Etta squeaked. ‘You picked me up! How did you do that? I’m nearly six feet tall and … and plus-sized!’
‘No, you’re not.’
Etta tried to wriggle away, but he held her firm. ‘Yes, I am. And it’s fine. Hashtag body positivity. I don’t need to be carried anyway.’
Max glanced down at her. ‘Yes, you do. You’re thin as a stick, freezing cold, and you have no slippers on. And your dreadful brother has been holding you in his wine cellar.’
He was right – the cold ran through her strangely unfamiliar body, right to her bones.
They ascended some stone stairs. Looking around, Etta saw she was now in a small room adjacent to the kitchen. Her only indication that it was a kitchen at all was that it looked like a period house she’d seen on a school trip once. Moonlight filtered through small windows; beyond the open door she could see a large wooden table covered in baskets of unprepared vegetables and, at the back of the room, a huge old-fashioned black stove, which looked like an Aga’s great-grandmother.
‘Charlie? How can we get her back to her maid without getting caught?’
‘Servants’ stairs. She sleeps next to the nursery.’
‘Ah, yes. I remember the way.’
Etta looked up at him as they ascended another set of stairs, feeling as though every feminist bone in her body should be wailing with protest at being carried like a doll. She hated herself a little for liking it.
Attempting to orientate herself, she looked at the walls and tried to remember more of the school trip. She’d been down a set of stairs like this, but she could tell these walls were freshly painted. It seemed like a lot of effort for stairs made for servants to use.
‘Where are we?’ she croaked.
‘Your country home on the Bainbridge Estate.’
‘But not your home?’
‘No. I live at Stanhope, nearby. We used to play together – don’t you remember? I’m here for dinner with your brother.’
A vague recollection came to Etta. It floated through her consciousness like a ghost: a memory belonging to somebody else. A boy, with Max’s dark hair and soft brown eyes, running past her as she watched the sky.
Etta was a brunette. Always had been. But from the corner of her eye, even in the dark, she could see blonde hair.
‘I remember … but it’s not my memory.’ She paused, very much aware of his strong arms around her. ‘You can put me down, you know. It’s fine.’
His lips quirked in a smile. ‘Don’t you like being carried?’
‘Well, it’s not very feminist, is it?’
Confusion flickered on Max’s face. ‘Seems feminine enough to me.’
‘No, I mean …’ Etta paused, and took a deep breath. ‘Oh god, I suppose you don’t have feminism, do you? No pussy hats, noVagina Monologues, noVindication of the Rights of Woman. No contraception, probably.’
She knew immediately she’d erred when his surprised eyes met hers.
‘Perhaps not, but I do, Henrietta Bainbridge, understand Latin, and I can take an educated guess at the last.’
‘Well, it’s not very independent, anyway,’ Etta backtracked. ‘To be carried, I mean.’
Max looked down at her as he finally reached the top floor of what felt like a massive house, yet he was barely out of breath. ‘Humans aren’t meant to be independent. We all rely on one another.’
Etta struggled to understand the expression on his face. Charlie had fallen behind, Max’s long strides taking them quickly across the house.
‘Your face. So different. I don’t understand how Charlie can’t see it. Your features are the same as ever, but every expression has changed.’ His eyes roamed over her, curious.
They stopped by a door and Etta couldn’t help but be a little relieved – she had no response to that. Max put her down and they stared at one another, still so close they were nearly touching, as Charlie huffed and puffed up the corridor behind them. Etta could feel the heat radiating from him and had to stop herself from snuggling back into his arms.
Charlie finally came into sight, and she realised she was still staring at Max. He broke eye contact immediately and stepped away, twisting the signet ring on his finger.
