She walked away from both of them toward the far wall and heard them follow. Her father had once said he feared for anyone who was shut in a room with Tilly, as she could talk them into their final resting place. She planned on doing exactly that tonight—not the final resting place part, she amended silently, but very much the escaping part.
“Get back here!”
“I’m warming myself up, as you did not see fit to supply me with anything but a thin blanket. And I do need to”—she waved a hand in a deliberately vague way—“relieve myself?” She added the last mortified, but knowing it was entirely necessary. Necessity had overtaken dignity in the crate.
“Women shouldn’t talk of such things,” one of them muttered.
“What? Bodily functions that are perfectly natural things that all women deal with daily? Are only men permitted to speak of them, then?”
They exchanged a look. Behind them, at the very edge of the lamplight, Tilly thought she saw something shift in the darkness. A shadow that moved. She did not acknowledge it and just kept her eyes on the two men.
The longing to go home swept through her so suddenly, it made her knees weak. Tilly wanted her parents. She wanted Ambrose and Violet. The thought of not seeing them again had tears stinging her eyes, but she held them inside. She would not show these men weakness.
“It’s the way of things,” one of them said.
“How remarkably convenient for you that it is. That women have no voice, no say in anything that is done to us or around us.”
“It’s just like he said. The women at that bloody club havetoo much to say for themselves,” one of them muttered to the other.
Tilly pounced. “How do you know about my club?”
The men looked uncomfortable now, like they’d said too much.
So she was here because of The Iris. Someone had decided she mattered enough to silence, but was that due to her forming a women-only club, next door to a man’s one, or was it because of what sat below it? “Are you Freemasons?”
“Get her back in the bloody box,” the second man said, something sharp entering his voice now. “It’s the only way to shut her up.”
“Are you happy for me to relieve myself inside the crate, or am I permitted to do so before I am incarcerated again?”
The men looked at each other, then at her.
“Incarcerated means?—”
“I know what it means!” the first man roared.
“Well then?”
“There’s a pot in there,” he said, pointing to a narrow door half lost in the shadows. “Use that. But don’t try any funny business.”
“As there is nothing remotely humorous in my situation, I’m not sure how I could,” Tilly said and walked toward the door.
“Bloody women,” he muttered.
She opened the door, and when the stale scent hit her, she lifted her scarf over her nose, breathing carefully through it. The door slammed shut behind her, and the dark settled around her again. She ran her hands along the walls to find an escape route, but there were no loose boards, no windows, or gaps. Nothing. Just another small prison inside the larger one.
When she opened the door again minutes later, one ofthem stood directly outside, arms crossed, eyes hard above the cloth covering his face.
Now, Tilly.
She pushed both palms into his chest with every ounce of force she had. He stumbled backward with a grunt of surprise, not expecting her actions. Then she ran.
“Grab her!”
The second man lunged, and she dodged, her heart now hammering violently against her ribs. Reaching the door, Tilly seized it, dragged it along the tracks with both hands, and felt the cold air of outside.
Hands grabbed her from behind, but Tilly was not giving up. She fought again with everything she had left, kicking and screaming for help, but she didn’t see the fist that caught her jaw until it was too late, and then she felt herself falling.
“Men are stronger. Maybe you should remember that,” one of them said.
