Author's Notes: I'M SORRY! I'msorryI'msorryI'msorryI'msorryI'msorryI'msorry. (grovelgrovelgrovelgrovelgrovel) My muse needs to be locked up, that's all there is too it. At least I managed to update before I went on vacation. (Thanksgiving with the in-laws. Pity me.) Enjoy and please review. One quick thing, remember the Good Boy's from the first chapter? (Yeah, yeah, I know, I'm pushing my luck) Well, you remember how I said they're sort of like a Game Boy but it's also like a Blackberry with the ability to text message and to get and send email.
"Are ya alright?" she asks in concern.
"Oh, yes, I'm fine, thank you," he answers, managing to keep the pain out of his voice.
"I'm really sorry about that," she says remorsefully.
"It's quite alright," he responds.
"I did warn ya though," she quietly points out.
"Yes, you most certainly did," he replies.
"Are ya sure ya're alright?" she repeats.
"I assure you, Audrey, that I am quite fine," he reassures her from his spot on the floor.
"Would ya like some ice?" she inquires.
"No, that won't be necessary, thank you," he responds.
"Maybe I should go start dinner," she suggests.
"Yes, that does sound like a good idea," he readily agrees and watches as she hesitantly leaves him.
Once he's sure she's gone, he lets out a sigh and reaches down to rub his throbbing bum. It really is his own fault; she had warned him. But whether it was his own ego or his firm belief that her previous teachers just didn't know how to do the job properly, it was still his own folly to try and teach her how to dance.
How hard could it be to learn to do the box step? All he had to do was lead and all she had to do was follow. Unfortunately for him, she really is about as coordinated as an elephant on roller-skates as she so succinctly put it before he insisted on this particular endeavor.
Well, if it distracted her from her current bout of depression, than the kicked shins, the stomped on toes and the sore rump have been well worth it. Of course, if she hadn't happened into the TV room at the precise moment the news was doing a report on one of the victims of their little quiche prank from the previous week, everything would have been fine. Unfortunately, she had had happened by just as the news poppet announced that one of the party goers had died from complications from the food poisoning and she had become instantly inconsolable.
At first he hadn't noticed. After all, he's spent nearly two decades living by himself, he has no previous experience dealing with another person's mood swings, especially a woman's. Who could blame him for taking delight in the sod's demise while ignoring her first sniffle? Alright, maybe giggling with glee wasn't the right thing to do at that moment, but how was he to know?
By the time he had turned around, her cheeks were wet with countless tears and she was nearly hysterical with grief. When he had tried to get a coherent word out of her, she blabbered something about it being her fault. While V tried to process that information, she had run off and he found her a short time later locked in her room sobbing uncontrollably.
That had been last night and by this morning she hadn't been much better. While the crying had stopped, she had fallen back into not talking unless truly pressed for an answer. She had barely eaten the French pancake he had so carefully prepared and then claimed she wasn't hungry as she wandered off.
He found her a few hours later in the art storage room just staring at the blank computer screen, the same painting sitting in the easel next to the desk that had been there the night before. Her eyes were red and puffy from more crying and her depression was starting to get to him. But what to do about it? He decided then she needed to be distracted and picked the first thing that came to mind: dancing.
The box step really is such a simple dance move: step, together; step, together; step, together; step, together; all done in the shape of one of the most basic geometric patterns known to man: the square. For more than an hour he had patiently gone over the moves with her, first having her copy his moves by standing behind him and then mirroring his moves as he had placed their hands in the proper positions. He foolishly distracted himself for but a moment by thinking about what song currently residing in the jukebox would do well with this dance and that's when she managed to get their legs entangled and they had gone down. Instinctively, he had twisted their bodies so that she would land on top and he would take the brunt of the fall.
She had immediately gotten off of him and that's when the apologizing had begun. Another fifteen minutes it took just to get her to go away so he can now assess the damage done. After gingerly standing up, he's able to ascertain that other than his bruised toes, shins and backside that the only other damage done is to his ego.
He takes a moment to think of what to do next and it is then that he realizes that he's not hearing any sounds coming from the kitchen. When he gets to that particular area of the Gallery, he finds her standing just outside the kitchen, shaking like a leaf in the wind and crying again. Great, just what he needs.
"May I inquire as to what the trouble is?" he asks, though he can take a guess.
"I killed a man with my cookin'," she whimpers as more tears leave wet trails down her face.
"Audrey, may I point out that in fact all you did was make the crust for the quiches," he reminds her. "I am the one who created the poisonous concoction that made them sick and in the case of that one man, caused his death."
"But I helped," she wailed, turning her extremely bloodshot eyes towards him. "I helped ya kill him. Ya told me they would just get sick."
"They were only supposed to get sick," he replies. "The death of this one man while unexpected, is not unwelcome."
"How can ya say that?" she demands. "He was another human bein'."
"So was Major Jones until I ended his life," he points out. "Yet I did not see you grieving his passing. If my guess is correct, the man in question worked for Shire Stables, not someone to be spilling tears over."
"Are ya sure he worked for Shire Stables?" she sniffles quietly.
"I can find out if you like," he offers.
"Please," she quietly requests.
"Very well," he agrees with a nod. "I will go and do that now, if you make dinner."
"Ok," she says in a small voice and hesitantly steps into the kitchen.
"Good, I will be back as soon as I can," he tells her, before disappearing down one of the many halls of the Gallery.
"Ok, girl, ya can do this," she whispers to herself. "He's not afraid of ya bein' in here, and neither should ya."
With a shaking hand, she opens the refrigerator door and starts to pull out the ingredients for dinner.
"Robert 'Bobby' Catesby," V announces as he steps into the kitchen where he finds her putting the finishing touches on dinner.
"Who's Bobby Catesby?" she asks as she puts down a bowl of linguine in a pesto sauce.
"The man who died due to our little escapade," he explains. "Not only did he used to work for Shire Stables, he was the man assigned to finding you."
"He was lookin' for me?" she whispers, her face white as a sheet.
"Yes, so you see, there is no need to lament this man's passing," he points out.
"I guess not," she replies shakily and barely manages to get into a chair before collapsing on the floor.
"Now what is the matter?" he asks, trying to keep the exasperation out of his voice.
"I always knew that they'd try to find me, but…," she answers.
"But…?" he prompts after several moments of silence.
"I guess some small part of me had hoped they had given up," she replies quietly. "It's like I'm in another world down here. It's so surreal. I've lost all track of time. How long have I been down here?"
"Almost a month," he answers.
"I told ya they wouldn't stop lookin' for me," she whispers as her shoulders slouch in defeat. "They never will. Sooner or later they will find me."
"They will never find you here," he states in a self assured tone.
"But how long will I be here?" she questions. "The rest of my life? Until you tire of me and hand me over to them? How long, V?"
"I will never hand you over to them," he nearly growls.
"But if you send me away, you might as well hand me to them on a silver platter," she almost sobs. "Where would I go? What would I do? A single word out of my mouth and everyone will know I don't belong here. So what do I chose, V? I can be tortured, interrogated and then shot by Creedy or I can be put in a cage and treated like an animal until my usefulness runs out. Or do I stay here never to feel the sun on my skin again, catalogin' your finds and makin' dinners you seldom share with me? One way or another, I'm a prisoner, be it yours or theirs. Even though the cage is gilded, it's still a cage, V."
"What right would they have to make you a slave again?" he asks after several moments of silence.
"They have a copy of my ownership papers," she answers quietly. "They do that with all of their slaves in case something happens to the owner. They just slip in and steal away the slave while the authorities are lookin' the other way. That's how come they can undersell their competitors. They have the right to reclaim the property."
"Jones paid nearly a quarter of a million pounds for you," he tells her.
"That's because I was bought from over seas," she replies. "Plus there was the price of the surgeries. Accordin' to the man in charge of me in France, they nearly took a loss with me. Their hope was that Jones would let them use me as a breeder to make up some of the price I cost them. They were in the middle of negotiations when you killed him."
"Jones was actually considering allowing them to use you like an animal?" he hisses.
"Actually, this was the only time that Michael was willin' to protect me," she replies sourly. "An' it wasn't because he actually didn't want me to suffer the humiliation of bein' bred, it was because he didn't want to lose the benefit of havin' a cook, maid an' babysitter for six months."
"How would he have explained your disappearance?" he asks.
"Easy enough," she responds with a shrug. "Just tell people I had a mental breakdown and went to a nice private hospital out in the country."
"Convenient," he growls.
"Very," she sighs. "Dinner's gettin' cold."
"I shall eat in my office," he tells her as he picks up a plate and starts to serve himself. "If you don't mind."
"Course not," she softy assures him. "Gettin' kind of used to eatin' by myself."
Once he's gone, she packs up dinner and puts it away, no longer interested in eating. She washes, dries and puts away the dishes before returning to her room. She gets ready for bed and then crawls between the sheets where she stares into the darkness for what seems like days.
She thinks about the two bright spots that have helped her keep her sanity all this time and the thought that she'll never see them again tears her up inside. Yes, there is some solace in playing the guitar and singing, but you can't hold a song or kiss it. It can't tell you about its day or ask for help with its homework or ask you to kiss and make a boo-boo better. She buries her face in her pillow and cries knowing that while the twins aren't hers by birth, they will always be hers by heart.
She finds him a few days later in the kitchen packing food into a traveling bag. He's dressed to go out with the knives strapped to his middle and his cloak draped over the back of the while his hat sits in the middle of the table.
"V, what are ya doin'?" she asks.
"I'm afraid I must be away for a few days," he tells her, not pausing in his packing.
"Where are you goin'?" she questions.
"I can't tell you that," he replies while he puts a few last items in his pack.
"What should I do while you're gone?" she inquires, the old fears starting to crawl back out of their hole.
"Continue working on cataloging the artwork," he answers as he closes up the bag. "Eat when you're hungry, wash when you're dirty and sleep when you're tired."
"What if someone…?" she starts.
"No one will find you here, Audrey," he interrupts as he picks his cloak up and swirls it around his shoulders. "Even if they set a new person to start looking for you, they have no idea where to begin. Rest assured that you are perfectly safe here."
With that, he bows to her, dons his hat, shoulders the sack of food and heads towards the main door. She watches him pick up a large duffle bag waiting by the door and then with a swish of his cloak he's gone. The lock clicks into place, echoing through the silent chambers with a finality that makes her shudder.
She stands motionless for several minutes trying to get a handle on her nerves and listens to the near deafening silence. Even the grandfather clock seems to be still and after a few moments she realizes that she's holding her breath. She lets the air out of her lungs shakily and then goes to make her breakfast.
She doesn't get more than a couple of bites into her meal before she gets up and heads for the jukebox, unable to stand the silence anymore. While staring at the buttons, she discovers that it can be programmed to randomly play the songs and she gladly pushes that button. Once the first strands of music waft through the quiet rooms, she doesn't feel so alone or frightened and goes back to her repast.
Once the dishes are cleaned and put away, she goes over to the jukebox and finds the volume control, turning it up so she can hear the music in the storage room even if she won't be able to make out the words. As soon as that's done, she heads down the hall and gets back to work, finally finishing the work on the painting that's been patiently waiting. She pulls out a Classical painting of a sitting woman with a sad face, robes draped around her, but with her front exposed from the waist up, a crown upon her head and a small snake in her hand.
She can't find the artist's name and starts searching on the InterLink for banned paintings matching the description she types into the search engine. At first it brings up hundreds of paintings of half nude women on the initial search, but as she narrows it down, more and more of the extras fall away. Finally she's left with the thumbnail images of a half dozen painting and she easily finds what she's looking for: Gavin Hamilton's Cleopatra.
"Give me my robe, put on my crown; I have Immortal longings in me," she quietly quotes to herself. "Good heaven's, who'd o' thought that I would remember that blasted play from high school. Oh bloody hell, now I'm starting quote Shakespeare just like V. Heaven help me."
Slightly shaking her head, she starts to switch windows when she notices an ad in a banner across the top of the page, but she quickly dismisses it. She finishes cataloging the painting and then moves on to the next one but something in the back of her mind won't let her forget that ad. She clicks back to the window with the ad and looks at it for a bit more, but fear grips her while her heart fights with her brain.
He said that she couldn't see them again, that it was too dangerous. But did that mean she had to lose all contact with them? Didn't they have a right to know that she's alright? That they shouldn't worry about her? That she loves them?
She doesn't know how long she sits there staring at that screen; time doesn't seem to have any meaning anymore. V would probably forbid it, but he's not here and she has no way to contact him. Besides, how would he know if she did it? It's not like she's going to write it across the sky, it'll be such a short little thing. How can he possibly begrudge her that? Just the shortest of notes. Something to comfort them in their time of need.
Taking a deep breath and letting it out slowly, she manages to steady most of her nerves. What he doesn't know can't hurt him. So, with a shaking hand, she moves the mouse and the pointer on screen moves in conjunction with it onto the ad banner. Swallowing a lump in her throat, she clicks on the ad for free email.
"Give me my robe, put on my crown; I have Immortal longings in me." – Antony and Cleopatra