I rush across the village to make it to the train station by 6 pm – finally the date and time I’m actually supposed to be there – weighed down by my Zen and Tonic purchases and seven new books Mina convinced me I absolutelymustread. When I dash into the pub to pick up my suitcase, I’m surprised to find it empty, although there are a couple of police cars and a group of people milling around outside. I don’t have time to stop and see what’s going on.
By the time I make it onto the platform and pretend that I’ve just stepped off the train, a willowy man in a natty suit is already waiting for me, holding an ornately handwritten sign that reads MS WINIFRED PRESTON.
“Hi, that’s me.” I hold out my hand to him. “Most people call me Winnie. And you must be Reginald?—”
He sweeps his arm across his body into a deep bow. “A pleasure to meet you, Ms Preston. I am Reginald, Lord Valerian’spersonal secretary.”
“Do you have a last name, Reginald?”
“Just Reginald, Ms Preston. Please allow me to take your bags. I shall escort you to the car.”
Before I can protest, Reginald whisks my bag from me and scurries away towards the parking lot. Passengers on the platform leap to get out of his way.
I follow him, admiring the cut of his old-fashioned uniform. I’ve had several rich clients in London who had me deal directly with their assistants, but not one asked their staff to wear a coat andtails.
And not a one has ever picked me up for a job in anantique.
I gape at the vehicle as Reginald grunts and twists my bag to make it fit into the tiny trunk.
The car isn’t just vintage, it’sancient. Its probably the same vehicle King Tut used to drive around the desert to pick up nubile young concubines. Reginald has to jiggle the door to get it to open for me. He offers me his arm as I climb up onto the footplate and settle myself onto the bench seat.
There are no seatbelts.
The roof is made of canvas.
Where are thewindows?
How is this even legal?
I’m reaching for my phone to call Faye and tell her I’m pulling out of this job when the car sputters to life. Reginald aims the long nose in the vague direction of the parking lot exit and hits the gas.
And by hitting the gas, I mean, Reginald goes balls outpedal to the metal. The car jerks forward with a roar like a pissed-off cougar. The radio comes on, blasting loud hip-hop. Reginald sings along, slapping the steering wheel. I grab the door and hold on for dear life as we hurtle through the village.
The group gathered around the pub has grown larger. The tourists I saw at Mina’s bookshop wave at us from the tearoom as we puff around the village green. Reginald tips his hat to them and blasts the car’s foghorn while I grip the edge of the seat. Their camerasflash in my eyes.
Somehow, Reginald picks up speed as we hit the country lanes. Branches from the towering hedgerows reach in the open windows, their spindly fingers tickling my arms as we fly past. My carefully chosen “impress the new client” outfit is now covered in leaves. I shuffle to the centre of the bench seat, wrap my arms through the back of the seats in front of me, and pray to any god who will listen that I won’t die.
As we rocket along, Reginald keeps up a steady stream of commentary over his loud music about the homes and farms we pass and the people who live there. I barely hear two words of it. I’m becoming increasingly uneasy about the distance we’ve travelled from the village. I was told when I took on this job that I wouldn’t need a vehicle, but how am I supposed to get back to my accommodation in the village in the evenings?
Reginald yanks the wheel hard around. I scream as the car goes up on two wheels before bouncing back onto the road. We rocket under a pair of crumbling stone pillars, through an open wrought-iron gate, and past a wisteria-choked gatehouse that Reginald tells me is his “bothy”. As we round a sharp corner of the winding drive, I gasp as it comes into view.
Black Crag Castle.
I expected a stately home – all Regency finery and rambling white roses. But Black Crag is pure medievalgrimness.
This is a castle that hasseen some shit.
It stands rigid upon a jagged rocky outcrop overlooking the valley, on all sides a sheer drop into the woods below. I count no less than eight turrets piercing the violet sky with blackened oriels, like the fangs of a mythological beast trying to devour the dusk. One whole wing has crumbled down the cliff – the rooms open to the elements, rotting carpets still clinging to broken beams.
“It’s made from a local volcanic stone quarried further up the valley,” Reginald yells. “The minerals in the stone give the castle that unique black colour.”
“Lovely,” Imanage to choke out.
Reginald steers the car onto a walled bridge that leads across to the stone outcrop. The bridge is only wide enough for a single vehicle, so when I glance out the window I look down, down, down into the nothingness of the valley floor. Water rushes somewhere far below, and a cold breeze whips up, stinging my cheeks. I notice a narrow stone staircase snaking around the edge of the cliff, towards the source of the water. I hold my breath until we reach the other side and pass beneath the portcullis.
Reginald parks in a small inner courtyard and leaps from the car, seemingly unaffected by the fact that we’re about to fall to our deaths from this crumbling heap of blackened stone. He holds my door open for me, and I long to curl up into a ball on the backseat and demand he take me to the train station.
I wanted to get out of London, but this isnotwhat I signed up for.
