After a moment of nearly paralyzing panic, he takes a deep breath and regains his calm. He thinks for a minute about the situation and he remembers having to unlock the door to get back into the Shadow Gallery. So unless the missing lady is able to not only unlock a door, but to relock it without the benefit of a key, she's still here somewhere.
He heads back towards the door that leads out to the tunnels to double check that he had locked the door upon his return. With a sigh of relief, the door remains secured and now for the next problem. Where in the labyrinth of rooms and passages is she hiding? And more bothersome: Why?
He systematically starts to go through the rooms one by one, shutting doors behind him when he's sure she's not in that room. His search eventually leads him towards the back of his home. Remembering where he found her a few days ago, he concludes that it would be the most logical place for her to go.
His steps quickly take him down the hall to the door in question, but upon opening it he discovers the lights are off. With a swift pass of his hand over the switch, the lights come flickering on and he does a quick inspection of the room but finds nothing out of place. Perplexed, he heads for the door, passing the pile of instruments in the corner and stops dead in his tracks.
He slowly turns around and looks over at the musical devices that he's collected over the years and a small smile pulls at the corner of his mouth. Something that wouldn't normally be out of place in such a gather, but obviously is, is a guitar case. She's hidden it in plain sight again and if it wasn't for the fact that she's been driving him crazy for the past few weeks, he might laugh at her ingenuity.
As it is, it amuses him and some of the anger and fear drains out of him. But there's still the problem of finding her. The room is vast and filled with a wide variety of hiding spots.
Trying to keep his anger in check, he methodically starts to search the room. It takes him nearly an hour to go down just one side of the room. Wherever she's squirreled herself away too, she's done a good job of it.
He's getting frustrated by her refusal to show herself despite him calling for her even when he uses 'Georgia.' He's hungry, tired and fed up with this whole game and is ready to call it quits. A part of him figures that she'll come out when she's ready and another part is worried that she's managed to hurt herself and can't call out for help.
He's about to give up when a small noise catches his attention. Holding perfectly still, barely daring to breathe, he waits to see if it'll happen again. A few seconds later it does. He hears it: a muffled sneeze.
As fast as a thought he follows the sound to the furthest corner of the room from the door. He pauses and a moment later another suppressed sneeze helps him home in on her. With narrowed eyes, he grabs a tarp off some long forgotten object and yanks it off.
She shrieks as her cover is pulled away and tries to hide behind the previously covered item. Faster than a striking snake, he reaches out and grabs her, dragging her from her hiding spot. He pulls her away from the recovered treasures in fear that she'll lash out and damage one of them, but instead she goes limp.
He lets her go and she collapses into a heap at his feet. Trembling, she scrambles onto her knees and prostrates herself before him. He stares at her for some time as he calms his own inner demons before he can say anything that's even close to being rational. Taking a very deep breath, he lets it out very, very slowly and then he opens his mouth.
"Why were you hiding back there?" he growls, unable to keep the anger out of his voice.
"Afraid," she whimpers.
"Of what?" he snaps, his fingers unconsciously curling into his palm.
"Them," she replies, shaking so hard he's surprised he doesn't feel it through the floor.
"Them who?" he demands, still glaring down at her.
"The ones who sold me," she whispers. "They're going to come for me."
"That would require them to know where to look first," he points out and all she can do is let out a choked sob. "Come, enough of this foolishness. Get your guitar and go back to your room. I'll come for you when your dinner is ready."
"Yes, master," she mumbles just before she scrambles across the room, grabs her guitar and dashes out the door at a dead run.
A short time later he hears a distant door slam shut and he lets out another puff of frustrated air. He goes to place the tarp over the object she'd been hiding next to and stops. It's one of the first items that he liberated from Sutler and he had completely forgotten about it.
He runs a leather clad hand over the clear plastic dome and stares at this small piece of history. He thinks about all of the people it must have made happy listening to it, maybe even falling in love together before it was regulated to a dusty corner of a warehouse and then the corner of his storage room. Music is the one thing that seems to make her happy and calm so maybe it's time this old jukebox came out of hiding and played once more.
By the next morning she's even worse than before as she's only doing what she's told and the rest of the time she spends kneeling on the floor of whatever room he's left her in. After a few hours of this, he's nearly tripped over her more times than he cares to count and it's damn well getting infuriating. Eventually, he makes her sit on the couch and he sticks a random movie into the player while he goes back to rearranging display cases and furniture.
By the time he has the perfect spot arranged, then there's the matter of the wiring. He goes off in search of a spool of wire only to return to find her squirming in her seat, all be it subtly. With a sigh of disgust he turns towards her.
"For heaven's sake, woman, if you need to use the restroom, then do so," he snaps.
She scurries off and he returns to his project shaking his head in disbelief. After making sure he has enough wire, he goes off to get the machine with a dolly. By the time he's wrestled the thing into place, he's a bit out of breath, but very excited by his new toy.
Before he finishes wiring the jukebox to the power, he takes off the sides and starts the checking for any damage that might need fixing. After he's sure that everything is in order, he puts the machine back together and then finishes wiring it. He goes to flip the circuit breaker to give the jukebox power and is delighted when he sees it light up.
He returns to the couch to show off his new toy to his guest and is rather disappointed to find that piece of furniture empty. He frowns at the couch for a few moments and then with a low growl in his throat, he heads for the bathroom. Sure enough, he finds her in the hallway just outside the restroom door, kneeling on the floor and trembling in pain. He drags her to her feet only to find that she can't stand.
"What is wrong?" he demands.
"Knees hurt," she whimpers in pain, trying desperately to hold her own weight.
"Dare I ask why you were kneeling in the hallway?" he grumbles as he lifts her into his arms and heads towards the TV room.
"You told me to go to the bathroom," she answers.
"I am well aware of that," he growls. "But why were you on your knees on a stone floor?"
"That's what I'm supposed to do," she states as she's rather unceremoniously dumped onto the couch.
"Says who?" he questions as he grabs the remote and turns off the telly that's now showing some mindless government approved sitcom.
"Trainer," she replies as she tries to discreetly move her toes to get the blood circulating again.
"What trainer?" he inquires, annoyed that she's staring at his knees and not his face.
"My trainer," she states, trying to ignore the feeling of pins and needles running up and down her legs and the ache in her knees.
"Your trainer?" he asks as he squats down in front of her trying to get her to look at him. "What type of trainer?"
"Slave," she whispers staring at her hands lying in her lap.
There's silence for some time as V digests what she's said. Her wiggling feet haven't escaped his notice and he reaches over and starts rubbing her legs to help get the blood flowing again. She winces, but voices no objection.
"I have told you repeatedly that you are free," he states as he starts to work on the other leg. "Why do you continue to act like a slave?"
"It's all I know now," she sighs unhappily. "I don't think I can do anything else."
"You play the guitar and sing," he points out to which she only shrugs. "Why do you think someone will come after you?"
"I'm property that can talk," she replies softly. "Very expensive property if Michael is…was to be believed."
"What would it take for you to stop thinking of yourself as a slave?" he inquires as he lets her leg go.
"Destroy the papers," she answers, still staring at her lap.
"Easier said than done," he reminds her. "I have no clue where to start looking. Do you know what they look like?"
"Yes," she hisses through her teeth.
"Well?" he prompts after nearly a minute of silence.
"They have my name on it," she barely whispers.
"And what is your name?" he inquires fearing the answer he'll get.
"I can't," she whimpers as she starts trembling in fear.
"Please, I must know your name if I'm going to help you," he insists, desperately trying to hold onto his patience.
"I can't," she sobs as she pulls her knees up to her chest and start rocking back and forth. "Please, don't make me. They'll find me and then they'll do to me what they did…oh god, please don't"
All he can do is stare at her in amazement as she breaks down to near hysterics begging him to not make her tell him her name. When he does nothing, the crying only gets worse and she starts to hyperventilate. He sits next to her on the couch, wraps an arm around her shoulders, pinning her to his body and puts his hand loosely over her nose and mouth.
"Calm down," he tells her as her body continues to violently shake. "I will forestall asking you for your name. But sooner or later, you will have to tell it to me."
"I can't," she breathlessly wails from behind his hand. "I just can't."
"You need to calm down," he repeats as she continues to panic. "Slow your breathing. I'm not going to ask your name again."
Once he tells her that, she starts to calm. He holds onto her until she stills and then he releases her. He carefully moves away from her, finally ending up on the other end of the couch from her where he can watch her closely without crowding her.
"Is there anything else on these papers that can help me identify them?" he quietly asks.
"I'm not sure," she whispers as she sits there like she has no bones in her body. "Michael never let me take a good look at them. He would just wave them in my face every once and a while just to remind me that he owned me and that he could do what he pleases with me. The only thing he made sure I noticed was my name."
"Can you tell me where he kept them?" he inquires, encouraged that she's talking even though she won't look at him.
"He kept them in his safe," she answers. "It's below his desk in the den."
"Now we do seem to have a bit of a problem," he sighs. "The safe was cleaned out before I could get to it. I believe your papers are now in the possession of Scotland Yard."
"I belong to the police?" she asks in confusion.
"No, you belong to yourself," he reminds her rather heatedly. "I believe the police are unaware of what they have. I will have to investigate that further. Maybe you can help with another mater though. What do you know about Shire Stables?"
The color completely drains from her face and it looks like she's about to become physically sick. Beads of sweat form on her brow and upper lip as her pupils dilate to an abnormally large size. She starts trembling again as her breathing speeds up and he's pretty sure he has his answer.
"Never mind," he says soothingly as he rises to his feet. "You don't have to tell me, I think I can figure it out on my own. Come, let me show you my latest endeavor."
He holds his hand out to her and without another thought she lets him pull her to her feet. He helps her up and then steadies her when she wobbles. After he's sure she's stably upright, he leads her across the gallery. She silently follows him two steps back and slightly to the left. He ignores this annoying habit, something else from her 'training' no doubt, and leads her over to the jukebox.
"What do you think?" he inquires as he waves a hand towards the machine, inviting her to come closer.
"Good lord, I haven't seen one of these in a coon's age," she breathes a she steps closer to the machine. "Where did you find it?"
"In one of the vaults of the Ministry of Objectionable Material originally," he answers as leather clad gloves caress the plastic dome. "Though, I'm ashamed to say that I too had forgotten that I even had it until yesterday. For that I must thank you."
"For what?" she asks, staring at him in bewilderment for a few seconds before dropping her eyes.
"For hiding under the tarp that I had covered this with," he answers as he turns and looks at her.
"Oh, is that what was under there," she muses as she moves a bit closer, but is still about a step away from him.
"You didn't know?" he asks with his slightly tilted to the side.
"I saw the tarp, figured I could hide under it, turned off the light and crawled under," she explains. "I never actually looked under the tarp while the lights were on."
"But this was in the farthest corner of the room from the light switch or door," he states, slightly horrified and a bit amused.
"I didn't say I did it quickly," she points out.
"You could have damaged something," he says, just barely managing not to growl.
"I went very slowly and I was very careful," she assures him. "Was anything out of place?"
"Accept for your cleverly hidden guitar, nothing was amiss," he replies as a thought occurred to him. "I would like to know where you hid your clothes."
"I packed them in my bag and buried them under the books in my room," she responds. "I figured by the time they found them I would have been caught or have gotten away. I just didn't want to give them any clues I was here."
"You're a very clever lady, you know that?" he chuckles.
"If I'm so clever, then how did I end up in this mess?" she mumbles, but he still hears it.
"I would hardly call being captured and turned into a slave being foolish," he states as he crosses his arms and leans against the jukebox.
"Accept I wasn't captured," she mutters, hanging her head in shame. "I did this to myself."
He stands and stares at her in shock, unable to come up with anything to say.
"May I go now?" she asks softly.
"Yes," he responds, barely aware that he even spoke.
She returns to her room to have yet another good long cry as he mulls over what she's said and the other information he's acquired over the past few weeks. When he checks in on her some time later, she's cried herself out and is sound asleep again. He goes to make dinner as the jukebox sits off to the side, once again forgotten.
V tries rather unsuccessfully to get her to talk again before, during and after dinner. Her depression seems to have hit a new all time low and it's driving him to distraction. He tries to get her mind off of her past by showing her some of the other rooms in his home.
His playroom scares her, the monitor room gives her the willies and the garden room leaves her sad for want to see the sun again. But despite everything, still she only utters a word or two here or there. He makes her watch his favorite movie but refuses to embarrass himself by fencing with the suit of armor patiently waiting for him in the corner.
After many hours of frustration, he sends her to bed, displeased with both himself and her. Once she's retired for the evening, he lowers the lights in the gallery and an unusual light catches his attention. He walks over to the jukebox once more and stares down at it. Maybe tomorrow it will have more luck in getting her to talk again and with another sigh, he heads for his bed.
In the near darkness of his room, he changes for bed. Once properly attired for the evening, he settles between the sheets, props himself up and opens up his newly acquired banned book. Just as he's getting to the part where Maggie starts to go on about her sister-in-law's and brother-in-law's antics at the dinner table, a scream rips through the air.
V is out of his bed and through the door before the book hits the floor, barely remembering to grab his mask and wig on the way out. He gets the wig on, but has to hold the mask in place as he opens her door and his ears are assaulted by her fearful cries. She's sitting up in bed screaming and he can't tell if she's still asleep or awake.
He sits on the edge of her bed and touches her shoulder. He's nearly startled out of his own skin with how quickly she latches onto him. She throws her arms around his rib cage and holds on for dear life. On a smaller or less fit man, she'd probably be breaking ribs, but despite the discomfort, he handles her grip quite well.
Since he had one hand up holding the mask in place and the other was touching her shoulder, she doesn't pin his arms to his side. He takes his good fortune without question and quickly straps the mask in place before he hesitantly wraps his arms around her. He awkwardly pats her back and makes shushing noises as she sobs into his pajama top, soaking it thoroughly.
After several minutes of her not calming down, he tries calling her by the only name she's given, but that only seems to make things worse. Calling her madam doesn't make things better, but at least they don't make things worse. Then a thought comes to him from clear out of the blue and it's such a far fetched notion that it's probably the right one.
"Audrey," he softly calls.
She instantly goes stiff, every muscle in her body tensing, getting ready for fight or flight, but more likely flight. He gives himself a small smile of triumph and some part of his brain notes that she's barely breathing.
"That is your name, isn't it?" he quietly asks and he can feel her nod against his chest. "I promise that I will protect you with my life, now please tell me. Tell me the story of Audrey Meadows."
Author's Notes: I hope I haven't lost anybody with all the mellow dramatics. As always, please feed my muse with a review.
