There’s a pause before he sighs, swinging his legs off the bed. ‘Fine. But if we get caught, I’m blaming you.’
‘I’ll take the full blame, I promise.’
We creep through the corridors like hedgehogs on a garden snack run. The house is mostly silent, the odd distant TV rumbling from behind closed doors.
The locked cabinet is still locked when we get there. Naturally.
Roman peers into the keyhole. ‘You’re sure you’re no good at picking these things?’
‘I once failed to open a child-proof bottle for a good twenty minutes.’
He laughs. ‘At least I know how to open those.’
‘Maybe we can prise it open with this.’ I pass him a shoehorn that rests next to the row of Wellington boots.
Roman gives it a jolly good go. For good measure, so do I. Not a sausage.
We’re about to give up when a soft clatter sounds from the shelf behind us. A delicate ornament tips and smashes onto the tiled floor.
Coffin, perched on the shelf, watches it drop before setting his eye on me.
‘Oh God,’ I breathe as footsteps sound nearby.
Roman grabs my hand, and we bolt, ducking into the shadow of a doorway just moments before Dad and Priscilla pass. They’re talking quietly, heads close together.
‘It’s worse than last week,’ Dad mutters.
‘It’s probably wedding nerves,’ Priscilla replies, low and soothing. ‘You know you get a stressy belly.’
My heart pounds.It’s not bloody nerves.I’m going to kill her if she’s hurting my dad. They move on, and we wait until they are well gone before talking.
‘You heard that,’ I whisper. ‘Worse than last week.That’s?—’
‘—exactly the sort of thing people say about all sorts of things,’ Roman says, reaching out to hold my hand. ‘Not everything is a murder plot, Maggie.’
I scowl at him. ‘In this house, it often bloody is.’
We retreat empty-handed, detouring through the kitchen like teenagers at a sleepover. I grab a bottle of red from the rack. Roman adds a tray of miniature desserts yoinked from the fridge. I’d have to apologise to Chef later.
Back in the suite, we collapse onto the bed, breathless.
I pull the cork, drink straight from the bottle, then pass it to him. We eat the tiny, perfect pastries with our fingers, sugar clinging to my lips. They are delicious.Though I could go for a fatty, greasy pizza. No chance of that in the middle of nowhere, Scotland.
We eat until the pastries are nothing but crumbs, and swig the wine, passing it between us until we’ve sunk half of the bottle.
I fidget and shift. Pick at the edge of a napkin.
Roman watches me over the rim of the bottle. ‘What’s wrong?’
‘Nothing.’
He arches a brow. ‘You’re lying.’
I shrug. ‘I’m just stressed out.’
‘Is it what your sister said earlier? About you being a happy humper?’
I nearly die on the spot. ‘It’s just stress relief.’
