“Better quick than slow,” he squeaked bracingly.
“It was her! The freak! Daddy will press charges. We’re suing the school!” Mallory shrieked.
Students crowded the battery-hen dining hall, whooping in their hundreds at two of their own gaffer-taped from shoulders to knees on desk chairs in a cleared circle on the teachers’ dais. The victims looked like pupae squirming in silver cocoons, eyebrows absent. A sign on his chest announced in large red letters, Chad: ‘Had sex with a goat’, Mallory’s a timely health warning: ‘Danger Herpes’. I applied the term “victims” very loosely.
The Principal and clueless Student Counsellor stalked the perimeter, eyes roving in outrage. A smart person would have hid in her room, but my stubbornly inquisitive cat lost nine lives before puberty.
“There she is!” Mallory jerked her head in my direction, lips swollen and red.
Attention fell upon me like the inquisitor’s glare. Mallory burst out in theatrical sobs, not quite as convincing minus a heaving chest and fainting. That could wait until the court case. Time to squash the nerves and row meagre defences.
“Winsome Light! Here, now!” Ms Coco-Chanel-wannabe snapped, suit buttoned to her throat, unburdened by the trademark cigarette and genuine style. Shame. Might have made her vaguely interesting.
Werner waved his Stanley knife. The old boy had hands as steady as a wind sock in a high gale. Bug-eyed with fear, Chad amped the wriggling. Such a moron! No punishment stole the beauty of it. What could they do to me? The threat of expulsion seemed an incentive, if not for my long-suffering Aunt Bea.
I sighed and jumped down, jostled via kids toned, pudgy and bony. Faces tracked me excitedly to the gallows. My popularity was on par with vaccinations. I told myself again it didn’t matter. Here, at the Albert Einstein Boarding Academy (a gross insult to the great man), the opinion of my fellow inmates was my last concern. Breaking from the herd, I made the lonely trek to the stage. Mallory regarded me with a hateful expression. Her mouth resembled a couple of inflated leeches. Despite my imminent crucifiction, I stifled a laugh.
“Account for yourself last night, Miss Light. Preferably, the truth.”
When would she prefer a lie? Adults -- experts at stating the totally obvious, yet missing it entirely. “I was sleeping. I have a witness.” Mallory wasn’t the only one with an acting pedigree.
“A witness?”
“And evidence of my innocence.”
“Please, explain.” The woman challenged icily.
“Well, if I accomplished such genius I’d post a billboard and expect a reward. You may have noticed, I’ve not demanded one.” Claps and whistles rebounded, as yet again, my mouth operated outside the jurisdiction of my brain.
“You are on perilous ground, Young Lady. Your Grand Aunt Beatrice is but a phone call away.”
Actually, Aunt Bea was several oceans and a few continents away. Only a thirty hour journey in the jet, her being in Sydney, Australia, me exiled in arctic Austria. Until A.E.A we’d been global nomads and it was hard to nurture relationships with constant travel, never able to return invites. They’d dried-up years ago. Surely, a little moral support wasn’t too much? I used to believe teens stuck together. A bugger that foolish optimism! Sometimes, it really did matter.
“Chablis,” I mumbled.
Drilling hands deep inside jacket pockets, I wished my alibi hinged on someone other than my darling roomy, whose shrewd parents named her in future tribute to goon-guzzling. It didn’t matter I had photos of her and handsome Professor Ramsteed both bombed, taking his name far too literally. She may yet view their release on YouTube as favourable advertising. I’d considered reporting the sordid details, but wasn’t sure who took advantage of whom.
“Chablis Getty! Please,” Bird grovelled.
The crowd divided as if Moses himself issued the command. Her family were richer than Zuckerberg and prime contributors of money to the school. Werner finally triumphed and Chad stretched in his boxers, sporting angry nicks and tape abrasions, gazing around with the keenness of a sloth. Werner wielded the scalpel in Mallory’s direction. She whimpered convincingly.
“Yes, Principal Bird?”
Shabby flicked champagne hair extensions, sponging every drop of extra attention, fluttering in knees socks and a blazer. I knew her intentions were dire when she smiled brightly at me. Staying away from the kitchen last night might have been prudent. Her perfume wafted the fruity undertone of rot and I tasted bile.
“Can you corroborate Miss Light’s whereabouts, Chablis?”
The doubt in the Principal’s tone spoke louder than any answer. A tiny blonde boy trembled across the divide, face pale and troubled. His name was Jaime. I’d met him early this morning. No amount of hassle for my current predicament matched what he’d suffered. I caught his eye and winked, hoping to project confidence. His chin raised a notch.
“Her story is...” Chablis gritted porcelain posts, never having elected to do the decent thing, unless there was a bribe or angle to be worked. I held my breath. “True. Ms Light was asleep in her bed. All night. We were both woken by the noise of trampling feet and shouting.” Surprisingly, Chablis gave a five star performance.
“How do you know?” Jenkins asked, backing his career path rather than that of detective. He wasn’t such a laser-beam counsellor either, ticket booth operator the only job where he’d not wreak emotional trauma. He could punch holes in paper, as opposed to people.
“Lately, she screams and gibbers in her sleep. I can hear her through my earplugs. Some rubbish about Raphaela and devils and strings and stench. Couple of other names…” She wore her thinking face, the same open-mouthed one she used to catch lobbed M&M’s. “Billie, I think?” She couldn’t help herself. “Is he hot?”
Laughter echoed and I fought a blush with no success. She lost a few stars. The putrid reek grew. Had someone forgotten the garbage?
“That’s quiet enough! Thank you, Chablis. Mr Jenkins, may I have a word?”
And then I heard it: that familiar voice from my nightmares, the tingle of fear up my spine, the lurch in my belly. “Who but the devil pulls our waking-strings! Abominations lure us to their side”. The night-time dread leached into the daylight, out in the open for all to see. I blinked back panic. Was he only in my head? Waves of stink accosted my nostrils. I glanced around and confirmed the worst. They all looked the same as every other occasion with slack-jaws and entitled sullenness. “Each day we take another step to hell, Descending through the stench, unhorrified…”
A translation from the poet Baudelaire. The Flowers of Evil. I’d seen poetry drive students mad, but not this literally. The Principal and Counsellor put their heads together, finally managing a whole serviceable brain. Their voices rang clear, above the student babble gaining volume. Two psychiatric symptoms too many: voices in my head and hallucinating the cess-pit. I imagined IV lock-down with concerned elderly faces looming to smother me in care.
“Those two were drugged when you found them?” Bird asked.
“Yes. My guess is ether. It’s fast acting, fades quickly and leaves no symptoms. Easily obtained and used.”
The side effects were vomiting and dizziness. Mrs Paget taught me this in home-school medicinal chemistry when I was seven. And I’d had to scale four storeys of the Science wing and prise a window open from outside to steal it. Technically, it was quite the challenge to obtain. But I was too distracted to correct him.
“I do not believe her story, Mr Jenkins.”
“Mallory’s accusations are wild, indeed. Ether excludes consciousness. She’d have no idea of her attacker.”
“Not Mallory,” Bird-brain squawked. “I’m certain Winsome has coerced Miss Getty. Is there some way we can swab her fingers or match the handwriting. Confirm her guilt? I recall a theft from the labs several months back.”
“Really, Ms Bird! Don’t you mean confirm her innocence? The thief remains at large. Have you seen Miss Light’s grades? Winsome is incapable of such sophisticated deception. Her diminutive size contradicts the physical ability to lug someone of Chad’s stature from his bed, onto a chair, into the lift and so on. What is the motive?”
“Yes, yes! So it seems. Nonetheless, I do not trust her. Her reputation speaks for itself, and not in kind words.”
“She is barely seventeen, certainly not the criminal mastermind you imply. She has been perfectly behaved since enrolling two years ago. We’re making rapid progress.”
“Aside from blackening Mallory’s eye in the laundry room. Your professional opinion notwithstanding, of course.”
“Do you doubt…”
I left the idiots to their measuring contest -- “your delusion of competence is bigger! No, it’s mine!”. His underestimation provided a better alibi than Chablis, but the relief was momentary. The cadaver smell so over-powered, my eyes watered. I struggled with a tenous grip on the surrounds.
Jenkin’s question about motive was the smartest ever to make the long journey from his solitary neuron to flapping gums. In contrast to the streaming dribble of our completely pointless sessions. He always missed the neediest students, as well as those demanding a straight-jacket or sedation, such as Mallory. I ignored the possibility we’d have to share a cell in the asylum. I suppose he deserved some charity, given his attempt to defend me. But I didn’t appreciate the suggestion I wasn’t capable of criminal masterminding, should I opt for it in future.
Bird and Jenkins yammered, missing the issue completely. The student collective hung around, watching me with unfriendly eyes. The smarter ones puzzled over how the Principal and Counsellor kept their careers. Meanwhile, I psychically clung to the peace of three a.m this morning, the best part of the day at A.E.A.
Parkour practice at that hour felt special, like tumbling in nothingness. The dark had an indigo tint, moonlight shafts through arched windows the blue of an Aussie summer sky. It strobed the faster I sprinted, transporting me briefly from this freezer. I often wished running away was so easy. Even though I’d only lived in Sydney on and off for six short years, it was my home and I missed it more than kindness or company.
The Academy didn’t come close, nested in an alp-bound castle. But steep stairwells, tangled passages, abandoned cellars, and convenient nooks and crannies made evading the Dorm Matron and her cronies patrolling like walkie-talkie clad Pac-men a snap. If only they’d performed their duties with a degree of care, we wouldn’t be in this pickle. I’d been running for an hour and decided on a snack as a reward, tearing ever downwards to approach the hotel-sized kitchen.
“Lift him higher, dick!”
“You keep calling me that and you can do it yourself, Mallory,” said a sulky male voice.
“Stop! Please. It’s so cold.”
Malignant Mallory and her sidekick the incredibly hot, incredibly dopey Chad dancing to their tempo of torment. I pushed through the swinging flaps, seeking a hiding spot. Weak light framed an ajar door at the furthest corner and not nearly far enough away. I’d used it as an escape and knew it lead outside to the garbage area: a bricked-in dead-end, unless cross-country skiing appealed.
It was impossible they’d be so homicidal to dump a kid in a waste-filled skip in the sub-zero snow. This seemed too large a departure from their usual mediocrity in imagination and violence. Anyone with a conscience and half a heart would have acted. Towering open-backed shelves offered no protection in the glow of LED’s. I tiptoed gormlessly about in the shadows, every step disrupting the quiet like a mortar blast.
“Hurry, we’ll get sprung!”
“Let me go!”
“He’s struggling. I can’t get his singlet off.”
“You cretin, Chad! Do you expect him to undress and jump in himself?”
Chad peppered a mumble with foul swearing: in this his vocabulary excelled. I snuck as close as I dared, squatting behind produce-filled bins -- an ordinary excuse for a cubby hole -- knocking potatoes free in the process. Spuds frolicked about like vegetables on a spree. I stole one of his tamer words.
“Did you hear that?”
My breath plumed the air. One of them, I could take. Two of them? A trial beyond my abilities.
“Shove and we’re outta’ here!”
The poor kid yelped, cries muffled as the lid moaned shut. They truly were spineless wretches and I was utterly exposed. Moments before the door swung inwards, I dived into an open bin of onions, crouching below the lip.
“I’m tellin’ you, Mal. There’s someone in here.”
“Bullshit, Chad! You need to stop watching Twilight. It’s giving you bad dreams,” she snorted. “Is the scary, sparkly fairy coming to make you his boyfriend?”
“Shut up, Mal!” Something bounced the linoleum. He must have kicked a potato, the torch-beam lancing my box. “See! Where’d that come from?”
“Oh, alright. We’ll search. But if we get caught, you kidnapped me and forced me to do it.”
Uh-Oh! I had nowhere to go and flattened on unstable tubers. Moving at all would trigger a crinkly avalanche. A Neanderthal shuffle hinted at Chad’s closeness. Please don’t see me, I begged silently. Please don’t see me! I squeezed my eyes shut, as his nuggetty head peered over the edge and the flashlight framed me in cowering brilliance. Through my lashes, he looked directly at me, a gleam of recognition. But the shade tugged shut and he moved away. Was he blind as well as witless? They rustled around and gave up.
“Told you! Let’s get out of here.”
Their voices faded and my intelligence re-emerged, such proximity a grey matter sink hole. There was no explanation for my stay of execution. Chad had been stoned the day they gave out mercy and missed his quota. If he’d seen me, I was bloody sludge beneath his Vans. So… He must not have seen me? Strange. His mother -- or the thing that laid his egg -- may need to get those eyes checked.
I rescued Jaime from his fate as a popsicle for rodents, waited while he showered, and got him back to bed. I’d teach him to fight, buy him some mace for the time being. I could have left it at that. Should have. But anger got the better of me. The cowards! I really wanted them to hurt for what they’d done. No, not merely hurt. It wasn’t enough. They had to feel the humiliation, the vulnerability every time you passed where they’d bundled you up, the shame of the memories, and the insecurity ever after of worrying when it would happen again. No one had the right to do that to a person, to undermine their safety and happiness by inflicting their own misery and inadequacy on others.
If I examined the ethics of my actions, I was no better than them. Just a smarter, more cunning bully. There was no honour in teasing the chimps at the zoo. But Jaime was small, scared, and alone. Maybe I identified, I’d been him once. Anyway, I owed Mallory for encouraging me into an industrial washer soon after I started here. Most inconvenient, as I’d already showered. Her Supreme Snarkiness sidled over, face a pinched-lip blend of disgust and lost opportunity like when you open the carton, rather than checking the date, and take a huge whiff of two-month old milk turned to cottage cheese.
“The issue is by no means resolved, Miss Light.”
Apparently no other student fit the bill as a suspect, the rest of the school dismissed for classes. Nearby, Shabby comforted malcontent Mallory free from hassle by irritating Counsellors or vindictive Principals. In slight consolation, fabulous welts covered her arms.
“My skin’s sensitive! I’m having a reaction to the tape,” she whined.
If honesty ruled, my biggest regret was not stripping them naked and parking them on the driveway. I so wanted to say “if you can’t stand the heat, get out of the kitchen!”. The sermon droned and I tried to look engaged. That awful odour receded, offering the convenient rationalisation it was ether contamination, not impending psychosis.
“I shall leave no locker, bathroom cabinet, sports bag or dresser drawer unchecked in my quest to punish the culprit. Rest assured, Miss Light, I will discover the facts!”
The Principal didn’t get the chance to crank-up the siren. Screeched hysteria announced Mallory up-chucked on Chablis’ shiny new shoes. Chad would hopefully soon follow through. It made everything worthwhile, if only for a second.
“Winsome Light!”
My name sure copped a work-out today. An intimidating man in black commando pants and a tight t-shirt barged into the dining hall, unmindful of snowflakes steaming his form. Werner trotted after him, objecting loudly. He reminded of a toothless, yapping terrier.
“It’s alright, Mr Werner. I am familiar with Mr Hugo,” said Bird.
Since when? If the guy was a mountain, he’d answer to Everest, his voice a Harley rumble, his attitude take-no-nonsense. He scowled down at me, bringing an entirely new sort of trouble. He’d materialised to take me home, but that old phrase “be careful what you wish for” never lost merit.
***
Chapter Four
“Have you recently consumed salted peanuts, Winsome?”
Damn! I should have had a mint, although sweets were just as incriminating. I took a quelling breath.
“Yes, Aunt Bea.”
“In the G5?”
“Correct.”
“Salted peanuts in my jet!” she huffed, grasping the pearls about her throat. I think she wore them when she slept. “All that dreadful sodium chloride.”
I’d smuggled the nuts -- a crime against good nutrition -- onboard from the private airport lounge in Vienna. It wasn’t the babysitter’s fault I’d taught myself pick-pocketing. I was spectacular at hiding things. If only I could make a career out of it, aside from as a drug mule. Why, oh why, did I not eat them straight away?
Bea leaned forward to rap on the window separating us from the limousine driver, as we sped from the airport. Her auburn bob swished with determination. In front, the Sydney skyline glittered in its evening coat. I couldn’t wait to get home to the cats, our warehouse, and the freedom of my new moped. Six months away was far too long.
The chauffeur happened to be the very same walking boulder possessive of acres of muscular flesh, who escorted me from A.E.A thirty hours previous, encouraging a trail of drooling girls through the foyer. Bird was absent for my departure, her farewell gift. She couldn’t have given me a better one.
Hugo wore his straw hair jar-head style, a single bulging bicep harder and thicker than Jenkins’ skull. I wasn’t allowed to pack more than my iPod, books and a change of summer clothes. My possessions would be sent on. The weird haste dampened the aura of excitement. I was leaving, never to return. No-one bothered to share the reason.
“Is that hunk Billie? What is he doing with you?” Chablis hissed, after dousing herself in perfume to block the reek of chunder. There was not fragrance in a hothouse to disguise her spleen. I sneezed.
“We’re eloping to Mauritius. He’s not a big talker, but he’s great with his tongue.” I winked suggestively and started to flounce from the foyer.
“Wait!” Jaime barrelled down the stairs, camera in hand. He offered it to Chablis. “Please, take a photo of us?”
My ex-roomy hesitated, until I glowered. “Do something for me, and those files will disappear. You ought to report the dirty old perve.”
“Fine!” She snatched the camera and prepared for the shot. “It’s broken. The screen’s black.”
“Nah!” Jaime maintained. “It worked this morning.”
I’d taken a couple of excellent shots of Mallory and Chad for him to upload on the Net. Shabby frowned and pointed the camera about.
“That’s bizarre! I’ll try my phone.”
Jaime peeked up at me. “You’re really, really pretty in the day.”
“Well, thank you.”
He beamed and took my hand. My Judas face flamed. I envied people who managed to navigate life without so much as a pale flush at a nudist camp. Mention the slightest embarrassing thing, and my cheeks could guide Santa’s reindeer through the bleakest North Pole winter.
“I’ll send you and your friends some stuff. Sign up for mixed martial arts. Practice hard, Jaime. Kick their sorry arses.”
He nodded enthusiastically. “Are you coming back, Winsome?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Err, not going to be able to take any photos today, people. You’re totally unphotogenic. Bad Light! The screens go black whenever I point it at you.” Chablis broke up at her own joke. It had been the oddest day.
The ink-tint glass rolled down. “Yes, Ma’am?”
Replacing the ‘o’ from his name with an ‘e’ vaguely estimated Hugo’s measurements. The same number of vowels captured our conversation across non-stop travel. We’d forged an intimate bond based on irritation. He loathed questions as much as I loathed not getting answers. This transcontinental yank made me edgy. And he was the only stranger I’d ever seen in Bea’s inner sanctum. Let alone permitted anywhere near me without microscopic supervision.
“I made it explicit Winsome was to snack on miso and dried fruit. As her personal body guard, under no circumstances were you to leave her. My grand niece has chowed-down on contraband in your presence against my instruction. Alternatively, Winsome snuck them in your absence. Please enlighten the circumstances precipitating this appalling dereliction of duty, in either case.”
Ordinarily, I’d enjoy witnessing a million kilo guy with a dagger tattoo on his neck and fists as registered weapons crumple under the cool dismemberment of my Aunt. Over nuts, of all things. Hilarious! However, something she’d mentioned took my complete attention.
“Body guard?”
“Turbulence, Ma’am. We encountered windshear conditions and the pilot called for my aid in flying the jet.”
“Personal body guard!”
“Hmm.” She settled back into buttery leather and steepled her fingers, tapping them in a mini Mexican wave. I was fluent in this tormenting sign language. Aunt Bea teetered on demoting him to the septic-tank scrubber at a curry convention or exile in Patagonia.
“I brought the nuts onto the flight and ate them. Hugo kept us aloft instead of swimming home. He doesn’t deserve to be punished.”
His eyes flickered to me in the rear-view mirror. It topped our list of meaningful exchanges. The engagement would be a while coming.
“I see,” she relaxed and smiled. Her teeth were small and blindingly white in the murk of the backseat. She squeezed my hand. “We shall overlook it, just this once. I’m sure a repeat lecture on the hazards of excess salt is uncalled for.”
There were other pressing concerns. “Um, did you say personal body guard? As in my personal body guard?”
“We are expecting an extremely important guest in the coming days, Winnie. A body guard for you is simply a precaution. We intend to leave nothing to chance.”
I almost choked on those guilty nuts. The whole thing made no sense. Why should this guest challenge my safety? And imagine the spectacle of tracking about with a gorilla in dark glasses, reporting my position via a wrist communicator and roughing-up anyone glancing at me sideways. Every boy within a fifty-metre radius would sprint in the opposite direction.
“Ohhh, but Aunt Bea! Where will I put him when I’m in public?”
“Really, Winsome! That tone befits a two-year-old. Now, enlighten me about your year. Leave out no detail.”
She kept me distracted with probing questions. I told Bea about Jaime, Principal Bird’s spot-on accusations and the Ramsteed affair. I even shared my cat-burglary of the ether.
“Although I do not endorse thievery, I understand the motive. I apologise unreservedly for enrolling you at that den of iniquity,” she humphed, her slim shoulders squared in indignation. “Imbeciles!”
Heads would soon roll at the Albert Einstein Academy. Compared with my subtle yet infinitely more powerful Great Aunt, the Gettys’ reach was short. It was just deserts, but I felt slightly ashamed for setting my Alsatian on them. Still at a distance from the city, we pulled over to the curb in a long, murky tunnel. Parked in a row before us were two other limousines, identical to ours, and Bea’s silver Bentley GT Continental.
“Winsome, you will continue the journey in the Bentley with Hugo.”
What in the CIA, witness protection programme, conspiracy theory was going on? “I’m not budging until you tell me what this is about! Who’s coming to stay? The Queen?”
Bea was already out of the car and heading towards Mrs Paget and Fortescue for a brief chat. I attempted pursuit, simultaneously thrilled to see them and mortified, when Hugo blocked progress. He planted his hands on his hips and raised eyebrows in challenge. Where had he come from? The man was a ballerina in Goliath’s body. I remained trapped in the car.
“You wouldn’t!”
His jaw set, highlighting the manly dimple in his chin. “Don’t make me,” he threatened in his finest deep Mufasa. No doubt, manhandling would occur if I caused a ruckus.
“You’ve got to be kidding!” I was stuck in a Coen brother’s farce.
Mrs Paget grinned and waved, her puff of white hair and plain shift masking a wiry, eighty-year-old ball of energy, before she drove off into the night, the first of the posse. Hugo whisked me so rapidly to the Bentley, if I was egg whites I’d be stiff and fluffy. To add to the humiliation, he made me sit in front. Apparently, he’d taken Bea seriously. We were the last to leave after half an hour.
Then came another half an hour tooling around in stony silence, checking for mystery tails. Surely this was ridiculous? I was too grumpy to lap up the scenery, hunching in for a mope over likely explanations. I’d been through many scenarios for the hostage rescue, and now the illogical paranoia, none of them easing anxiety.
There was absolutely no point asking Bea. A crow-bar couldn’t prise her lips apart until she deigned to open them. She wouldn’t yield under interrogation by the old KGB. My head drooped. Vibrating glass massaged my forehead, wheels thrumming the verge.
“Where are you?”
The woman laughed, running down stairs from the back porch of a large, elegant mansion. Simple cream pants and a singlet adorned her lithe body, long mahogany hair pulled up in a messy bun. Her amber eyes sparkled with mischief. She was very beautiful. A solid wall of tall, moss-draped trees circled the house in lined soldiers, a thick lawn running down to wetlands and a wooden jetty. A vegetable garden, fruit trees and herbs quilted a sizeable area, chooks clucking somewhere to a chorus of trilling frogs. The woman’s land flourished green and abundant, the morning light golden. Her hair shone in the sun; the perfect moment captured from a gentle Southern romance.
She halted on the plush grass, bare feet sinking. Her smile faltered as silence chopped the air like a fallen axe, expression morphing to fear. She lifted two fingers and blew a short, sharp whistle. Wings whooshed and a Peregrine Falcon plunged from the sky, alighting on her upraised forearm.
“Find him for me, Poe!” she urged.
The powerful bird bulleted skyward, the perspective changing to reveal the house from above, obsidian water glistening in patches through the thick canopy. A stone fence the proportion of the Great Wall bordered the cultivated part of the property in a semi-circle to the swamp. Egrets and fowl took flight in panic, bigger, less harmless creatures splashing the sucking depths.
The falcon searched the ground in widening arcs, eventually showing thinned vegetation and a scrawny dirt track leading from the woman and her fortress home. A fat hedge marked the end of her land. A man stood one side of it, still within her boundaries. He was tall and somehow noble, even at a distance, his longish dark hair whispering in a slight breeze.
“Stay this side of the line! Please,” the woman pleaded, seeing through her bird’s sharp eyes.
From the other side, came frenzied shouts. Poe floated overhead in time to sight a boy in coveralls towed by the current, his fishing gear abandoned on the bank of a fast flowing stream. He popped up, slapping the surface and gagging. His friend clambered the ridge waving frantically, jerking a branch to the shore. But his efforts weren’t fast enough and the struggling boy submerged again, this time for longer. The man paced the perimeter, clearly battling a decision.
“Please, please. Keep in the line!”
The boy came up gurgling, his flailing arms limp with fatigue. The man paused, and then thrust through the hedge, stripping off his shirt while moving in swift, long strides down the embankment. Powerful muscles flexed beneath bronzed skin in the light, his movements sleeker than a hunting jaguar. The woman dropped to her knees and sobbed, both hands cradling her belly.
“No! No. What have you done! We are damned.”
He dived in, emerging with the boy moments later, sculling to the edge and hefting them up by tree roots. He hastily checked the boy survived, deserting him to the care of his friend.
“Poe! Get Billie,” she groaned. “We must prepare. The Witch comes!”
A tortured cry ripped from the man, a sound to rend the heart. He bolted away from the woman through the scrub with more grace and speed than humanly possible.
“Sorry” echoed his footfalls. “I love you, Raphaela.” I had heard him before, paraphrasing Baudelaire.
I gasped to consciousness, spit on my chin and an anvil in my chest. I scrubbed my tired eyes and wondered if jetlag caused such vivid dreams. But then, I hadn’t been flight-weary at school. Hugo observed me through narrowed lids, brow creased. Headlights briefly illuminated the pitch corners of the basement garage.
“You are home, Winnie.” It was the first time he’d addressed me personally, the care in his words more disconcerting than anything else.
***
Chapter Five
Our warehouse had no designated parking, so we hired spaces in an underground carpark a short walk away, shared by our only neighbour, Judge Smith. It was not Fortescue’s British racing green Mini with white stripes or my beloved custard yellow Vespa that captured my focus as we alighted the Bentley, my limbs rubbery with travel. Exhaustion nibbled and I would not stay awake for long, the vision of my bed a gathering obsession. A normal, acceptable vision of a normal, acceptable object.
It was the hulking black custom-built Ducati 696 Monster lurking in the gloom opposite. My pulse spiked. So the Judge’s son, Vegas, was in tonight. Unless he was too drunk to ride and opted to be responsible by taking a cab. Although, responsibility and Vegas were mutually exclusive. I beat the curiosity away. We were no longer on speaking terms and I refused to waste a moment more on him. I’d already wasted an excess.
“Quit dawdling!”
I was too fatigued to argue and permitted the indignity of Hugo’s arm firmly around my waist as he hustled me up the ramp into the warm embrace of a summer night in Sydney, the crisp ocean tang of the nearby Harbour proof I was finally home. I had no chance to appreciate it. He whipped us furiously along the alleyway. We reached the recessed entrance to the warehouse and Hugo thrust his face up to the discreet video, which surveyed his face and triggered the eye scanner.
“Is there an emergency?” I asked, a little breathless. The thick steel door clicked open.
“No talking! Straight to your room.”
“What are you? My nanny? And you actually have access to our house?” This enigma topped them all. He was the first. Ever!
We vaulted inside and he abruptly stilled us on the landing. Hugo turned to face me, cocking his head, hands lightly on my shoulders. My spine zinged. The door sealed with finality. Would he enlighten me about all the rushing and madness? He grinned, a ferocious expression, and I took a couple steps back.
“I am not your nanny or your nursemaid or your fiancé eloping to Mauritius. I owe a blood debt to your benefactors. A life for a life. I am your assassin. If necessary, your mortal shield,” he chuckled, a resonant, menacing sound. “My job is to give my life for you, should it come to that. I have permission to do anything and everything it takes. Satisfied, Winsome? Have you other questions or topics for debate?”
What a prankster! I readjusted my hanging jaw and gulped, shaking my head. “To my room, then.”
“I thought so.”
I barely registered progress through the vast collection hall, ascending the stairs to the rectangular mezzanine from which, our private apartments and communal living areas lead. This was not the gleeful arrival I’d fantasised about. Until my room. Two humongous blurs galloped forwards yowling with joy. They knocked me flat. Bea’s hunting cats, Vovo and Cherish. This was more like it!
“Puddy tatts!”
We tussled with a flurry of steel-brush tongues licking, batting paws the size of hubcaps and purring, as I scrubbed their broad heads. These were no ordinary felines, some extremely rare breed Bea imported to take care of the rodents common in our old building. My least tolerable phobia -- I simply could not stand rats.
But Vovo and Cherish were more than adequate for the task, overkill actually. The size of tigers with wise yellow eyes and black silky pelts. Their claws could easily disembowel a wild boar. They were my most consistent, adored, playful childhood friends.
“Okay, kitties. Let me up.”
I sat and felt Hugo’s presence behind me in the doorway. My ass… Oh! I could not say it. It was simply too silly. The cruel bastard messed with my already muddled head. Cherish bared teeth. Vovo hissed, the fur at her neck rigid.
“I agree!” I decided not to believe anything and everything he said.
I surveyed the cream and chocolate extravagance of my room, a magazine perfect space minus the blight of Chablis. No more dorms that smelled of wet wool, desperation and other people’s feet. No more evading the barracudas cruising the halls in search of bait. No more Mallory and Chad and their pet vulture, Bird. As I roved appreciatively over bowls of fresh flowers celebrating my arrival and designer bags and shoeboxes lining one long wall, my eyes seized.
“No way!” A made-up cot was tucked in a corner. “I absolutely draw the line. I don’t care if you’re a Terminator. You are not sleeping in here! With me.”
This time, Hugo guffawed. I craned up at him, jiggling shoulders the span of the Harbour Bridge fuelling my ire. Despite his black camo’s and spit-shined combat boots, a military knife strapped at this thigh and a sizeable gun holstered on his hip, no matter what he said, he just didn’t scare me.
“This will be fun. Like a sleepover. I’ll let you paint my toenails. We can do the quizzes in the Cosmopolitan.” He laughed until tears stained his cheeks.
“Bea!” I bawled at the top of my lungs. “Beeaaaa!”
“Honestly, Winsome. You are behaving like an infant. This is temporary. I promise,” she said quietly at my back. “The gun will be stored in a lock box, if that is your concern.”
Where did my concerns even begin to begin! Perhaps Bea worried if she left a loaded gun closeby I might shoot him. It was a fair observation. As her promises were probably equal to her openness, I gave up.
“Unless the courtesy of an explanation is forthcoming, I’m going to bed.” I would formulate a counter tactic in the morning.
I startled awake to muffled city sounds and the motorised whine of the blinds. The brightness blasted my lids a throbbing red. Soon, the spotlight would be at full glare. I feared for my retinas. It could have been the first night in forever I’d slept without rousing. Yet it wasn’t restful; like toppling through an endless abyss where escape was an illusion. I flung an arm across my face and wormed beneath deluxe Egyptian cotton.
“Ahh, you’re awake, Winsome. Excellent!”
“Things must be real slow if that’s how you define excellent.”
I added a pillow to my sheet-bound womb. A teacup tinkled against silverware and I caught a waft of strawberries.
“Now, now, Mistress Winsome. Carpe diem and all that! We have a full programme to get through, not the least of which is properly welcoming you home.” Fortescue bustled around noisily, tidying non-existent mess.
“A proper welcome home would be sleep,” I mumbled, jittery and out of sorts. “Or information.”
There’d been hardly a chance to earn the fuss with my clutter, the rustling and banging aimed at getting me up. My conduct was unforgivably crappy. I should bound out of bed to hug him in greeting, even if the return stiff arm-lock rivalled the speed of a nerve impulse. He ignored the unpleasantness, the professional cheer unwavering.
“I have a full range of summer-wear for your perusal. Winter woollens will render an unseemly broiled look. Shall I take the liberty of laying something out, Mistress Winsome?”
“Fortescue,” I muttered. “Has anyone ever mentioned you’re far too energetic for an old geezer?” It was time to surface, rebreathing morning breath not high on any list.
“Why no, but I’d consider it quite the compliment. Old aside. I see your fondness for the Australian colloquial has reached rock bottom.”
My vocabulary was a topic to ignore with a studiousness rarely applied to homework. Along with the subject of nutrition, unless it was so organic it originated steaming fresh from the compost heap and tasted as appealing. I sat up, my hair probably resembling that of an electrocuted yeti, and groaned on sighting the garment bags draped over his arm. Fortescue busied himself hanging them in my wardrobe. At least, Hugo was nowhere to be seen. I guessed he was off polishing his pistol.
“Please. Tell me that is not eveningwear.”
“Of course it is. Judge Smith is holding an art showing tonight at his penthouse. You will attend with your Aunt, chaperoned by Hugo. Your breakfast is served, Mistress Winsome. Your presence is required at 9.30 in the kitchen. I shall lay out casual attire for you, as appropriate.”
“Thanks! I really can’t understand how I managed to avoid nudity without your assistance at boarding school.”
“Oh, dear. Sarcasm, the province of the intellectually stifled. It is beneath you.”
“Yes, well, stifled province aside. Please, for the love of all that’s normal cease with the ‘Mistress’. I might be tempted to slip into black leather with spikes and purchase a knotted whip. And Fortescue?”
“Yes, Mistress Winsome?”