by Cross, Amy
Good.
Another imperfection that must be lost.
I watch as the blade runs under the mole, loosening the entire patch of skin. The pain is much stronger than before, and after a moment I start letting out a series of pained whimpers as tears run down my cheeks.
“Be strong,” I whimper, “be strong, be strong...”
Once I'm done with this latest slice, I place the piece of flesh on the table and stare at the mole for a moment. I feel a little sad to lose something I have carried with me since birth, and for a few seconds I think back to the way Father used to run his fingertips across the mole. I'm half-minded to try sticking the damn thing back in place, although I quickly realize that the cause is lost. I suppose one must simply make sacrifices in the pursuit of perfection, and my childhood mole is one of those sacrifices.
“Katinka?”
Suddenly Pippa knocks on the door, and a moment later she gives the handle a try. It is immensely fortunate that I remembered to turn the key, so at least she cannot barge in and interrupt me. She tries the handle a couple more times though, rattling the door as if she thinks she can somehow budge it open.
“Katinka?” She knocks again. “Are you in there? The door won't open!”
“I shall be out soon!” I tell her, forcing a smile in the hope that its trace will carry in my voice. “Just wait for me downstairs.”
“The door's stuck!”
“It's locked!” I hiss, annoyed that she can't figure that out for herself.
“Is it?” She tries it yet again. “Are you locked inside? Don't you have a key?”
“Of course I have a key,” I mutter. “I'm the one who locked it.”
“Oh.” She pauses. “Why did you do that?”
“I would simply like a little privacy for a moment or two.”
“Why?”
“I just would !”
“Oh. Okay. But why?”
“Pippa -”
“You can be frightfully lonesome sometimes, Katinka. Anyway, Mother and I were thinking about tea!”
“I shall join you presently!”
“What are you up to?” she continues, trying the door yet again. “I wanted to apologize, Katinka. I think I must have been dreadfully insensitive earlier, when we were looking at the painting. I should try to remember in future that you're older than me, and wiser too, especially when it comes to matters of society. From now on, I shall always demur to your thoughts.”
“Good,” I stammer, fighting against the pain as more and more blood runs down my bare side. “That is how it should be.”
“And I'm sorry I didn't think more about today being the anniversary of Father's death. I asked Mother, and she hadn't realized either.”
“That's no surprise.”
“So are you coming down soon?” she continues brightly, as if she thinks all is right with the world again. “We'd all like to see you and talk about your wedding! Mother's having one of her panics again. She thinks we'll never be ready!”
“I'll be down presently. Just leave me alone for a moment longer.”
I wait, hearing nothing but silence. Finally there's the sound of footsteps heading away from the door, and I realize that my sister is going back down to the others.
Feeling faint, I lean against the side of the table and try to get my senses under control. I knew I would lose blood in this endeavor, but not quite so much, and now I am wondering whether it would be wise to complete the undertaking in two separate tries, rather than doing everything at once. Not that I am weak, of course. I simply fear that I might lose consciousness. Even the strongest among us must recognize our weaknesses.
Finally, I set the blade aside, confident that I have done enough for now. I shall finish the job tomorrow. There will be scarring, of course, but nothing that will ever be seen by another living soul. The only person who might ever expect to observe my bare waist is my future husband, but it is not as if he has some divine right. I shall simply insist on remaining clothed in front of Charles at all times. Even in our marital bed, there is no need to bare myself completely. And if he doesn't like that, then...
Well, he can lump it.
The most important thing is that I am perfect, absolutely perfect, for my wedding day. The dress is beautiful. I must be beautiful too. My husband deserves nothing less. And Father, if he is looking over me, will be so very proud.
Chapter Seven
Owen - Today
“No, I just need a taxi!” I mutter darkly, following the barman as he heads over to the beer pumps. “There has to be one somewhere! I can't walk three miles in this atrocious weather!”
As if to prove my point, there's a loud clap of thunder outside, and I turn to see flashes of rain crashing against the window. It's almost midnight, and after a train journey that was plagued by rainstorms, I've finally come up against yet another inconvenience now that I'm just a few miles from my new home. I almost drowned as I hurried from the bus stop to the pub, and now apparently there's not a taxi to be found.
“You won't get a taxi coming out here, not this late,” the barman tells me as he leisurely pours another pint. “If you want my advice, you're best off staying with us tonight and then heading out to Ashbyrn House in the morning, once the weather's died down a bit.”
“I don't want to take a room here,” I reply, trying very hard to control my temper. “I want to go to Ashbyrn House. I have the keys and I'm more than ready to move in!”
“The roads'll be nothing but puddles right now,” he continues. “It might even be dangerous, heading out there right now. You don't wanna chance it, not when Mother Nature's having a fit and a turn.” He glances over at a man who's slumped at the bar. “Isn't that right, Roger?”
The man sits up suddenly and looks at us for a moment, clearly startled, before slowly nodding his head.
“That's right,” this Roger fellow says, slowly leaning back down to rest his head on the bar again. “You can't go out in this weather. It's just not practical or -”
Suddenly he burps, which seems to lull him back to sleep.
“Maybe someone is willing to drive me,” I continue, following the barman back along the bar as he takes the pint to another customer. “Do you know anyone around here who does Uber or anything like that? I'll pay extra, I just really need to get to Ashbyrn House.”
“And I sympathize, but I reckon you're on a hiding to nothing. Like I told you, you're better off taking a room here, having a pint and something to eat, and chilling out 'til morning. There's nothing to be done about the weather. Besides, are you really in a big hurry to get there? There's nobody but the bride waiting for you.”
I open my mouth to tell him I won't wait, but suddenly I'm struck by those last words.
“What did you say?” I ask cautiously.
Nearby, another regular chuckles at something.
“I'm sure she'll give you a warm welcome,” the barman continues, eyeing me cautiously for a moment before breaking into a smile. “I'm sure I'm joking. I'm sure there's no reason to worry about the likes of her.”
Again, I'm on the verge of asking him to explain what he meant when he talked about a bride, but I quickly tell myself not to bother. These people are clearly imbeciles, and the last thing I want is to become their sport for the night I'm sure they'd delight in spewing out nonsensical ghost stories, coming up with ever more elaborate fictions concerning my new home. And any mention of a bride is just a coincidence.
“I think I'll walk,” I mutter under my breath, pulling out my phone and bringing up a map of the area. Sure enough, the trek out to Ashbyrn House is a few miles, but at least it's in a relatively straight line. Besides, the last thing I want on my first night is to be price-gouged by some local pub that offers sub-standard rooms at premium prices. A little rain never hurt anyone, and I insist on sleeping in my new home tonight. Besides, what better way to prove that I'm ready for the rural life, than to walk through this miserable weather?
Hearing a faint w
himper nearby, I turn and see a dog moping on the bare floor, staring up at me with sad eyes. I'm no expert, but I think he might be a Jack Russell.
“That's Bob,” the barman says, already pouring another pint. “My wife bought him to guard the pub, but she's gone now and the bloody dog's no use. You don't want him, do you? If I can't find someone to take him off my hands, I'll have to send him to the rescue place. I should warn you, though. He eats a lot and he doesn't bark at any bugger. Useless guard dog.”
“Maybe he just doesn't like you ,” I point out.
He furrows his brow. “How's that?”
“Having never owned a dog myself,” I continue, “I'm no expert, but I was under the impression that dogs guard people, not buildings. Perhaps this dog has simply taken a disliking to you.”
I wait for him to reply, but he seems mystified by the suggestion.
“Just a thought,” I add with a faint smile.
“I reckon it's his limp,” the man replies, as he finishes pouring the pint. Outside, there's another rumble of thunder. “The little arse got hit by a car once, and now he limps everywhere he goes. Probably makes him feel stupid. Still, he's off to the shelter on Monday, and they only give 'em two weeks to find a new owner before... Well, you know. Nobody wants a limping dog that doesn't bark, so they'll put him to sleep. Probably the best thing for the little mutt.”
As if to prove his point, the dog gets up and limps across the room, before sighing as it settles back down on the wooden floor. I watch him for a moment longer, before turning to the barman just as he sets a pint of beer in front of me.
“On the house,” he adds with a grin. “Now, will you be wanting a normal room, or the suite?”
The dog whimpers briefly, before letting out a long sigh.
“Thank you for the kind offer,” I mutter, turning and starting to drag my suitcase to the door, “but I have a long walk ahead of me.”
“You can't be serious!”
“Deadly.”
“Someone'll be able to drive you out there in the morning!”
“That's lovely,” I reply, opening the door and immediately feeling a blast of cold, rain-lashed wind blowing in from the parking lot, “but it's not much use to me. I want to get to Ashbyrn House tonight.”
Outside, the storm is causing a howling gale to crash through the trees, while the pub's sign is swaying and creaking high above. I can't help staring out at the dark, empty parking lot and wondering whether I'm making a mistake by setting off alone. Perhaps one night here at the pub would be a wise decision, but I've already announced my intention and there's no way I want to look weak by changing my mind. I'm sure I'll be fine if I just keep my coat wrapped tight and walk at a brisk pace, although for a moment I can't help staring out at the night's storm and feeling as if the wilds of Cornwall are a little more extreme than I'd expected. Welcome to the end of the world, indeed.
And then I remind myself that this is what I came for. Isolation. Solitude. Peace and quiet.
“Well, good luck to you,” the barman mutters. “You wouldn't catch me trekking about out there, not this late and definitely not in this weather. Especially not when the only thing on the other end of the walk is Ashbyrn bloody House. Gives me the willies, that place does. Give my regards to the bride, if you happen to see her.”
Hauling the suitcase outside, I stop again, readying myself for the long walk ahead. It's almost midnight already, and I expect it'll take me a couple of hours to reach the house. All I see ahead is darkness, but I know Ashbyrn House is out there somewhere waiting for me, nestled in the wild countryside far from the village. I came here for the isolation, so I can't exactly complain about the fact that the house is isolated.
And then, just as I'm about to set off, I hear a faint whimpering sound behind me. I turn and see the dog watching me with mournful eyes, and then I turn to the barman.
“How much,” I say finally, “did you want for him?”
***
“Wait!” I hiss, struggling to get the key turned while still holding onto the lead. “I know you're wet, but hold on a second! This damn thing is -”
Finally the key does its job and I hear a faint clicking sound, and I'm able – after a couple of shoves – to force the front door open. The dog immediately scurries into the darkness, leaving me to haul my suitcase up the final step and then make my way into the cold, pitch-black main hallway of Ashbyrn House. I'm soaking wet, having been drenched by the worsening storm on the long walk out here, but at least the interior of the house is dry, even if it actually seems colder than the air outside.
I can already hear the dog shaking rainwater off its fur as I push the door shut.
“There has to be a light-switch here somewhere,” I mutter, fumbling to feel for a switch on the wall. I should have made a note of such things when I was here with the realtor, but I never expected my return to occur so late at night. The place is so cold, I'm actually shivering slightly.
Unable to find a switch, I take my phone from my pocket and activate the flashlight app. I quickly find a switch on the wall, but unfortunately nothing happens when I give it a flick.
“Seriously?” I say with a sigh, trying a couple more times before starting to search for another. “Those idiots said the power would be connected today. I called them twice!”
Still soaking wet and dripping water all over the tiled floor, I make my way over to a switch next to the basement door. Again, no matter how many times I try to bring light to the proceedings, nothing seems to work. There are some hot-water pipes next to the switch, but of course they're cold to the touch and the paint is already flaking and peeling away. A moment later, small-bodied spider with thin, spindly legs crawls past my hand. I knew full well when I purchased Ashbyrn House that the place was in need of some work, but perhaps I didn't appreciate the extent of the house's dilapidation.
Hearing the dog's paw-patter on the floor, I turn and shine my phone across the hallway, just in time to see Bob sniffing the tiles as he limps toward the door that leads into the dining room. His tail is wagging and he seems happy enough, although I'm starting to wonder whether my moment of weakness at the pub was wise. I've never owned a dog in my life, and I'm not exactly sure what I'll do with him. Still, the die is cast and the decision is made, and I'm sure he'll learn to leave me alone while I work.
I guess I'll just have to throw a ball for him, a couple of times a day.
“Don't go too far,” I mutter, although Bob is already following a scent into the next room. I'm sure he'll be fine.
For now, the main task must be to get some heat, so I leave my suitcase and use the phone to light my way as I head over to one of the nearby doors. Sure enough, I look through and see the large drawing room, with a fireplace at the far end. It's one thing to possess a fireplace, of course, but as I make my way over I start to realize that I have no means of actually starting a fire. I crouch down and take a closer look, just in case I might be lucky enough to find some old wood, but the fireplace is empty save for some ash, and it's quite clear that I won't be able to get anything up and running tonight.
“Great,” I whisper under my breath, as I realize that I've arrived unprepared. Perhaps, despite my haste to get away from London, I should have waited a few more days until things were better sorted, but I just wanted to start my new life as soon as possible.
And there's a woodshed.
Suddenly I remember that there's a woodshed around the side of the house, and I definitely saw piles of wood when I was here with the realtor. I have a box of matches in my coat pocket, thanks to a moment of actual preparedness, so with a sigh of relief I realize that I actually do have the means of starting a fire after all.
Getting to my feet, I head back through to the hallway and then over to the front door, which I pull open only to see that the rain has intensified in the few minutes since my arrival. In fact, even though I can barely see the lawn, I can hear what sounds like a tropical storm, along with the gush of the house's g
uttering bringing rivers of water down to ground level. Reaching my hand out, I immediately feel the heavy rain, and I can't help thinking that perhaps I should wait until the worst of the bad weather has passed.
Then again, the storm has just seemed to get stronger and stronger since I arrived in the area, so I check that my coat is closed and then I glance over my shoulder, looking back into the darkness of the house.
“Stay here!” I call out, although I doubt the dog is even listening.
After taking a deep breath, I hurry out into the rain, which somehow is even worse than I'd anticipated. It feels as if there's more water than air all around me, and my waterproof coat is no match for such a heavy downpour. At least my phone is resistant to the elements, so I'm able to light my way as I run along the gravel path and hurry around the side of the house, searching for the woodshed I'm certain I remember seeing. Finding no sign of it, however, I realize that perhaps it was on the other side, so I make my way back the way I came while cursing and muttering under my breath.
As I pass the open front door, I see Bob sitting in the dry, watching me and wagging his tail. He looks happy enough.
“It's alright for some,” I grumble, hurrying along the side of the house and then around the far corner.
Finally I locate the woodshed, although there's little protection for me as I stop to pull some logs out. The top layer is already damp, but fortunately I find some drier specimens a little further down. Feeling something tickling my hand, I tilt the phone and spot a couple of spindly, long-legged spiders scuttling across my fingers, so I quickly brush them away before gathering more logs into my arms. I'm not afraid of spiders, but I don't exactly want to invite any into my new home. After balancing some more logs on top of the ones I've already collected, I turn and start carrying them back toward the house.
Stopping suddenly, I stare at one of the dark windows, and for a few brief heartbeats I swear I see the moonlit edge of a face staring out at me from the depths of the house. The figure is gone before I even have time to blink, and now the window is dark again, but I must admit to a moment's pause that sends a faint shiver through my chest.
