Maybe it was overkill, but this was no ordinary subject of mine. I knew what he was capable of, but his unfortunate soul could not possibly know the damage I could do in return.
The knives and sharp objects were nestled between cushions and other hiding places. Satisfied with my efforts, I retreated to the bathroom, feeling confident in my fortification. It was doubtful that anyone would break in tonight of all nights, but just in case, I made sure I had leverage over the familiar grounds.
An hour or two was spent easing my tired body in the bath, changing into a soft nightgown, and brushing out my hair when I was finished. After I braided the long strands, I twisted them into a low bun, securing it with something extra special.
The stick securing my hair sheathed a needle doused in snake venom from theBitis arietans, commonly known as the puff adder. Freshly imported. It was a subtle detail I included in my hair as a precaution whenever I planned on making any late-night endeavors. Today was the first time I felt the need to wear it alone in my home.
My reflection threw me an assured smile through the mirror’sfog before I pulled on my black silk robe. It was my favorite lounging piece, as it had carefully embroidered thistles woven in purple thread along the shoulders, then down the sleeves and hems.
Sleep wasn’t at the top of my list of things to do, so I would rather spend quality time alone. Some leisurely nighttime activity.
I hummed an anonymous tune as I entered the living room. This room had always been my favorite. There was a large stone fireplace with stories of old carved into the mantel. The ominous figures shifted in the fire’s flickering light, making them squirm to life to tell their tale. There was no need to turn the gas lamps on, as the fireplace gave a warm enough glow. About thirty minutes remained before the radiance would be reduced to pale embers.
The mood would not have been whole without something for the other senses. I poured myself some more scotch from Mr. Aston’s collection.
I delicately placed the phonograph’s needle at the edge of whatever recording was already resting on the machine, and it started to play. It crackled to life before becoming a waltz. It was a lovely instrumental piece for a dark and rainy evening.
As the music settled through the house, I tipped my head back and sipped from my freshly poured glass, swaying to the string instruments. I made a small dramatic twirl as I crossed the foyer to the dining room.
I laughed to myself.
How childish, these simple pleasures.
I made for the kitchen and eyed the bowl of fruit in the middle of the countertop.
Oranges. A rather generous pile at that. They were expensive, but worth every coin. There was just something about citrus fruits. It was probably the way they sometimes bit back at youthat I loved the most. It was best to save them for later when the alcohol settled my mood.
Many more moments were collected and forgotten that night as I drank myself into a manic state.
A rustling was heard across the house as I finished peeling the perfectly ripe fruit. A groan escaped me, and I slammed my knife flat against the table next to my highly anticipated treat.
I might have been able to keep out killers, but I was not great at keeping out smaller pests.
With the lit candle, I grasped the holder tight in one hand. I suspected the noise was that critter from the other night or a burnt log finally giving way inside the fireplace.
I crossed the foyer again, entered the main living room, and stepped in front of that grand fireplace. However, when I approached, all the logs had been reduced to ash. Only a few glowing embers remained with no proof of disturbance. My tongue clicked in annoyance as I inspected with my single candle, crouched in front of the pile of dust.
At this point, the darkness had completely consumed the outside world, and the early-morning hours had crept up on me. The entire house was turned to shadows.
Losing interest in the burnt pile of nothing, I adjusted the robe tighter around my body. The candle flickered wildly for a second. The flame danced upon the wax. I naively studied it for a second before my skin tingled, announcing the presence of something looming over my shoulder.
Eyes.
The flame snuffed out with a quick puff of air, a muffled hiss as it extinguished.
I yelped, turning quickly on my heel and dropping the holder. It clanged against the floor and spilled what was left of the melted wax.
The phonograph shrieked when its needle was forced off the track, vaguely resembling the noise I had made a moment before.
Finally, surrounded by darkness and silence, I waited.
Breathing in enough air proved difficult. It was like my lungs could not expand enough, leaving me breathless and lightheaded. I was like a bat trying to locate anything out of place in the dark expanse, except without the echolocation, only blindness.
A smoky scent surrounded me. The type of smoke that existed in aged whiskey barrels, exotic cigars, and men who ruin reputations.
Notes of blackberry and bay leaves trailed behind like an aftertaste.
“What a sweet sound you made. . . .”
