“Did you see who took you?” he inquired in a voice lower and much gentler than before.
“I... No. I never saw them, sir,” she answered.
He fingered a small item on the desktop and looked up at her again, the alarm still in his eyes; watching her closely but saying nothing. She took this as a queue to offer further detail of her experiences.
“It was a man, that I know,” she said, searching her memory. “He spoke but little. I don’t think I could identify his voice if I heard it again.”
“Where were you,” he asked. “When you were taken?”
“At my uncle’s,” she said, then reconsidered her answer. “That is, at home. In a strange room I’d never seen before.”
Blackall’s brow furrowed slightly at this, as if he thought it strange. He was so still that she wondered if he’d heard her last words. His dark hair fell forward as he sat, turning his hands over. He stared at them for a long time, like a gypsy reading his own palms. And as she watched, a light came over his face. A warmth, like one basking in the sun after a long winter. She was not mistaken, a near invisible smile had formed on his lips. And a tiny glimmer lit his clouded eyes.
“You’ll be needing a bed for the night,” he said, “And we’ve many. Stay here.”
At that, he stood up and departed the room. She was left confused, wondering if she’d truly just been the recipient of... hospitality? Didn’t he despise and distrust her? Wasn’t she his prisoner? Why hadn’t he asked who her family was? Would he not use her for ransom then? Perhaps he meant to do so in the morning. Surely he must.
But before she could finish her thought, a boy stood at the door; the same boy who’d lit the fire. He held a lantern and beckoned her to follow, and she did; thrilled at the thought of having a bed to rest in. All night she’d been dragged about and jailed like a treasonous rag doll.
This sudden change in treatment was certainly pleasant, but not enough to calm her fears. She couldn’t let a little hospitality soften her senses, whatever they were good for at this point.
The young man led her down dark hallways, up winding staircases, around awkward, crooked corners, and past door after door until she felt quite lost. Finally, at the end of a great hallway that echoed at the sound of their footfalls, he stopped and pulled a large iron key out of his pocket. He opened the door, turning the heavy lock with a grinding click. Inside was a strange four-posted bed with netting fashioned above and around the top. She assumed it was what these strange characters took for decoration. In truth, it looked like she was about to spend the night caught in a fishing net. The bedding and curtains were tattered. Unsurprisingly, there wasn’t a single window. After all, she was deep underground.
Everything was old, worn, and cast with a greasy sheen. It looked like a honeymoon chamber for beggars, or the desecrated ancestral home of a 300-year-old aristocrat. There was an odd sort of ragged grandeur to the place, as if the furniture had been stolen from a royal prince’s quarters and brought here to be used by generations of fishermen.
She tried not to panic at the thought that she couldn’t get out or see the sky. Rather, she focussed on gratitude at having a bed to sleep in. It was a relief, after all. And was surely better than being left to rot in an old office or a moldy carriage.
After seeing her in, the boy dropped the lantern on the vanity, it’s light reflecting in the foggy glass of the oval mirrors. Before he left, he turned and locked his cold eyes on her.
“Count yourself lucky.”
He left without saying more, locking the door. She stood dumbfounded, staring into the lantern’s flickering light. His look had chilled her. In his eyes glinted a look of true fear - desperate, mortal fear she’d never seen before.
She sat on the edge of the bed, her backside hitting the straw-filled mattress with a jarring thump. It was a relief to finally find silence, and something akin to repose. Certainly, her situation was precarious. But she finally felt free to settle down. She reclined and mulled over the events of the past twenty-four hours. Perhaps her uncle was wondering where she was. Perhaps he’d sent men out after her. But the more she considered it, the less likely it seemed. She’d gone weeks without seeing or speaking to him in the past. And then she recalled the conversation she’d overheard between her uncle and Mrs. Ackworth, how they wished for her to disappear. He’d certainly gotten his wish.
But, perhaps he’d change his mind. Perhaps the shock of losing her might tug at his heart, and he’d wish her back again. Surely, he was her only hope for salvation. But then she considered the even more dubious prospect of anyone being able to find her here. She certainly hadn’t left a trail of bread crumbs behind.
She tried to picture a police inspector clever enough to find the room she’d initially been taken from, the one with the paintings. Then the place in the corridors where she’d been held. Then somehow follow her trail through all of those dark corridors. And then track her journey in the carriage. This miracle-working detective would finally have to find her here - in a cell, at the end of an underground maze guarded by hundreds of thieves and degenerates she hazarded most regiments would hesitate to enter. Not only would this investigator have to perform this miraculous feat. But the initiation of his search depended on her uncle actually wanting her to be found. Which she knew he did not.
She clasped her forehead at the thought of it, trying not to despair. But she couldn’t help it. The walls closed in on her, and she felt very cold. It seemed she may never escape, that she may be stuck here for good. Her heart pounded within a constricted box. She felt suffocated. It seemed she’d begun a new chapter in life. One she hadn’t chosen and that she could never turn back from. She’d never see her home again. Or if she did, she’d see it with different eyes. Not the eyes of the girl who’d lived there. Someone else who didn’t know it’s security anymore. A changed, marred woman.
All of these thoughts overwhelmed her. Fear mixed with fatigue. She felt exhausted. The night had been a long, terrifying ordeal. It must be nearly sunrise by now. She looked around. Perhaps there was something she could use in escape - a weapon, a hiding place, anything. She didn’t see any escape routes, nor any entrances other than the one she’d come in through. It was solidly locked. She saw nothing to aid her in self defense either. Unless she somehow obtained the strength to break off furniture legs with bare hands. No, the room was equipped with a bed, fireplace, vanity, armchairs and various side tables. But no obvious weapons.
Nothing else caught her eye. So, she reclined against the battered coverlet and closed her eyes, pulling her cloak close about her. The warmth soothed her. Soon, she was walking through a dark, foggy place. The ground was sunken and muddy, like the streets of the underground city. The space around her was open and black. It echoed as if it went on for miles. But she couldn’t see a thing. She came upon a statue. It stood tall, it’s base towering high above her head. The hooded, cloaked figure upon it reached out it’s hand and pointed off into the distance, it’s sleeves draping down in dark, billowing folds. She followed it’s finger. In the distance, beyond it’s pointing hand, the tops of giant trees spreading out over a misty landscape. Above the treetops rose the dark spires of a great house.
CHAPTER 5
A Wedding Chamber for Beggars
Annabelle’s eyes cracked opened. Dim firelight reflected off the tattered coverlet beneath her cheek. She smiled, basking in the warmth of the fire, for she hadn’t remembered where she was. When she did, her heart sank and she moaned, wondering how long she’d been asleep. But she’d neither sky nor clock to gauge time.
Tick tick tick. The subtle noise filled her ears as she scanned the room for its origin, her vision still blurred. Sitting up groggily, she saw a dark form sitting motionless in an armchair at the other end of the room. The man’s face was hidden in the shadow of the chair’s upper curve. He might even be asleep. But who was he? Was he a threat to her safety?
“Finally awake.”
Blackall’s voice star
tled her, and her whole body reacted in a jolt. She watched his hands move to check the ticking silver watch sitting on his leg, his thick fingers fiddling with the intricate parts. It was greatly troubling that she couldn’t see his face to read what might be there. He might be angry with her again, how could she know? It felt like he was watching her, but she couldn’t see his eyes. So, she fidgeted and glanced about the room anxiously, not knowing what to do. He finally sat forward, revealing his sharp features and dark hair. His forehead was creased with strain, and he looked pale.
“How are you feeling?” He asked in a deep, emotionless voice.
She met his gaze and made to speak. But she was again taken aback by what she saw in his eyes. There was a brazen quality to his expression that jarred and surprised her each time she saw it. She was never quite prepared for it. He looked so directly, straight into her eyes without shame. It filled her body with a strange, rushing sensation. She felt conspicuous and naked in his presence. And she sensed, from his look, that he wanted something from her, something beyond a simple answer to his question. Yet she’d no idea what.
“Alright then,” he said wryly, after she didn’t respond.
How might I be feeling? She thought.
“What’s your name, girl?” he asked more aggressively. “Who’re your family?”
Annabelle sighed deeply. She’d been expecting this question to come, but hadn’t decided how best to answer it. She’d been too tired last night to devise a plan other than the truth. Lies were dangerous, especially when she didn’t know what Blackall already knew. He’d warned her against lying. And after seeing the boy’s face, she feared what might happen if she displeased Blackall. If she lied about her name and he tried for ransom, he would eventually learn she lied. And then do her harm. Her uncle probably wouldn’t pay a ransom anyway. She was a useless hostage. But she could at least avoid punishment for lying. It seemed her best option was to tell the truth.
“Annabelle,” she said, her voice quiet. “Annabelle Morton, sir.”
Blackall’s face betrayed no expression. He lit and puffed his pipe thoughtfully as he studied her, likely to suss out lies.
“Hmmph.”
She couldn’t tell if he was satisfied with her answer. But she took the opportunity to straighten her skirt, which was horribly smudged, wrinkled and ripped in places. Her attempts certainly didn’t do much good. But it kept her hands busy and distracted her from their shaking.
“Any relation to the old banker?” Blackall asked.
She sighed deeply. He certainly didn’t miss a trick. He must know far more than she realized. She’d chosen right to tell him the truth.
“Yes,” she conceded. “He is my uncle and guardian.”
She was now as good as ransomed. She knew it. Tiberius Morton was wealthy, influential and had much for a man like Blackall to exploit. She watched Blackall’s eyes dilate as he leaned back into his armchair, his face receding into shadow once more. It seemed pointless to say anything else. Nothing she could say would change this man’s intention to use and imprison her. Kidnappers often killed their victims to avoid being identified. She would likely be locked up here for the rest of her life, however long that may be. She’d live buried deep underground without even a sliver of sun. And then her days would end. For all her optimism, it seemed easier to deal with Ackworth’s cruelty and have some freedom and light. There’d seemed some possibility there. She meant to improve her situation by leaving. But she’d only managed to make it worse. She would surely never make it out now.
She bit back hot tears, trying to stop her lip from quivering. Although she’d no desire to weep in front of this boor, her defenses dropped. She didn’t care anymore. Her pride didn’t seem to matter. This man would likely see her at her most pathetic in the days to come. He’d probably deliver the death blow himself. What did it matter anymore what he saw? Why should she hide? She was exhausted. Afraid. Hopeless. And tired of trying.
Her eyes dropped to the floor. All the hope and strength ran out of her. She could feel Blackall’s gaze lock onto her, but didn’t care. She fiddled with the bed cover’s marred embroidery, her fingers tracing the softened stitch lines as tears blurred her eyes. She turned her face away to mask the tears. When she finally looked up, Blackall’s face was still hidden. But she heard his voice, gentler than usual, speak out of the darkness.
“What’s your middle name girl?”
The question surprised her.
“Why d-”
“What is it,” he snapped.
“Vardana,” she said quietly.
She’d always been somewhat ashamed of it. It sounded rather... exotic. That was how the kitchen staff at Orenn had put it, at least. But she always knew they meant it as a slight. At the statement of her middle name, Blackall stood up. He paced and shifted about. His hands fidgeted. He seemed excited somehow, almost troubled. His sudden change in mood set her on edge. Perhaps he wasn’t completely sane. It would surely answer for a lot. He glanced up at her occasionally as he paced, and just as quickly looked away. Then suddenly, he stopped.
“How old are ya,” he asked, his voice low.
“Fifteen, sir.” Annabelle answered.
He grunted in reply. She spoke as politely as possible, hoping to calm him. But he went on pacing for a moment or two longer. She was relieved when he stopped. Then, she watched as he emptied his pipe ash onto the ground, tapping the bottom lightly. When he looked up, his eyes were cloudy.
“What shall we do with you, miss,” He said, more reflectively than as a real question. She shuddered to think what he could do, and tried not to imagine the possibilities. She swallowed hard, and again searched for an answer that would please him.
“I don’t know sir,” she answered, then thought to try boldness. “Perhaps let me go?”
The side of his mouth curled upward as he refilled his pipe. But he didn’t answer. He pulled his armchair across the floor, the legs skidding loudly against the wooden planks, then dropped it directly across from her and sat down. A small puff of dust went up when he sat, whether from his clothing or the chair, she couldn’t be sure. His presence loomed. It alarmed her to have him so near. The tips of his fingers were stained dark. He looked nothing like her uncle or any of the men she’d seen at Orenn House - polished gentlemen and rich men’s servants, their clothes impeccably clean and starched, their hair groomed and their hands spotless, their eyes opaque and dull. Blackall was nothing like them - he was fierce and shameless. He didn’t seem to care for his disheveled appearance. He seemed indifferent to it, emanating confidence despite it. He leaned back and lit his pipe with a match, then threw it in the direction of the fireplace. Smoke curled up in slow, hypnotic waves. His eyes reflected light like a cat’s, and fixed on hers again; sending a thrill of terror through her belly. The fear of his intense looks circled her in his presence, an active threat that she maneuvered to avoid.
“So,” he said. “Sir Morton’s your uncle. And what of your mother and father? What were their names? I assume they’ve passed, as you’ve named Sir Morton your guardian.”
Annabelle’s face grew hot with shame. She was embarrassed to be questioned on intimate matters by a stranger in the first place. But the awful truth was, she knew nothing of her parents. Uncle Morton had kept her in ignorance all these years. And the staff at Orenn House had made it clear she should be ashamed of such a thing. Many had teased her, some had even formed rumors about her, saying she was a gypsy left on the doorstep. Anyways, why should Blackall need to know? It wasn’t relevant to ransoming her. But surely, he was a dangerous man she must try to please him.
“My father,” she replied. “Was... Sir Morton’s brother.”
She spoke quickly, hoping not to reveal her feelings of shame. But his look seemed to bore right through her, from her head down to her feet; as if he could read her like a book, even before she’d opened her mouth. Surely, a man as clever as he was likely to have read the entire volume already, and anticipated the c
onclusion of the sequel. She was surprised that his manner stayed calm, despite her evasive and disobliging answer.
“But what do you know of him,” he asked. “Your father.”
“I...I-”
Blackall kept his eyes on her, awaiting an answer. He would clearly not let her take a pass. So she forced words out, lifting her chin against the anticipated shame.
“I don’t know,” she said softly. “I know nothing of my parents.”
Blackall’s face betrayed no expression but slight strain from puffing his pipe. This surprised her, for she expected scorn or contempt.
“And what of your uncle?” he continued, watching her closely.
“I know nothing of his business affairs, sir,” she said flatly. “He would never confide in me regarding such things.”
“But what have you observed,” he said, his voice low and steady, “In the halls of that great house of his?”
Annabelle’s brow furrowed.
“I’ve no knowledge of the location of any riches,” she said, her tone turning sarcastic. “Nor of any strange dealings, sir, When all are in bed, I am generally myself as well.”
Blackall’s eyebrows lifted slightly, as if he thought her stubborn. She guessed he was searching for blackmail material or to turn her into his scout. But she truly didn’t know anything worth telling. Uncle Morton was a staunch old piece of goods. He rarely did anything notable.
Blackall breathed out and shifted in his seat as if frustrated. He leaned his head back against the chair, looking strained. But he kept his anger in check.
“Blackmail is not my intention, miss,” he said.
Her lips pursed and she swallowed hard. Was he exceedingly clever or had he just read her mind?
“Then,” she said, “Your questions confuse me... Quite.”
Blackall smiled, a rather alarming thing that set her pulse to racing. And very suddenly, as she looked into his eyes, a cold wind seemed to move through the chamber - this windowless, stagnant chamber - and she felt a strange stillness come over her. And a sudden impression chilled her deeply, a sense that his concerns were quite different from what she had previously surmised. That they transcended such petty matters. That this was about much more than ransom or blackmail or greed. Something she couldn’t quite...
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