Part 1 -- Roses Are Red
*Note -- this is part of a longer erotic series with a slow build. The following two chapters do not contain explicit sex.
10
They say the night before her execution, Catherine Howard stayed up all night in the Tower, rehearsing how to look ladylike when she knelt, and laid her head on the block.
Divorced, beheaded, and died. Divorced, beheaded, survived.
Waiting there in that cell for Mr. Caine in my tatty, paint-spattered clothes, with my hair wild and my makeup smeared, I almost considered doing the same. Anything to keep my mind busy, and my million anxieties at bay.
I had no idea what I would tell him when he arrived. What I could possibly say to explain myself? And after that guard's ominous indictment, even if he wanted to, I wasn't at all sure he could help me. My fate, it seemed, might already be sealed. But then, I can't say I called him expecting to be rescued. I wasn't Andromeda, crying out for her Perseus. I'd only done it because I was desperate, because I didn't know what else to do. And I didn't much care if it was Perseus, the Gorgon, or Cetus himself who answered.
But now he was coming. Like a demon summoned from some dwindling embers, I'd read the words. I'd signed my name
,
dug my grave
.
Now there was nothing more to do, but wait.
I shivered. I think an hour passed, maybe two. Or perhaps it was just twenty minutes. Honestly, I had no idea. But by some Babylonian miracle, I was still in one piece when the guard finally came back for me. Justine and her coven had fallen to infighting, and for all their ghastly threats, in the end they hardly touched a hair on my head.
Even so, I got the feeling the margin of my safety was still razor-thin, and said a soft prayer of thanks when they hauled open the heavy steel door to set me free. I glanced back one last time to the drunk girl, still crouched in the corner as I made my escape. I felt guilty, I guess, leaving her there at the mercy of the wolves. But I knew I couldn't help her. I couldn't even help myself. Besides, I had my own wolf to worry about now. My skin prickled again as the door groaned shut.
The guard led me out to a windowless room with a steel desk in the center. Without a word, she pulled out my purse, my jacket, Peter's parka, and laid the brass fire iron atop the pile. I signed where she tapped with her white lacquered nail '
Ist doch ein jedes Blättchen gut,'
I grimaced
.
She cleared her throat. The papers were shuffled away. And with a sidelong glance, she nodded toward the opposite door.
"Wait. That... that's it?" I stammered, "I can go?"
Her lips drew tight, "It would seem so, Madame."
"But you said—" the words got stuck in my throat, "I mean, didn't you say?"
"You can count yourself lucky," she cut in, adjusting her collar, "to have such friends as you do."
I stared, baffled. But I didn't dare ask. She placed her pen on the desk. I kept my eyes on the ground.
"Now if you don't mind, Madame, we have work to do. Please, take your belongings and go."
I nodded shakily, "...Thank you, Ma'am."
"S'il vous plait, do not thank me," she raised her lip, "Were it up to me, we'd be crating you up and shipping you home tonight." She slid her chair out with a screech, "Sadly, I am overruled. Bonne nuit, Madame."
My faced burned, but I took my cue, gathering up the heap in my arms as I backed away through the door. At any moment, I still expected her stop me; to smile snidely, and cast me back in that cage.
'We think of the key,'
I bit my lip.
The Gilded Cage. Evelyn did it better than Saint George.
"Penny..."
My heart stopped. I heard him behind me; heard his footsteps on the floor.
"Are you alright?"
I stood frozen, unable to turn, and face him.
"I said, are you alright?" He grasped my shoulder and whirled me about, "Are you
hurt
?"
I left my eyes locked on the scuffed linoleum. I couldn't bare to look at him. Even seeing my sneakers opposite his flashing black oxfords was almost too much to bear.
"No," I lied, "No, I'm so sorry, sir. I know I shouldn't—"
"Your ankle," he cut me off, dropping to one knee, "Tell me what happened."
"It's nothing," I shook my head, flushing crimson as he rolled up the cuff of my jeans, "Just twisted."
"You shouldn't be walking on it," he glared, "Has anyone looked at this?"
I blushed brighter, suppressing a quiver as his fingertips pressed along my leg.
"I think they had bigger fish to fry, sir."
"They should have brought you to a hospital. Not to jail," he glared.
Hospital?
I felt my stomach fill with needles.
"It's really not that bad. And I mean..." my voice quavered, "I
was
caught breaking and entering."
"Yes. So I heard," he growled, still softly prodding my ankle, "Well it doesn't seem to be broken."
"Like I said," I sighed, "Just twisted."
"Maybe. But that's no reason to ignore it," he stood, "Give me your things. We're leaving."
We?
As he rose, I caught my first full glimpse of him, and felt my whole body turn to ash.
Tabernak,
I burned
. Where the hell was he tonight?
Beneath his topcoat, he wore a trim and well-tailored tuxedo. The clash between us made me feel even more ridiculous. He looked as if he'd just left opening night at the opera, or the Romanov's Winter Palace. Whereas in my rags I could've been an urchin crawling out of some squalid Dickensian slum.
Or a Saint-Michel jail cell, for that matter.
I bit my lip.
Seriously, where was he?
He took the parka and the fire iron from me, and helped me into my jacket.
"Your shoulder's still ripped," he sneered, pinching the gash.
"I know. I'm sorry," I shivered.
"I don't need you to be sorry," his words blew cool on the back of my neck, "I just need you to fix it."
I gritted my teeth.
He's angry, isn't he? He's got every right to be
. Much as I hated being treated like a child, under the circumstances, I suppose I probably deserved it. I folded my hands in front of me. I kept my eyes down. Under the circumstances, he could treat me however he liked.
"Yes, sir..." I murmured.
"Here," he shrugged out of his topcoat, "It's twenty below out there."
"No," I started, "Th-that's not nec—"
But he'd already slung it over my shoulders. I sighed. The heaviness alone was enough to silence me. I felt the warmth of him in its smooth silk lining. I breathed his cedar and civetone scent in the wool.
He nodded. "Now, come. Time to go."
He offered his arm and I took it, my hand quivering on his stiff and sinuous bicep. I limped alongside him through the precinct's unruly lobby, out into the quilted stillness of the fresh-fallen snow.
He kept me close. I didn't ask where he was taking me. At that point, I'm not even convinced that I cared. Perhaps it was just the exhaustion catching up with me. Perhaps it was all the looking-glass lunacy of what had already happened that night. Or perhaps it was
him
—just the sheer heat of him—drawing me along like a moth to the flame. Either way, there was no turning back.
Halfway down the block, we halted beside an old sand-colored Land Rover on the curb, with a web of steel chains on its tires. My eyes widened as he reached for the door.
"This is your car?" I blinked.
