A/N Beta'd by the wonderful StoryWriter831. Everything belongs to JK Rowling.

...

My re-emergence to consciousness was deeply disorienting.

Disturbing, surreal memories surfaced and sifted in my mind, of running through a fog-strewn forest, of being half-strangled, of being hissed at by a painting (really?)... And framing those brief slivers of skewed reality, an infinitely vaulting periphery of...blankness. Complete blankness.

I lay for some time, going over in detail everything I could remember, which seemed to span only a very few waking hours. Those scant recollections revolved slowly—rings within rings, like gimbals of a gyroscope—around a whirring, powerful central axis represented by a pale-haired, silver-eyed man who had called himself Lucius.

Who had nearly killed me.

The more I thought of him, the stranger and more spectral he seemed, until I wondered if I had merely dreamed him. Perhaps everything was a dream—perhaps I was in the middle of one right now... Yet I was fairly sure I was awake, that this was real. ...I think, therefore I am...

I am—who?

Alice?

I sat up and looked around. The first impression I had of the room was of emphatic grandeur. The bed and furniture were large and stately, the soft-furnishings heavy and costly, everything impressive and ornate. A guest-suite that was furnished, not to put its inhabitants at ease, but to put them at a disadvantage.

I pushed back the heavy bedding and slid out onto the floor. With a sudden jolt I realised that I was standing in only my underwear. An angry huff escaped me. Had he removed my dress? That pervert!

But then I remembered my sodden, muddy clothes and I was forced to admit that, as close to hypothermia as I had assuredly been, it would have been dangerous to sleep in them. Still, I squirmed at the thought of being undressed by the man, and could only hope he had not taken advantage of my insensate state for any depraved purpose of his own.

A full-length mirror stood in one corner and I gravitated apprehensively towards it. I had to see my reflection. I had to look myself in my eyes, to discover if I knew myself, even if I didn't remember myself.

Gritting my teeth, I stepped in front of the glass.

I hadn't realised I was holding my breath until I let it go in a loud relieved exhalation. Yes! I knew that face. I wasn't a total stranger. Thank god for that.

I wasn't a pretty sight, however. My hair was a matte mass of tangles, my eyes underscored with heavy shadows, they looked almost bruised against my unnaturally pallid skin. My bottom lip was gashed and there were other welts around my cheekbones and brow. A smear of dirt ran from temple to jaw down one cheek. The rest of me hadn't fared much better: my arms and legs were scratched all over and spattered with dried mud, bearing testament to yesterday's wild run through the forest.

I turned over my hands and inspected them. My right palm was no longer bound, and the gash appeared less raw than I expected—it wasn't even very sore, which surprised me. Yet my sprained wrist ached and was beginning to visibly bruise, and my fingers still twitched with the oddly incomplete sensation I had noticed yesterday.

I lifted my chin, expecting to see an ugly purple welt across my throat...but strangely it was unmarked. I touched the skin gingerly, swallowed experimentally, but there was no pain or tenderness. Surely I hadn't dreamed that I had been choked by that man's cane? I frowned, confused. Even the few memories I did have seemed to be contradictory, unreliable.

Daylight was filtering through the brocaded curtains and I padded over, parting them a fraction to peer cautiously out.

I was on an upper floor, perhaps the second storey from the ground. There was not much to see. Just a wide stretch of gravel, bordered by bristly conifers. It wasn't raining, but the sky was a wintery, iron grey. It looked freezing out there. I shivered, remembering the relentlessness of the cold yesterday, the feeling I would never be warm again. I felt certain that, if not for the crow leading me out of the forest, I would surely have perished.

Well, I told myself, you're warm, and you're alive. The cold didn't get you. And the man didn't murder you in your sleep, either. I suppose you should be counting your blessings.

I spent several minutes searching through the various wardrobes and drawers for signs of my missing clothes and shoes, but they were all bare. An open door next to one of the tall dressers led through to an en-suite bathroom. I peered in, and was taken aback to see a bath-tub inside, full of steaming water. I approached for a closer look. Like everything else, the bath was over-sized and ornamental. It appeared to be made from white marble, standing on baroque lion's paws, and by the looks of things the taps were gilded.

And yes, it really was nearly brimming with hot, sweetly-scented water. Apparently, someone had recently filled it up for me.

A cloak-stand near the head of the tub bore a thick towel and a kimono-style bathrobe, both of which I supposed had been left for my use. I ran my fingers down the fine, silky fabric of the robe. It looked like the sort of sheer garment that covered much but concealed little...but it seemed a better option than skulking around in my underwear.

...The water did look inviting.

I dipped my fingertips in. It was a little too warm. I reached over to the gold taps, but oddly neither one would budge. The faucet handles were molded to the spout, unable to be turned. How very strange.

Oh well, I thought. There's no denying you could do with a good clean.

I drew the en-suite door closed, wishing it had a lock. Self-consciously I peeled off my underwear, shielding myself with my hands, unable to shake off a deep-seated feeling of vulnerability. I quickly hopped into the bath and slid down into its enveloping depths.

For a while I just lay there, weightless, motionless, not thinking, just letting the water and heat cradle me, breathing deeply in the floral fragrance permeating the rising steam... But soon the gnawing, unsettling awareness of blankness intruded upon me again, and I felt myself tense up.

When would my memory return? What if it never—? But no, I couldn't dwell on that. That thought was far, far too frightening...

I ducked under the water, and when I came up I saw I had dislodged several leaves and twigs. ...What a complete mess you must have looked to that man, I thought, recalling how refined and expensive his unusual attire had appeared to be. Not that I should care, unpleasant and sneering as he was. But I did. ...Perhaps it was his undisguised contempt which made me care.

I scrubbed away the mud on my legs and my arms, flinching every so often when I hit a bruise or scratch. When I was clean I gathered my willpower and hauled myself out. Much as I liked the idea of spending the day immersed in hot water, I had a family and home to find. Presumably.

I dried myself off with the towel and slipped into the bathrobe. It was silky and cool, light as a whisper.

I went back to the mirror and spent some time teasing out the knots in my damp hair with my fingers. I grimaced at my reflection. Even after a thorough clean-up, there was no disguising my drawn, too-pale face, and the shadows under my eyes: eyes which stared with a somewhat wild fragility, like a startled deer.

What happened to you? I wondered of the young woman looking back at me. Why do you look so haunted?

Who are you?

"Alice Carroll," I said out loud. "You're Alice Carroll."

But I wasn't so sure. I didn't know exactly why I'd volunteered that name to the man last night, but it didn't ring true—I didn't feel the same certainty, the same recognition I had experienced upon seeing my reflection.

Come on, Alice, or whoever the hell you are. It's time to go and find some answers.

I was a little uneasy about leaving the room wrapped only in a thin slip of silk, and for a few further minutes I searched for my clothes, but eventually gave up.

I went to the door and stood still for a moment, trying to calm the sudden jangling of my nerves. What are you afraid of? I thought. If that man was going to rape you or lock you in a dungeon, surely he'd have done it last night.

Squaring my shoulders, I twisted the handle and pushed the door open. Peering out, I saw that I was halfway along a stone corridor, lit by a row of candles set in ornate brass wall-sconces. At the far left end was an arched window letting in the bleak morning light; at the opposite end was a well of shadows where, I supposed, a staircase would lead me downstairs.

Slipping out of the doorway, I crept down the passage to the right. As I rightly supposed, I came to a flight of wide stone stairs, stretching both up and down. I made an apprehensive descent, hoping I would not get myself hopelessly lost. When I gained the bottom, I was reassured to recognise the corridor where I had fainted the night before. I coughed tentatively. All was still and half-shrouded in shadow.

"Hello?" I called, annoyed that the voice echoing back at me sounded like a frightened child.

As I made my way down the corridor I found myself glaring left and right at the many paintings, almost daring them to come to life. The prevailing theme of the collection appeared to be scornful ladies and imperious men. I noticed that many bore plaques on their frames engraved with the name 'Malfoy'. I wondered if that was the last name of my mysterious host. It seemed probable, if his propensity for sneering was any indication of kinship.

Thankfully, none of these paintings showed the remotest sign of life or movement. It seemed ridiculous now. Paintings didn't move...but soon I was in sight of the portrait that had—had hissed at me, and I automatically slowed down, a numbing dread overtaking me. I edged forwards, feeling almost nauseous with fear, but determined to look, to see...

It was completely normal. No bloodied fangs, no vertically-slitted pupils. Just a regular painting of an extremely haughty woman. Beneath it a small engraved silver legend read, 'Sidonia Malfoy née Slytherin'. I leaned closely in, fascinated despite myself. I could see the brush strokes, the texture of the oil paint. The portrait was certainly life-like, but not alive.

...Was it all in your head, then, Alice?

"Exquisite, is she not?"

I jumped, squeaking with surprise and whirling around.

The man—Lucius—had materialised as if from the shadows and was standing a little behind me. He loomed large, his presence just as intimidating as I had remembered from the night before. The sharp, angular beauty of his face struck me afresh; it was almost cruel, in a way...

So he hadn't been just a dream, then.

His silver eyes gleamed iridescently in the half-light. "Tragically, she was barren," he added. Then—to himself, it seemed—he murmured, "How differently might things have otherwise transpired..."

"She hissed at me!" I blurted out.

His mouth curved slightly at the corners. "The portrait?" His voice was a masterclass of incredulous disdain. "Forgive me, I wonder if I heard you correctly. You say the painting, er, hissed at you?"

I flushed deeply. "Yes, it did, last night," I insisted, although my voice was by no means confident. "You were there, you must have seen it! The painting hissed and then I—I think I fainted."

"Certainly, you did faint," he replied, in such a way that made it clear my doing so had been an extremely tiresome inconvenience. "You were suffering from exhaustion and very likely concussed. It takes no great stretch of imagination to conclude that your mind was playing tricks on you."

He put a hand on my elbow, steering me away from the portrait, but I tensed and resisted. "No! I remember it clearly. Her eyes went like a-a snake's, and she hissed at me!"

He pursed his lips disapprovingly, I suppose at my stubbornness. "Miss Carroll, may I ask if your memory returned to you overnight?"

"Not yet," I admitted. "But that has nothing to do with it!" I turned and stared hard at the painting, willing it to come alive again. "I know what I saw..."

I reached out to touch the canvas but the man caught my wrist mid-air. "Enough of this nonsense, young lady," he said lightly, but with a warning edge to his voice. "Breakfast awaits." He turned and headed down the hallway, pulling me firmly along with him and I was forced into a stumbling trot to keep up with his long strides.

I definitely did not like being manhandled and by the time we entered the dining room I had tried and failed twice to squirm out of his grip.

"Do you mind—" I began crossly, but my protests died on my lips as I found myself being pressed into a seat near one end of the mahogany table, in front of an unbelievably delicious-looking spread of food. Croissants, pastries, preserves, fresh fruit...there was enough to feed several people, though only one place was laid. A silver coffee-pot wafted promisingly.

I suddenly realised just how famished I really was. I had no idea how long since I'd last eaten anything, but it was all I could do not to grab the nearest item and cram it in my mouth.

My host moved around to sit at the head of the table, a few feet away from me. "I trust you slept well, Alice?" he said. His tone was one of polite interest, though his eyes expressed almost the exact reverse.

"Um, yes, I think so," I replied. I sat with my hands lodged between my knees, nearly crying with hunger. "That is, I don't exactly remember." Then, feeling I should acknowledge some sense of gratitude, I added, "But thanks again for letting me stay the night."

He made no reply to this, but, with a dismissive wave of his hand, he leaned elegantly back in his high-backed chair and regarded me impassively. After a few moments he spoke. "Well? Are you ill? Why don't you eat?"

"I'm not ill," I quickly replied. "It's only...a-aren't you going to have some—?" I gestured to the food.

"No."

I suppressed a grimace. What was with this man? Not, 'I've already eaten, or, 'I don't do breakfast.' Just, 'No.' On the one hand, lavishing me with all this hospitality, on the other, seemingly determined to make me feel as awkward and uncomfortable as possible.

Well, if he wanted to sit there and sneer at me eating, that was up to him. I was too hungry to care. I reached for a croissant and wolfed it down defiantly. Then I poured a cup of coffee and drained it to the dregs, making no attempt at delicacy, clattering the china noisily.

There you are, Mr Arrogance Personified, I thought. You obviously wanted a display—I hope I didn't disappoint you. I pushed my plate away and turned to meet his cold gaze. "Thank you. I feel much better."

"I'm overjoyed to hear it."

I picked up a napkin and wiped my hands, determined not to be flustered by his drawling sarcasm, though my cheeks burned. I wondered if the man treated all his guests this way, of if I was the lucky exception. In a nonchalant voice, I said, "May I ask how far away the nearest town is from here?"

The man tilted his head back, not immediately replying. I didn't like the glint in his eyes as they fixed on mine. It could be mistaken for malice. "Have you the slightest notion as to where we are, Miss—er, Carroll?" he said at last.

I was uneasy that he'd answered my question with a question.

"I don't know," I replied. "I suppose this could be anywhere in Britain."

He smiled. "I would not depend upon that," he enunciated with icy clarity, "if I were you."

"What?" I stared at him, startled. "What do you mean? Are you saying we're not in Britain? But you're—"

"British, yes," he said drily. "How wonderfully observant you are."

I sprang up from my seat, all pretensions to nonchalance now completely abandoned. "Well, then where the hell are we?!"

The man also arose and took a step towards me, not in an exactly threatening way, but yet still as if to assert—to remind me of—his physical superiority.

I didn't need reminding. I remembered very well his brutality on the stairs yesterday, how his body had slammed me into the hard stone, his hands painfully wrenching my hair, the cane crushing my throat...

I crossed my arms defensively. "P-please," I stammered, "I just want to go home."

"And where is that, Alice?" His tone was mocking.

I shrugged helplessly. My lips felt numb. "I...I thought you were going to help me," I said.

He moved away from me, stopping before one of the tall, narrow window panes. When he eventually spoke he did not trouble himself to turn around. "I'm afraid you won't be going anywhere for the time being," he murmured. "Look out the window."

I did, and my heart sank. Snow was falling thick and fast.

Great, I thought. Just great.

As if it wasn't bad enough to be lost and amnesiac, now I was stuck. Stuck with a man whose personality spectrum seemed to vary between sardonic, saturnine and downright violent. True, he'd given me shelter for the night and provided quite a dazzling spread of food this morning. But he hadn't exactly been gracious about it. In fact, he'd been unutterably rude. And why was he so reticent about revealing our location? That, I thought, was distinctly ominous.

Aiming, not very successfully, for a casual tone, I said, "It doesn't look like the kind of snow that settles."

The man didn't even bother replying. It really was a ridiculous comment, given the thick, blanketing flurries completely obscuring the outside world. But I tried once more anyway: "Perhaps this afternoon we could drive—"

"No," he negated abruptly.

"But I need to find out who I am—"

"You are Alice Carroll, remember?"

"Yes, but—"

"Unless, of course, that was a name you simply invented."

"No, no—but still, I think I should—"

He silenced me by turning and fixing his eyes on mine. They told me in no uncertain terms that it was no use to continue.

I swallowed drily. I was going to have to try a different approach. "How long does a snowstorm usually last in—wherever we are?"

He made a slight, sarcastic smile. "Why don't you hazard a guess?"

"I could hazard one much more accurately if I knew where we were." I could no longer disguise the uneasiness in my voice. "But for some reason, you don't want to tell me that."

He offered no reply.

I peered surreptitiously at him. He cut a statuesque and daunting figure, framed as he was by the window, back-lit by the glare of whiteness beyond. His robe was different to the one he'd had on yesterday, more like a cape. Beneath it, he appeared to be wearing a black double-breasted waistcoat and riding breeches, tucked into tall, black hessian boots. I would have taken the entire ensemble for a costume, except that he wore it with such unconscious grace and ease... He had the look of some Germanic prince of a bygone era: all black-clad elegance, refined ruthlessness. Prince Lucius, the Ruthless.

Yes, he certainly did look sinister. What if he was a psychopathic sadist, with a dungeon full of torture instruments? It didn't seem impossible. It didn't even really seem improbable, which was a bit of a worry, all things considered.

With this disturbing thought now uppermost in my mind, I said, "Is there—is there anyone else living here?"

The man's lip curled with derision. "You mean, to hear you scream?"

I blushed hotly, because it was precisely what I did mean. "I didn't say that," I replied, my voice quailing.

"But that was what you were thinking, wasn't it?" He left the window and began to advance slowly towards me. "You're thinking it right now." Each step echoed, hollow and forbidding. I was rooted to the spot with equal parts humiliation and fear. He stopped mere feet away, looming menacingly over me. "Well?" he said, silver eyes taunting and agleam. "What do you think I will do? Outrage your honour upon on the table, perhaps?"

"NO." The word was vehement and multi-faceted. (No, I didn't mean that; no, I don't think you will do that; no, please don't do that.)

He raised a hand and gently brushed a stray curl away from my cheek, smiling thornily as I flinched. "Do you really believe I wish to rape you, Miss Carroll?" His voice was soft, but cold as ice. "I ought to take exception to such denigrating aspersions. Is that a befitting way to repay a man for saving your life?"

"I never...I didn't—said—say anything about you raping me." It was a clumsy, mortifying, jumbled mess of a sentence. "I was just curious if you lived alone. I thought you might have a wife, or—"

His expression froze, his whole body suddenly tensing and I fell silent. He stared down at me, yet somehow through me. "No," he murmured. "I have no wife. Not any more."

Not any more? I wondered what that meant. Are you divorced? Did she die? Did you mur—

He must have read the half-formed thought in my eyes, for his own blazed with a sudden, white-hot rage, all colour draining from his face. "Insolent mudblood!" he hissed. He lunged forwards, grabbing my upper arms. I cried out as he began to shake me, hard, making my teeth rattle, my head spin. "Do you know I have killed men for less than what's written on your face?"

He shook me until my legs began to buckle, then suddenly shoved me away. I stumbled backwards, yelping as I collided with the table. For a moment I was too giddy to stand and I lay half-sprawled across it, my head reeling, desperately praying that he wasn't going to use the slab of mahogany in the way he had recently mentioned. But a second onslaught didn't come, and I recovered my balance to rise unsteadily to my feet.

The man had turned aside and seemed to be fighting to compose himself.

"I—I'm sorry," I said, my voice low and trembling. "I didn't mean to offend you, but you frightened me. How am I supposed to know what your intentions are? I d-don't know you."

I wasn't prepared for the naked loathing on his face as he turned back to me. It robbed me of breath, like a kick to the stomach.

"Your virtue is safe from me, I promise you," he snarled. His eyes raked me from head to toe, his expression brimming with distaste...no, with actual disgust.

I bit my lip, my eyes suddenly hot and prickling. Much as I was relieved that he didn't intend to rape me, he didn't have to make it so abundantly clear that he found me so repulsive. It was the sort of look someone might give a disease-ridden sewer rat. My stomach churned with insult. Nobody deserved to be looked at in such a way. I wondered about the word he'd hurled at me twice now. 'Mudblood'. Clearly an offensive term, but of what significance? ...It sounds derogatory, I thought bitterly. Even degrading.

Apparently mastering his composure, the man moved back to take his seat at the head of the table. I stood awkwardly before him, abased and resentful, wearing his disgust like a crumpled crown.

For some moments we silently faced one another, currents of hostility rippling in the air between us.

Finally he spoke, his voice once again smooth and controlled. "Miss Carrol, I should like us to come to an understanding."

"I understand that you frightened me on purpose," I blurted out caustically, still badly frightened and smarting. "I understand that you nearly choked me yesterday! I understand that you won't tell me where we are. Can you blame me for being afraid of you?" I plunged recklessly on, "And now I understand that I'm stuck here with you, for god-knows how long!"

"Indeed, you are," he replied. "For which, might I add, you should be extremely grateful. You would survive mere hours, were I to turn you out of doors."

He paused, as if politely waiting for me to refute his words, but of course I could not. He was right, and we both knew it.

I felt he was relishing my discomfort as he continued. "Fortunately for you, I am, for the present, prepared to offer you asylum—which, I need hardly observe, you are in no position to refuse. Are we agreed on that point?"

I nodded grudgingly.

"Then let me make something quite clear. You may expect to be treated as my guest, nothing more or less. I will provide you with necessities for the duration of your stay here. And I will not harm you. You have my word."

Huh, I thought, why do I get the feeling your next sentence will begin with "However"?

"However," he said—and I felt small knot of smugness—"there is one overriding stipulation."

"Let me guess," I muttered acerbically, "I have to laugh at all your jokes."

He actually smiled, but it was a smile desolate of warmth or humour. "All I ask is that you curb your curiosity," he said.

I blinked, taken aback. "Curiosity? A-about what?"

"Anything and everything, Miss Carroll. Whatever it is you have the smallest modicum of curiosity about. Curb it, or there will be consequences. Unpleasant ones."

Hmm...so much for, 'I will not harm you'...

"Do we have an understanding?"

"But why—" I began, but he cut me off by sharply banging the flat of his hand on the table, making me jump.

"Do we have an understanding?"

"But what—"

"I will not ask you a third time, Miss Carroll," he overrode me, his eyes glinting warningly. "A 'Yes, Sir' is all I require from you."

I glowered at him. "Yes," I mumbled sullenly, then, as his eyebrow rose ominously, I reluctantly added, "Sir."

"Good." His tone was unutterably supercilious, and I felt my temper rise.

"Thank you ever so much," I said, bestowing back upon him a fair dose of sarcasm.

"You ought to be thankful," he replied. In a softer voice, he murmured, "I have been more generous than you know."

I felt deflated. I had so badly wanted to at least start the process of discovering my identity. I really believed that once I was restored to my home and family, my memory would return, everything would be okay. ...But of all the places to end up, it had to be this strange, remote, backwater fortress, completely cut off from civilisation, no neighbours, no telephone, inhabited by some kind of domineering autocrat with violent tendencies and an apparent grudge against young women. Well done, Alice.

Tears of frustration welled up. Don't you dare cry, I berated myself. Don't give him the satisfaction! But I couldn't help it. Two hot beads escaped and trickled down my cheeks. I quickly turned, dashing them angrily away, but I had already seen the glimmer of amusement in my interlocutor's eyes.

"Now, now, there really is no need to snivel." His voice was maddeningly blasé. "Rest assured, if you follow these basic rules, you have nothing to fear."

But I wasn't convinced.

Looking back on the very brief history of our time together, I felt pretty well convinced that there was at least one thing to fear...and that was him.

...

After breakfast Lucius directed me back to my room, with a brief instruction to find my way back to the dining room for meals.

I hardly knew what to think, or how to feel. My earlier assumption, that I would be assisted to safety and subsequent recovery, had been utterly demolished. I now faced the very disturbing probability of having to cohabit with the man for several days to come...perhaps even longer, depending on the severity of the snow-storm. We certainly hadn't got off to a good start, and I was fairly sure that relations with the master of the house would not improve with closer acquaintance.

I lay on the bed, staring at the candelabra above me, wondering about...just everything. Who I was; who he was. Where we actually were, if not in Britain. What I'd been running away from, through that freezing-cold forest, dressed only in a summer frock. And exactly how my memory-loss had transpired...

And the longer I wondered, the further I felt myself sink down into the dark, still depths of fathomless blankness.

I dozed throughout the day, my mind filled with hissing portraits, stone corridors, mocking silver eyes. Each time I awoke I became more disoriented, more disturbed and it was difficult to determine between reality, hallucination and sleep-scape. I spent most of the day in this strange stupor-like state. Time itself seemed to warp, so that hours lurched past like the briefest moments and some seconds would stretch out and suspend like a small eternity. ...It wasn't until the light was beginning to fade that I vaguely realised I had missed lunch; that it must, in fact, be nearing dinner time.

Dragging myself out of the huge bed, I went through to the bathroom to splash water on my face and attempted to neaten my hair with trembling fingers. Then, feeling oddly as if I were sleep-walking, I left the chamber and descended down the wide flight of stone stairs, following the long corridor back to the room I had spent such a strange morning, in such strange company.

I was met at the door by Lucius, who was now magnificently attired in a robe of dark hunter's-green velvet, intricately embroidered with silver motifs. Immediately I felt a pang of self-conscious vulnerability, appearing before him in only in a thin slip of silk.

He greeted me with as little apparent pleasure as he had that morning, as if conforming to the demands of courtesy for his own sake, rather than mine.

"Good evening, Miss Carroll."

"Good evening, um, Lucius." I rather mumbled his name, once again tasting the strangeness of it on my lips.

He guided me over to the extravagantly-laid table, seating me, then assuming his own unprepared place. The great variety of dishes laid out upon the long table looked as delectable as they were abundant, and having missed lunch, I was more than ready to eat. However, my enjoyment was once again inhibited by the man's inscrutable, icy gaze fixed upon me as I sampled the elegant fare.

Finding the silence awkward and his stare oppressive, I attempted to engage him in conversation. "This food is delicious," I said, by way of introducing a topic that might reveal something more about the household. "Do you employ a chef?"

Ignoring my question, Lucius poured himself a glass of wine and took a leisurely sip.

"It certainly is a very big house," I continued. "It's really almost a castle, isn't it? I imagine it takes quite a large staff to keep it in order."

My lack of subtlety clearly amused him, for the hint of a smile curled the corners of his lips. "Miss Carroll," he murmured, "allow me to curtail your charmingly indirect line of questioning by assuring you that there in not another living human in this house. I do hate to dash all your hopes of recourse and rescue, but it cannot be helped."

"Oh," I said stupidly, "but it—it's—it's such a big house..."

"The marvellous thing about the patently obvious," he said drily, "is that it really need not be stated."

I bit my lip, vexed as much by his words as by his delicately-stinging delivery of them. Was I really all alone with this strange, formidable man? I didn't wish to believe him, but he said with such impassive assurance, it was difficult not to.

"I'm sure people will be looking for me," I said, more defensively than I had intended. "My family must be missing me by now." Then, more quietly, "I...I wonder for how long I've been...lost."

Lucius drummed one set of fingers on the table top in a careless manner. "Oh, I've no doubt the countryside will be veritably crawling with search parties," he drawled.

"Yes, well, I'm sure you'll be well remunerated for your hospitality," I said, trying to cut through his sarcasm by sounding prim and pragmatic.

However this only had the effect of twisting his smile into a thorny, spiteful curve, edged with teeth. "Oh, I am counting on it, Miss Carroll."

The rest of dinner continued in the same vein. My attempts to extract any more information about my whereabouts were rebuffed with emphatic silence or curt rejoinders; my endeavours to initiate polite conversation were met with drawling sarcasm or thinly-disguised insults. It was confusing and frustrating. I just couldn't understand why he behaved so rudely to me, a distressed stranger whom he had pledged to help.

It was only when I had finished eating and sat with my arms crossed, having lapsed into angry taciturnity, that Lucius suddenly became more sociable.

"Have you recovered any of your memory, yet, Alice?" he suddenly addressed me, in a light, almost caressing voice.

I shook my head and replied, "Not yet." I could feel a blush spread over my cheeks in response to his altered tone.

"Nothing about your family?"

"No."

"Not even your name?"

"No.—I—I mean—." I stopped, realising he had caught me out with embarrassing ease. His eyes glittered triumphantly but he didn't comment, preferring, I suppose, to watch me fidget uncomfortably beneath his meaningful silence.

Determined not to oblige him, I pushed my chair back and stood up. "I think I'll go back up to my room now, if that's okay with you. I'm very tired."

"By all means, Alice." He said the name with sneering emphasis, his voice regaining all its original hardness and derision. He left his place and moved over to the door, holding it open for me with a mocking flourish, in that overly-genteel way he seemed to particularly favour, which served to convey contempt rather than courtesy. "Maybe tomorrow you will be able to recall things with more accuracy."

"Maybe tomorrow you will be able to disclose where we are with more accuracy," I retorted as I edged past him. Then I hurried over the threshold, not caring to encounter his expression.

...I spent the remainder of the evening divided between trying to remember something—anything—about myself, and trying to forget the maddeningly elegant sneer which permanently overspread the sharply-chiselled countenance of my silver-eyed host.