Sorry this took so long. And yes, I have now managed to quote Harry Potter two times in this story. Sorry.
After about five minutes, Jane emerged from the doorway, prepared to perform her job, despite the pledge made to leave.
"Sir!" she was startled, shocked to come face to face with her master, after last night's declaration.
"Janet," his voice low, practically a whisper, his hand reaching out to grasp his love's. "Your council is required."
"Sir?"
"I require your advice on a subject of my… wife." The word was spat out. It was a finality. Not to be disputed. Factual. She had to follow him. He led her along, through the corridors, and it wasn't long before they found themselves outside his bedroom door.
Jane backed away slightly, her hand, which had somehow made its way into his own, dropping from his grip. His hand, newly free, gripped the handle, and Rochester slipped in. Jane did not follow, and he did not attempt to make her do so. Not thirty seconds later, he was out of the door, and gripping her treacherous hand once again. Hanging over his free arm was a long coat, which would likely reach the floor if worn by her old school master! He removed it from his arms, and hung it over Jane's shoulders, obscuring most of her frame. Underneath, there was a long roll of rope, wrapped loosely over her master's left arm.
Then, he began to walk back in the direction of Jane's room, beckoning for her to follow him. She couldn't say no, she couldn't deny him his whims, however much she knew she should refuse.
Passing her door, Rochester didn't go in, and she thought maybe the confrontation was to happen in the corridor. But when he continued along to the third floor corridor, she hesitated. Hearing the pause in her steps, Rochester turned his head, just as his foot passed over the threshold of the door.
"Jane? Are you scared, Jane?" his eyes did little to hide his amusement, he was laughing at the idea that she, Jane Eyre, could be scared! "But of course! I should have known. Your secret fear. Tinged with slight… jealousy?" Jane lowered her eyes, stopping his interpretation of what they hid. Turning round completely, he retraced his steps, finding his way directly in front of her. Jane's mouth opened, her lips moving, trying to deny any chance of envy, but childhood punishment stood strong in her mind, and images of a high stool, a mental prison, rose and haunted her thoughts.
"I must not tell lies." Jane muttered, so low that Rochester could barely hear (AN: sorry, I did not mean to reference HP). Taking her hand, Rochester pulled slightly, removing her feet from the position to which they were planted. She followed him, up the staircase, through the door, to see the tapestry pulled aside, and the key in the lock. Removing his palm from it's contact with her own, Rochester turned the ornate brass key, and a click could be heard in the absolute silence of the attic.
Her master's hand, not removing the key, rose from the door knob, and planted three, determined knocks onto the thick oak of the door. There was a slight scuffling sound, as small cough, and the sound of something being poured out of the window, and the glass of the window almost shattering as wood met wood once more. Then Rochester's hand strayed back down to the handle, and it was turned, and the door swung open, revealing a scene of almost perfect tranquillity. Grace Poole was standing by the window, locking the glass panes, as a pewter bucket was placed on the floor, obviously previously held by water in which to wash with.
Another woman, dressed in a once-white dress, was curled up on the floor, wrapped in a pile of rags, gazing blankly at the ceiling, the only thing that wasn't so… peaceful, was the knife.
DFTBA