The driver returns to the front seat, then glances in his rear-view mirror. He looks smaller now, swallowed up by the grandeur of the car, a starched collar encasing his bronzed neck, and I imagine a shock of black hair under his driver’s cap.
“Are we good to go?” he asks.
“Yes.” The wobble in my voice surprises me, the straps of my makeshift knife holder pinching at my skin as I settle into the seat. “How long is the journey?”
“Traffic is slow, but if I take some shortcuts, we should arrive at the house in around twenty minutes.”
“The house?”
“Corvus House.” He says this with a note of surprise, like I should have heard of it.
“Corvus House,” I repeat.
“Everything okay?” he asks.
“Yes. Thank you.”
He nods and then checks his mirror before setting off.
We weave down the side streets of Amontillado, the old stonework blackened with centuries of dirt, hidden doorways leading to underground bars and clubs, the nightlife spreading under the pavements like roots of the city.
Within minutes, the buildings disperse, and we follow the long road that runs beside the Maelstrom, the prison sitting like a decorative centrepiece.
Lights glow from the many barred windows, giving the false impression of warmth within, the lake shimmering with the reflection. It’s hard to believe that only yesterday, Valdemar Montresor was imprisoned behind its walls.
And now he’s free.
Though I wonder how free he actually is.
The car takes a sharp left, and I lose sight of the prison. Trees frame the dirt track, and the car bumps its way up the uneven surface.
My mind wanders to gingerbread houses, a girl in a red cloak, and big bad wolves as the trees thicken into a dense forest, the car cutting through them like a scythe. And even though I’ve never been in these woods, have never driven up this track, the sense of familiarity simmers under my skin.
The darkness before us swallows the car as if we’re being devoured until the branches cease and we pull onto a smoother road.
Sitting up, I crane my neck to see through the front window.
Just like the prison, a large building looms in the distance, lit up like it’s ablaze.
“Is that the house?” I ask.
“Yes. Have you never been here before?”
“No.” But the word feels like a lie.
I have been here. I know this place.
The road leads straight up to the house, the grandeur of the gothic Victorian mansion binding me the closer we get. Abel swings the car around the circular driveway as I drink in the gabled roofs and the impressive tower.
Slowly, he brings the car to a stop right outside the entrance.
Nerves swim in my stomach as he makes his way to the back and opens the door for me.
Now is the chance to turn back, slam the door closed, and tell Abel to take me straight back to my apartment, but the steep steps leading to the large front door are calling me like the stonework is laced with magic.
Heeding its call, I slide out of the car, pulling the hem of my dress down and preparing myself for what’s beyond that door.
“It’s been a pleasure, Miss Bransby.” Abel touches the brim of his hat. “Enjoy your evening.” He glances up the steps as if showing me the way.
