He turns and staggers up the grand staircase, not bothering to wait. What is he doing? Can she trust him? If he were trying to harm her, lead her to danger, then wouldn’t he be forcing her to go?
She looks at the front door to the Knox—it’s right there, mere feet away. She could just walk out right now. To her safety, at the very least.
But upstairs beckons her. Vivian—ithasto be Vivian.
She follows Michael as he lurches up the stairs; they are now climbing a second staircase, a seemingly endless metal one. With his injured knee, he moves like he is riding a horse, jerking up and down. Finally, they arrive at a landing with two doors, and he swings one open. A long corridor extends beyond, and Taylor’s heart flutters. A connection to the servants’ quarters. Ithasto be.
They push down that corridor and spill out into a wing of the adjacent building, nearly colliding with Eduardo, clad in a pair of silk monogrammed pajamas. He looks surprised to see them—and worried, his face pulled like a stitch. The smoke detectors are blaring here, too.
Can flames travel through connecting buildings? Through brick walls?
Michael cups his hand over his mouth as he briefly leans toward Eduardo to say something. The two of them spring ahead, Michael glancing behind to ensure Taylor is following.
Then—they are gone, disappearing into an open bedroom door. Taylor approaches and hovers at the entrance; she’s filled with a strange sensation, almost like déjà vu. There’s something so familiar that it takes her a second to understand. It’s a makeshift hospital room: an electric hospital bed, a barren IV pole, a commode.
Jerry is there, along with a slight woman whose blue hair is growing out. They nervously flit around the bed. Michael stands off to the side, with the most amazed smile, as if he can’t quite believe what he’s seeing.
And neither can Taylor. She stares at the patient lying beneath the sheets: the chestnut-brown hair, the creamy skin, the ink eyelashes.
The beauty.
The Knox
The fire is growing much, much,muchtoo quickly! It’s quite rude, really, with its insatiable appetite. I take offense at the way it makes haste through my rooms, helping itself to everything in sight—expensive furniture, fine silver, heirloom antiques, priceless paintings (oh no, not the Rembrandt!).
This is all rather embarrassing. It’s creatingsucha commotion. People are gathering outside, their mouths impolitely agape. No, no. No!!!
And it only continues to worsen, completely ravaging my insides. Help. Help!
I amnotprepared for this indignity.
Why is there no assistance??!!
Help!!!___help!___help___hel___hell___.
_____________.
Taylor
The men hoist Vivian up, and the group slips into the hall. Smoke has begun seeping through to this building, the air now hazy like smog. They trip and stumble as they descend the stairs. The lower they go, the murkier and more acrid the air becomes. They are mostly quiet, consumed with the sheer effort. Occasionally there’s a check-in, “You okay?” or a warning, “Turning the bend now!” Heat flares against their faces. Taylor tries not to think about the possibility that they are walking directly into the inferno.
And she waits, with dread, for claustrophobia to revisit. But somehow it doesn’t happen. Somehow, as they teeter down the steps like a group who’s just closed the bar, Taylor feels oddly safe, protected.
It’s such a strange sensation that she wonders for a moment if she’s still high.
“Last set of stairs!” Jerry yells. Then he turns to the blue-haired woman who’s trailing closely behind. “You okay, Tara?”
Her response is drowned out by a loud crackling.
“Almost there!” Eduardo shouts, as a cough begins bubbling in Taylor.
And then they’re on flat surface—the foyer floor—moving in the direction of the front door. The heat and smoke suddenly surge; Taylor can’t hold it in any longer—she bends over, exploding in a coughing fit. When she recovers, she reaches out, but all she grasps is air.
No one’s there.She’s lost them.
She’s alone.
Then, like a magician’s sleight of hand, someone clasps Taylor’s arm, leading her forward.
