Chapter two

A chapter where Time stands still.

Like the water on a lake, so still yet full of undercurrents. Something is bound to happen. Like in a train, the scenery starts changing. Less fields, more houses. The train's speed has not changed but something feels different. And it strikes; the sky turns grey, the sun is dimmer and the smell is … unwholesome. A few seconds ago, life was good, natural. Now you are in Hell. They call it industrialisation. Civilisation.

I say many have lost their souls in this new world. Some civilized men behave like they were cavemen!

I had to make a choice; I was to make a choice. I knew what I was going to lose. What would my gain be? If ever there was something to win… which I doubted. Which I doubt.

As we were, we were both damned by our reciprocal conditions; each of said conditions irrelevant of our own inner better feelings.

The situation was getting more and more tense. Something had got to give; something would snap…

…

May … 12th and the following days? Or should I write May 11th after…

Dear Diary,

I can't believe it. You cannot believe it and nobody will ever believe it. Dear Uncle Septimus would lock me away and throw the key as for Aunt Mattie; she would be preparing one of her soothing herbal teas. Nobody will believe me but it is true and it has happened.

After… after Colonel Yorke… I mean… Is he a colonel? For real? He looks the part and there is something in his attitude which vouches for it. This man was once a soldier and is used to be obeyed. The question is when? I mean when was he a soldier? For real.

Another question is: am I supposed to obey him? To this question: the answer is no. He is not my employer. Just a chance meeting. He has killed Sir M; now we are both running from … From whom?

I have nothing to fear. I am innocent from the onslaught on poor Lady H's house. He is running and he has contrived to get me running with him. The injustice of it!

Mr Yorke has decided he was not going to kill me. He was not sure. Initially. But he says he has made up his mind. I will do.

I will do? I will do what? I will do what must be done and I will not 'do' at his bidding!

When he decided to take me back to the house because he would be damned to be seen with me! Because I was hell-bent to carry on exposing myself to the neighbourhood?

As you know, we were both outside Sir Marmaduke's house. Standing on Sir Marmaduke's lawn. Mercifully the gardeners had left. It saved their lives.

The man who was holding me was… I am not really sure how to call his… kind? Well, he was looking like you and me. Not like me. Or you. Except you are a book. You, my imaginary reader,

He was looking totally human except I knew better. I had witnessed earlier on how he could … do things … to people and people's necks. He and his friends had fallen like… like locusts on an innocent field. One of the accursed flying creatures had left. Never to be seen again hopefully. But this man, the man in command had stayed on and found me. And I was all too conscious he was holding me while I was exposing most improperly my legs and my … shame.

At least I had my stripped cotton blouse on and a smart if demure black knotted handkerchief around the neck. And I had my best boots on! Though the lower parts of my corset were showing, a petticoat was covering … what is joining the legs to the abd… the upper body. As for my legs, he could only see but a few inches of my white … my white stockings with pink stripes. I had to protect my virtue! The long unmentionables and the absence of display matching my stern mien. Nothing could be misconstrued. Nothing amiss. Except for my skirt and my crinoline all ripped off and me standing in his arms. A decent, well-mannered young lady. Not a woman of loose morals.

I tried to regain my composure and push him away from me. It was disgraceful. Bad enough for me to be seen in my … underwear. Really, he should have known better. And known better than lick my cheek. This was uncalled for and unjustified.

I can appreciate that a man ghoul can be attracted to people's necks in a non- offensive way … still…Still it is offensive to kill people and drink their blood.

But lick an innocent maid. Like she was some… Italian sherbet offered to … by the seaside!

I know it is. Offensive, I mean. Offensive for any human to have parts of your neck bitten, chewed, swallowed, missing, eaten and drunk at. But as offensive at it is, it is a lot less offensive than having your neck licked at by a man, ghoul or no ghoul. I was starting to wonder if he had not be turned into a statue as he was … doing this repulsive thing with his … tongue … on my cheek and now my neck when he reluctantly let me go.

Dear reader, I ran for dear life. I never ever ran so quickly in my life. I think I ran faster than Miss Sophia's mare. For the first time of my life, I discovered it was easy to run when one is not encumbered by a stately crinoline. I was free, my legs were free. It was …exhilarating. I have never; I had never felt so free. The wind was passing between my legs. It was weird. Nice and so naughty. Liberated.

Silly me. I was not free, nor liberated. I was thinking I was free when a sharp pull brought me back to my senses. My freedom must have lasted just a few seconds.

Ladies apparently do not run as fast as gentlemen even when their … even when they lose the appropriate sense of modesty befitting any female. Even more so any female in need of employment.

In need of employment as I was quite certain that Sir Marmaduke was now dead as in proper dead. As for Lady H, I feared the worse for her. If she had been alive, her voice was quite recognizable, quite high pitched. I had not heard her calling for help.

The man ghoul was holding my arm and was making him clear that I was not supposed to run in that wanton fashion. I lowered my head in shame. To be reminded by a man ghoul that I was totally lost to my senses was the nadir of that horrible day. The creature led me to the main door.

The front door. The door for guests not for servants. Like me. It was quite odd to enter the house by this entrance. It was odder when I faced what a household meets vampires on a feeding spree.

There was blood all over. I mean it all over. And strewn bodies. Burton was dead, Sir Marmaduke was dead. The creature was looking at me, waiting for I suppose a shriek, a shout. A display of female emotions, any emotion.

I am sorry; I do not do tears or shrieks. I am a cold hearted being. To have found dear Papa's brains scattered about when he had blown his head has been enough experience to learn that tears or yells do not change facts. Dear papa was dead because he had taken to merge his money with his bank and his customers 'earnings with his purse. We were facing ruin!

As for his death, I am the one who is left destitute and he is the one who is pitied.

No tears from me, Mister Ghoul. Colonel Ghoul if the red jacket lying on the centre table was to be believed.

I will never know why these monsters turned at our door steps. Why they came in, under what pretence. Mystery.

- "What shall I do with you?"

- "I was hoping you could write a reference. That I am for nothing in the death of my late employer…"

That was when he laughed. When he dared to laugh and when I slapped him. I was way too shocked to be worried about consequences. Retribution. What retribution? My employer was dead; the silence of the house did not bode well – at all- for the rest of the humans who had worked, toiled and been ordered about.

Not only I slapped him but proceeded to go upstairs to my room to pack whatever belongings, books and what-not's I could call mine. I would never be able to be paid now, wasn't it?

- "I have been known to order people crucified for less".

"And slayed probably. Or impaled? What else? You kill people. Big deal. The Corsican Ogre did kill… was responsible for the killing of thousands of soldiers. One can't but die once. For all your grand airs, you are nothing more than a typical man. All show and no bottom"

- "I could recruit you. I should recruit you. As a rule, I never recruit females"

He would have killed me on the spot but for the large marble top table standing between us.

It would not hurt. Not hurt a lot. It was going to hurt like Hell but he would be there at my side when I was going to wake up? He was not going to let me down.

…

Nobody was going to let her down because nobody was going to do anything to her. Anything about her. Thank you; she knew how to take care of herself very well. 'Dear Papa' had taught her that. Never rely on anybody. The only human being she could rely on was herself. Herself against the big bad world.

It seemed this little Miss was ready to accept my existence in her world as long as I refrained from tasting again this delicious skin. I was sated. Why did I carry on this discussion eluded me. Eludes me still now.

What was not eluding was the fact that the owner of the above mentioned pair of ankles and slim waist had a riot of ringlets of an unfashionable mousey brown and a charming nose. Plus a pair of blue eyes, stormy blue eyes and a smile I knew would be impish. If I could put my hands on said owner.

Any vampire can recruit. Since my own…. I had recruited selectively a few. Men. Females were… are to be tasted, cherished. Sampled and thrown away. Either they hurt you or you hurt them. Or they hurt you because you grieve them. My alter ego had no problem with the weak vessel; as for me I avoided said supposedly weaker sex. Because unlike my reflection, my absent reflection I was the one who was paying for the consequences for the mistakes. His and mine errors.

I could have cornered her in the torture room when the late Miss Anna … sorry Isabella had masterfully killed Mozart. The problem was that I had had to kill to atone for her crime against Music. Another problem was that her body was well in evidence as her mother's and the maid's who was serving tea.

While I was gently remonstrating the odious child, her tune-deaf mother and the servant; the noise had brought the nosy valet. Fergus took care of the interfering head servant. He also took care of the cook and the scullery maid while I signified to Sir Archduke… Marmaduke that his household was very poorly maintained. Really not quite the thing. And I would know!

After that, things got … confused. It always gets confused. It is like a red veil falls on me. Falls between me and my conscience. I am just hunger, blood lust. I am hungry. Always hungry and so thirsty. Oh so thirsty. It is a very curious thirst. More I drink and I do drink. A lot. More I need to drink, the thirstier I get. I could drink for England and be dehydrated. I have to drink. Just drink.

Fergus is like me, a good hearty companion. My faithful aide de camp. In theory because he is just a Bateman. We are not so fussy with titles, us the night people. I found the youngest of Sir What's his name hidden under an armoire. I pulled her out. Good lass. Unlike her sister, the child tried to knock me with her doll. I was going to be – for once – true to my words. I was not going to drink her. Fergus would. Once a gentleman, always a gentleman.

I locked the brat in a cellar and proceeded upstairs. Fergus was keeping himself busy; as for me I made sure any human was properly reminded of his inferior position. Subordinate. On the food chain scale, quite below me.

I was still thirsty. As I climbed the stairs, I noticed some strange black fur growing on my shirt. The silly owner had a fake moustache! Proud as peacock, I stood in front of a monumental mirror which was showing naturally nothing.

Isn't it weird? I leave something, anything in front of a mirror and not touch it. It shows. I seize it. It is gone. I was in a playful mood; I placed the hairy implement on my face. Why a fake moustache? Did His … Did Sir Thingy have a thing with facial hair? Did Lady Thingamuch have a... an obsession? Humans can be quite… weird, you know…

Fergus had properly set a meal for me. A young plump and juicy bird of the female variety. Since the French Revolution, it is hard to keep a good servant. A good servant must be rewarded. I sent him to visit the cellar and I proceeded with my lunch.

The maid was to be such a disappointment. Just noise and terror. Her blood was stale… So stale I lost any lingering appetite. Put me off food, really.

I removed the offending hair piece. My shirt, my soaked shirt must have been left in some room down below. What floor was that? Really an ostentatious house… So many servants, so many rooms…

A Shirt, I needed a shirt. Fergus knows his job. There were no humans, no pulses. No hearts, all too ready to share with me the cherished erythematous liquid treasure. I should say not exactly ready or happy to share. Tell me about a bottle happy to be emptied… I was looking for a shirt, a clean shirt and probably a clean pair of trousers when I heard a noise. It was coming from a room; a room I had to inspect. A room for some superior servant as it boasted of a bookshelf and the paraphernalia of millinery was suggesting a female with refined taste.

Typical of my recent run of bad luck. Losing bets on dogs can happen; losing bets on humans is rare but losing bets on humans and on dogs! I can accept humans killing once and a while dogs, I know dogs kill humans more than once. But a human able to kill a werewolf while said werewolf is ripping the human's head is unheard off. I paid my dues as a gentleman. None the less I was fuming. The humans'meal was deserved!

By now, somewhere in this dismal house, a corpse was all that was left of an enticing maid, nurse, dresser… I was all too willing to do the dishonourable thing and there was nobody left to dishonour. Lady Luck…Cruel Lady….

The window was wide open. On the floor, a red dress or skirt and a white petticoat. A young lady's straw bonnet and an umbrella to protect a delicate skin from the injuries of the sun. Quite sad… Life was sad and I was a sad man with a sad secret… I needed fresh air to avoid a fit of doldrums.

I certainly avoided doldrums because as soon as my head was outside, I smelled her scent. Her human scent. For the pulse, I had already heard it beating furiously fast. Deliciously fast. For her scent, she smelled of … lavender and … forget me not's. I would never forget her.

How could I forget her? It is not every day a vampire is welcomed by such a charming sight. As why as she had felt obliged to remove her dress to climb outside the window, I could not figure out. Females surely can sit with crinolines. In my young days, they could dance a Volta with their farthingale on.

To try and kiss them with that wide lace ruff around their neck required some quick thinking. Life for a vampire was not easy; life for an amorous vampire was far less easy. To get to your prey, you had to remove layer after layer: gown, then a kirtle. Her parlet then her bum roll, the corset above said famous farthingale. A flurry of petticoats and finally her chemise, camisole and at long last her sheath. You were thirsty from sheer expectation!

Another cumbersome invention was the grand pannier. Apologies. Other cumbersome inventions were the grand panniers. Plural. No wonder you ended up babbling. Try and leap to an inviting neck when said misbegotten panniers get in the way. Why women must but worship the most hideous fashions… Like the Venetian Signorinas on platforms breaking their ankles. On the plus side, your prey was ready to be picked up as she was fallen on the floor. Nowadays, crinolines. Or in my case, a lady without crinoline. All the better.

My prey, my adorable prey had a trim pair of ankles, good looking calves. A nice wait and the shade of iris I always fall for. Plus she was already half undressed for the kill.

I tried everything to get her back, close to me, my hungry hands and hungrier fangs.

The damsel might have been in distress; the damsel was happy to stay in the grapevine, like some woodland nymph. I reminded her of her state of missing garments. She would not oblige. She even dared to call me drunk. I had to do something.

Fergus turned in. Fergus was not needed. Fergus was sent away. I was not to share my own hunt. I did not need a compliant servant. I wanted a willing victim.

If Mahomet does not go to the mountain, the crinoline goes to the maid. Brought to you, courtesy of well-mannered, poised me. Come here, juicy bird. Come here, little lady. I like your legs; we do not want the gardener to have a peak at them, do we? Come here and if you do not come, I will come and get you.

All right, I got to her. Grasped her left hand. The little darling tried to move away. Dear, I have been climbing trees before your great grandfather was born. In an instant I was standing behind her, letting her hand down, yet securing her waist and getting a direct view on that enticing neck when Nature betrayed me. Us.

Thus Jack and Jill went tumbling down the hill or the wisteria. Trying to avoid a broken neck by holding to whatever was offering help. A petticoat comes to mind. After that, I just remember an adorable pout, a skin soft and creamy and …

…

He wanted to kill me; but for some reason did not want me to find asylum in the music room. He leaped over the table, but I was quick and hid behind the atlantes which were supporting the balcony overlooking the hall entrance.

We danced around the statues. The absence of skirt making the monster's victory not so certain. For once or rather again, it was clear that not wearing my dress was preventing the ghoul to get hold of me. I had less volume!

If only I could grab a weapon, any weapon… An umbrella. Yes an umbrella. My poor Lady H would forgive me. I had to protect the household or what was left of it. I would never submit to the odious tyranny of these disgusting fangs… I would never become one of his hellish cronies. Jane Eyre was not going to be eaten. Jane Eyre was not going to become a … a malia…a lamia.

Why, dear God, did he have to look at me with these soulful eyes and then switch to those soulless dark orbs?

We turned around the statue; I darted for the umbrella box. He ran after me. I jumped over Burton and pushed the corpse's leg with my foot. He fell. I grabbed the umbrella, he grabbed my ankle. I turned around at the risk of having my stays breaking their bones and fell also on the floor, the monster above me. The marble was cold. Like a tomb. The monster was ready to leap on my neck when he realized something pointy was strategically placed in the way. Something lost in a mist of white foamy Chantilly lace. Charming yet pointy none the less.

Not a stake. Sir Archibald and Lady H lived in a benighted world where servants kept to themselves, young ladies feared sun rays and dead men stayed dead. To protect their progeny's fair skin, umbrellas were essential. Too bad if the end of said delicious implement ended up by a very slim elegantly carved pointy piece of wood.

…

Weighing the odds of the umbrella maker to have used only wood or used a metallic iron to reinforce the woods. In which case: was it still technically a stake? I had to calculate the odds of said altered stake to be a stake or not. To be or not to be. In which case should I try to or not? Nibble or not nibble … To nip or not to nip.

The bard had answered the question: much ado about nothing.

…

He leapt and remembered that poetic license is allowed to poets. Only to poets. The sticky end of the umbrella entered his chest and it hurt. A lot. Like Hell. He froze and fell backward as a desperate hand was pushing away to save her life, saving his life at the same time. The bard would have enjoyed the irony.

The wound was not deep but it was painful and he was bleeding. It must have avoided the heart and falling backward had avoided the phenomenon of combustion. Beware of Greeks and beware of maidens showing their ankles… The blood loss was making him delirious and he was already drunk.

- "Oh my God, what have you done? Stupid… stupid man. How am I to stop that bleed".

God, she was now worried about his health.

- "You could start pressing some dressings. You ladies are quite going at pressing gauzes, dressings and all sorts of bandages on us poor soldiers. Miss Nightingale was all for cleaning up wounds and being in general a fucking nuisance!"

"A gentleman never swears in the presence of a lady. I suppose this rule does not apply to ghouls. Men ghouls… I pity your ladies… Ladies ghouls?"

Ghouls or no ghouls, his manners were most appalling.

- "Vampires. Vampires, not ghouls. Thank you. Ghouls have decrepit rotting corpses. They cannot talk because their throat is … soupy. They recruit and the result will look like them. Vampires are vastly superior to ghouls".

Painfully, he tried to sit upright far from the umbrella the young madam had kept in her hand.

This was complacency for you. Complacency. Feeling smug and superior. Mr Snow would say he was not ready… yet, even if Jacob and Wyndham vouched for him. Stupid bets, stupid Sir … Sir whose stupid daughter could not even play a single decent piano note and stupid, stupid girl whose skin was so, so sweet and whose charms hid the venom of a … of a …

…

Later much later, as he realized his back was aching like he had been beaten by some harsh board, he would learn that she had dragged his body up to the library. Propelled a few pillows under his head. Run upstairs to her mistress… Sorry her employer. She was not a servant. She was a hired governess. She had no mistress but herself.

Her employer's boudoir to snatch some smelling salts and a bottle of fine whisky from the billiard room to rush back to the room where he was coming in and out of consciousness. He had been very lucky. If she had not pushed him back, the stake was going to enter properly his chest and as properly dispatch him to a very warm place he did not contemplate to visit. Yet.

What brought him back was a vile smell of rotten …Rotten eggs. He knew that smell. London or Gdansk? What… what? What was he doing here? He has a blinding headache but he was not drunk. No more drunk and he was in a house he knew nothing about. The evening had come and … his chest was hurting. His shirt, his regimentals, all was gone but his trousers and the braces. His chest was wrapped in a tight bandage. Had the wound…? The lance wound sustained at Orsha… was it open again? He was as weak as a baby.

His fangs appeared on command. He was alive, still alive. A live vampire who had almost become a very proper dead vampire. He must have lost quite some blood as he was feeling still quite dizzy and a pulse was walking toward him. He needed blood to recover quickly and this pulse was going to give him the life he needed. The life he wanted. The life his body was not prepared, yet, to kill. His body, his young buffed body was not ready to stand up. As for leaping, he might as well wish to ride over a fence. The bruising rider was as weak as an infant.

The pulse was standing in front of the door. Like steadying something. The door opened and the human came in. Backward. The human staker.

"I am sorry. I apologize for the lack of refreshments. I cannot find where the key for the tea caddy box is hidden. We shall have to make do with the servants' fare. My employers may be dead but we shall not use the Blue Worchester. As for the sandwiches, the absence of Cook made it somehow difficult to obtain satisfactory ones. You will have to forgive the asymmetry of the spread."

"You tried to kill me because I wanted to feed from you. … And … you are presenting a tray laden for supper? You are supposed to be the main course!"

"Sugar? Cream?"

The pair of ankles was not to be seen. How long had his loss of conscience lasted? Long enough for her to slip on a few… way too many petticoats to prevent the dress to cling to her body. A few minutes ago, he had wanted to get her dressed. Now he wanted to undress her all the more.

"Why did you stay?"

"I have to explain to the police… Stop. I have the umbrella! As I was saying, tomorrow when the daily washerwomen come, I shall call for the constabulary and…"

"… and be arrested. Because if you believe I am going to stay around, you are a fool. Are you a fool? No cream, thank you"

She would be arrested and hanged. Or left to wilt away in some lunatic asylum… Or she could come. With him. Escape. With him. Who would believe her? Nobody.

Her unmaidenly behaviour, her brazen disregard for social conventions… Her lack of respect for her betters, her elders… Her immodest flaunting of … parts which are not to be shown to, which are to be shown only to … as for her courage, her quick thinking. The quality of her sharp reasoning … all of that made her an ideal recruit.

He had always considered women as unfit. Until he had met her. She was perfect. Maybe with the right training… she would be an heir? Mr Snow had big projects for him.

…

He was sure this unknown person (a vampire most probably) would open wide his arms to welcome Lord Harry's protégée.

Mr Snow would not open his arms to Miss Jane Smith.

Miss Smith curtseyed. Jane Smith was now going to deprive the man ghoul … sorry the vampire colonel of her presence. Jane had to pack her bag and leave. The night was falling, but with the full moon, she would be able to walk and put as much distance as can be between her and the manor.

"So you are flying from my fangs to die from a dog's fangs"

"Why would a dog attack me? I am not going to look for shelter in a farm. We have no rabid dogs here! We have enough with you… you Mr Fang Person!"

"Jane, there are big bad people waiting for a little governess outside. It is a full moon, woman. Normally, they stay put in the woods. If they get hold of my scent…"

The young maid did not understand. At all. If she had had money to bet… Which she did not have. Because she had no money. Because Uncle Septimus reproved of betting. She would have bet the vampire was sincerely worried. For her. About her safety.

She would stop walking at one point and curl up under a tree… or … sleep in a barn. She would avoid the gypsies and …

"End up disembowelled by a werewolf!"

"Please, stop casting aspersions on my intelligence. I have stopped believing in fairy tales. Werewolves? Pfff, what next ghosts?"

"Turn your head. I think the daughter … the late eldest daughter of your so very late employers is standing behind you"

This was not funny. It was her. Her; not him. Her, who had laid the wide silk piano cloth over poor Sophia, Sophia who may have not been endowed by a good musical ear… Sophia who sincerely loved music. A lot more than her, Jane would ever love.

It was poor taste and gross insensitivity to make fun at the poor dead. It was…

It was the teapot. The teapot floating into thin air. Lady H's teapot. The one which had been used for her ladyship tea when 'it' had started. The one which was standing on the tea table, near the maid's body. And it was floating in front of her. With no hand or body attached to said hand to hold it.

"She says …"

"She… she has… she had a name. She is called… she was called Sophia. She was 14… How could you… how can you?"

"You must have some unfinished business. No, Jane, I am not talking to you. I am talking to the ghost. Sophia's ghost"

She must be losing her mind. She had lost her mind. Or she was dead. Or a prey to a serious nightmare. Sorry, Aunt Mattie, she would stop eating ginger cake. Ginger was not for her.

The teapot carried on floating. And ended up on the chimney.

"Jesus, she was not musical alive. As a spirit, she manages to cry just as disharmoniously as she was playing the piano"

"How can you be so cruel! What can we do for her?"

"Must be something she wanted to do when she was alive"

Jane was happy to forgive all the misdemeanours. It was making no difference from what the vampire could tell her. The door… the door? Was not materializing.

"You should know. You are her governess"

"My remit is with live young charges. Not ghostly ones. Sorry. So sorry, Isabella. Let me see. Music? We could play together? Or… Now what! Ghosts, werewolves… what sort of monsters are you going to conjure?"

The ghost had spoken. Her request was reasonable, logical. Yet unfeasible with Jane around.

"Now what? What did she ask? Tell me? What sort of unreasonable request or unfinished business a girl of fourteen summers can make?"

"Stay there. Wait for me and do not leave the room. Or I'll get you."

That was the plan. The plan matching with a body not weakened by some severe blood loss. Loss coming from a staking by a bloody ridiculous umbrella.

Why did he feel compelled to please the ghost? Why did he feel responsible for the ghost child well-being?

The headache was coming back. He sighed and gave up. Jane would have to help him go to the cellar. She was not to get inside. Was it clear? Not to get inside. He grabbed the Paisley shawl which was adorning a hideous armchair and limped with his shattered dignity to the cellar.

Jane did not try to follow him. Something was telling her not to. A few instants later, she saw him coming back carrying a form wrapped with the shawl. A small form.

She said nothing. She was past caring, past crying. Each step was painful, heavy. The monster was carrying… the form and she was propping up the monster. Each step was merciless and cruel as the red stain on the shawl grew larger and larger. The vampire sent her off the music room.

She guessed he was laying side by side the two sisters. United in death as they had been in life.

The door opened. The monster was sombre.

"Sophia was terrified in the cellar. She followed me and … and both crossed their door together. Isabella says she is sorry about some brown silk?"

This was to be the lowest point of a most horrible day. The human's shoulders started to shake and rivers of tears would have been allowed to run free.

"I will not cry. I will not. I will not give you this proof of our humanity. You do not deserve it. "

She turned away and started to run away. Away from him. Away from the bestial debauchery of murder. She was heading back to her room. Her sanctum. Back to a world where governesses wrote on a little diary their dreams, a world where the worst which could happen was to have to listen to tone-deaf piano lessons.

She would have if the monster had not intercepted her flight like a hawk intercepts a swallow. She resisted, fighting him off while keeping her head down. Fighting, struggling, using her fists against his chest. Until she surrendered and admitted defeat. Until he managed to calm her down by saying nothing. By just allowing her to express her rage and anger by battering her chest with her fists. Until she was calm down and accepted to rest her head against his silent torso.

The hawk had caught the swallow by his talons; the lamb had been caught by the wolf. The monster had captured his prey. And would not hurt her.