“Oh, Your Grace! I did not expect you to be up and about. His Grace said you were ill,” chirped the maid.
“I am quite recovered, Sally,” Catherine assured, recognizing her companion at once. “By the by, what time is it?”
“Just about midnight, Your Grace. I volunteered to sit with you should you wake up in the small hours and be in distress. I can stay if it pleases you.”
Catherine smiled, sitting on the bed.
“Well, thank you, Sally, for your kind offer. It would have been comforting indeed to wake up to see your face.”
Sally beamed at the gratitude, bobbing a curtsey that made the candle flame wobble precariously.
“I have woken to find myself parched and somewhat hungry. Do you think a glass of milk and a bite of something, some cheese perhaps, could be rustled up in the kitchens?”
“Yes, of course, Your Grace! I’ll see to it right away.” She scuttled from the room.
Catherine took a paper spindle and lit it from the fire, using it to light a lamp which she carried to her bureau. She opened the lid and stared into the cavity beyond.
It was empty.
Her half-written letter, her writing implements, and the supply of paper that had been within... all gone.
A deathly chill settled into Catherine’s bones that had nothing to do with the night air. She bit her lip, her eyes drawn to the bedside table. The lamp had stood there, and a book that she had been reading. Something caught her eye, and she approached closer. It was almost impossible to detect in the flickering, golden light of the lamp. From certain angles, it could be seen—a circle on the varnished wood tabletop. The kind that would be made by a cold glass, chilled by the liquid within, being placed on the wood.
Such as a glass of milk. Containing a cure-all…
Oh Lord, but he knows that I believe him to be an impostor! He tries to drug me!
Was his plan to keep her captive, drugged, and docile?Why? To return her to her Aunt and Uncle when the time came?
She did not want to believe so, but if Aaron intended to use her, to achieve his business objectives for example, then discard her… he would require her to be compliant. To go quietly when the time came. What better manner to achieve that than to drug her?
The story about my Aunt and Uncle feeding me poppy juice was a lie to cover his own actions!
She felt afraid, terribly afraid. Deep within, a small voice was telling her that it was a ludicrous chain of thought. That no one could be so wicked. She flew to the wardrobe but stopped with her hands upon the handles.
The question of poppy juice never arose until I came here. It would be the perfect way to ensure I made no waves while he is trying to secure his business deal. We have yet to even leave the house together!
The casual cruelty of the notion appalled her. That anyone could be so calculating and manipulative… But part of her resisted the notion. Part of her did not want to believe that her Aaron, in particular, was capable of such an act…
Why? I knew the boy but not the man… Why is it so hard to believe when he is as different to himself as a moth to a caterpillar?
She flung wide the doors as the answer came to her. Because she was attracted to him. Drawn to him like a moth to a candle’s flame. She did not want to believe her own suspicions because her childhood friend—the very boy she had once harbored secret feelings for, though he had never looked at her twice in that way—now thrilled her soul and exerted a magnetic pull upon her body. She could not bear for him to be a wicked man.
Then the call to action drowned out all else. Sheneededto act before it was too late. Before her choices were taken away from her.
Catherine tore her night clothes from her body, discarding them in a heap and selecting undergarments and then a gown from the wardrobe. It was the same dress she had worn to flee Haventon, old and fraying but serviceable and comfortable.
She was lacing up sturdy walking boots when there came a knock at the door, followed by Sally. The maid bustled in, chatting away as though it wasn’t after midnight. In her arms, she carried a tray of fruit, bread, and cheese along with a ceramic jug and a tall glass. When she finally saw Catherine, she froze.
“Oh…” she said, taking in the dress and shoes, “were you going somewhere, Your Grace?”
Catherine stood, wiping suddenly sweaty hands on her dress.
“Yes, I am leaving, Sally. Leaving Caerleon. Tonight. I must ask you not to raise the alarm. I know it’s a great deal to ask, but…”
“I won’t say anything, Your Grace,” Sally said, quickly.
Catherine was momentarily taken aback. “You… won’t?”
