When she was sure he’d
gone, Elizabeth continued her ascent, passed Hermione’s
room, and even with the door closed, the smell of medicinal
mixtures reached out. Her hand felt out for the balustrade,
its warm oak touch bringing her momentary comfort. Then her
feet pushed out to find the bottom tread of the next set of
stairs.
Up she went. The
rows of doors on the next landing were the bedrooms of the
servants. They would be down in the bowels of the house at
this time, washing the dishes from dinner and preparing food
for tomorrow. Elizabeth gulped and, although in the darkness
she could see little, she sensed the final stairs. Up there
were two rooms. Two doors opposite each other. Both locked
and bolted from the outside. Surely the servants had heard
something? The rooms were only just above their rooms.
Elizabeth hadn’t
brought a candle in its holder. She didn’t want anyone to
see a light and come to investigate. Now she wished for just
some illumination on the shadows. The age-old human fear of
the dark gripped her imagination.
There they were. New
locks recently fitted. Her husband, Martin had done the
work. They’d worried about bringing in an artisan, who might
then start local gossip on something he’d
vaguely seen or heard. Within each door was fit a sliding
window. Elizabeth turned to the left and carefully half slid
the opening. She peered in. Nothing moved. Then a sudden
shuffling made her slam the opening. The noise seemed to
reverberate around the house, but in reality it was only
echoing in her conscience.
It was there. She
shuddered at the thought. She’d
called the thing IT. Elizabeth knew its human aspect. She
tried to blot out what she knew and had experienced.
The mistress of the
house crept over to the other door. Her heart started
pounding. Inside the room was another type of fear. This
sensation was mixed with something in her soul she had tried
to deny. Slowly the small opening slipped back. There were
small crumbs of bread in the wooden runners. She remembered
pushing food through there two days ago.
In the corner of
this section of the attic, Elizabeth detected the low
flickering of an oil lamp. Martin must have been up here
early. What was he doing? It wasn’t feeding time. Should
she leave the light?
Her eyes became
accustomed to the recessed gloom. She scanned the dusty
room. There were the old trunks with the accumulation of
many years of clothes and materials, too old to use, yet not
yet thrown out. Farther around the room her glance searched
anxiously. Then she gulped and let out a small, faint yet
thrilled cry.
Chained to the wall
by wrists and ankles were Martin’s
latest prizes wearing ragged clothes, and their eyes looked
like wounded animals. Such gorgeous creatures. A young man
and woman, tempted, bribed and snatched from the streets of
London.
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