It was nice to think about moving. She wanted to move, she had to move, then she fell asleep again thinking about the effort needed to achieve it.
And the wolf’s orange eyes gazed into hers, and he rubbed his body against her legs and she woke with a little gasp.
The tickle of his coarse fur lingered in her mind. She tingled from his touch and gathered it into her, and she rolled onto her shoulder, and then onto her front, and then onto her other shoulder, and the edge of the mattress scraped across her back, and she landed on the floor with a heavy bump, and looked up at the bedroom ceiling.
The room looked different from the floor. Everything the same, yet in odd places; the side of the mattress looked like a vertical cliff that stretched far above. The wooden floorboards rasped against her soft skin. The candles flickered, the flames as big as her finger.
She panted from the effort of falling off the bed and shut her eyes for a rest, and the wolf’s eyes locked onto hers, his determination sharp as knives. He panted too, and nuzzled her hand, and pressed his cold wet nose into her soft flesh, and his strength renewed hers, and she opened her eyes and sat bolt upright.
The room lurched and tipped and spun. Her eyes refused to focus, and solid objects flowed like running water. Her head flopped, and she watched rolls of skin cascade over her thighs and spread, like a pool, across the floor.
She tipped her head back and stared at one of the shining silver bowls that hung above the bed, and the room stopped spinning, and she was able to see again. And smell again, and feel hungry again, and she remembered her need to feed.
The candles, which she hadn’t thought about on the bed, were in the way, and made rolling across the floor impossible.
She grunted and huffed in anger. Why was it so difficult? She had to think again. If she pulled herself up and then over, she would land on her hands and knees, and then she might be able to crawl across the floor. It needed a big effort to manage a new position; she needed help.
A corner of the torn tapestry that hung around the bed, dangled beside her from the overhead canopy. This might give her the lift she needed. She took hold of its looping folds and pulled. There was a loud crack, the tapestry pole snapped, and the ancient material enveloped her.
Thick choking dust made her cough. She pushed the tapestry away, and part of it flopped onto the nearest candles, and the flames flared as they singed the rotten needlework.
That didn’t work, but encouraged by the cleverness of her idea, and determined to reach the food, she embraced the side of the mattress and attempted to pull herself upright. She strained and grunted and bounced on her hips to give herself some lift, but her arms hurt and her head went dizzy and she gave up with a gurgle of exhausted despair.
She shut her eyes to stop the dizziness. She needed the wolf, but her mind filled with grey nothingness. He wasn’t there. She clicked her tongue to attract him, but he didn’t appear. Her body was stuck, and so was her mind.
A taste of something metal that she didn’t like, filled her mouth, and every time she breathed, her chest hurt. Panicked, she opened her eyes.
Bright orange flames hissed across the tapestry; ancient threads curled into loops of black ash, and the floorboards smoked. Candles melted, and the hot wax caught light and fuelled the blaze.
Black smoke hovered under the ceiling, where it rolled and heaved in the building heat, and the room filled with its acrid stink.
She covered her nose and whimpered, and rocked backwards and forwards to escape the rising flames, and her body wobbled and shook, but didn’t move.
Black smoke streamed upwards, powered by the building heat, and the flames erupted with a roar as the floorboards caught. Melting candlewax oozed towards her, and its touch scorched her skin.
She screamed, but nobody heard.
Chapter Thirty Three
Isobel sank onto her bed in Parklands, a prisoner again. She rubbed her wrists and ankles where the rope chafed her skin. Now free from its knots, her skin stung, red and raw. Outside, dark clouds raced across the sky and the roof tiles on the East Wing glistened, wet and slippery.
The soldier, detailed to guard her, propped his musket against the door and coughed and spat.
She rolled over and faced him. “Where’s James?”
“Shut it!”
“I only want to know…”
“Shut it, I said.”
She flopped onto her back and stared at the ceiling. He was close, she was sure of that, maybe on the same floor. The Chief kept them apart on the journey to Parklands, though the sight of his thin body when the soldiers loaded him into the carriage at Bedlam, had made her cry with anger.
“I live here you know,” she shouted. “This is my house. I have a…”
The guard snatched up his musket, raised it, and threatened to strike.
She glared, daring him. “Go on. Hit me. You want a fight?”
But he didn’t strike, and she rolled over and turned her back on him. What was the point? He might tie her up again, and that would hamper her escape, if the chance came.
“Any more noise out of you and I hit you. Right?”
His gruff voice didn’t fool her; just threats, and her silence, she hoped, would annoy him.
She curled up, and hugged the pillow against her face. She wasn’t frightened. Not anymore. The black fear, when Gregor tricked her into the Russian hideout, had turned to grim determination. She would expose them, all of them, as murderers and tricksters. First the Russians, then The Brotherhood. It wasn’t revenge, though the imagined triumph filled her with a happy feeling of well-being, but the correct response to injustice and deception, and a fitting conclusion for all the people who had died searching for the Russian White. She would go to the newspapers, they would love her story. First though, she had to rescue James.
The door banged open, and she sat up.
Doctor Hood and Judge Buffrey marched in and stood at the foot of the bed. They both carried glasses of brandy. The Judge carried the decanter.
Hood spoke first. “Isobel Hunt.” The corners of his mouth stretched into a snarl.
She shut her eyes and clapped her hands over her ears. There was nothing she wanted to hear from either of them. A heavy hand grabbed her arm and pulled it away from her face.
“Let go of me.” She swung her free hand in a wide arc and punched the guard in the stomach. He grunted, but didn’t let go, and she twisted and wriggled to escape from his grasp.
“You will answer my questions,” the Doctor commanded.
“I don’t have anything to say to you,” she yelled. “And you can’t make me.” The soldier’s grip hurt. She refused to cry, even though the pain was unbearable.
The Doctor persisted; “Where is the diamond?” She refused to meet his gaze.
“Where did you go when you escaped from here?” Hood came round the bed. The guards’ grip tightened, and she sobbed, unable to stop herself.
Hood jabbed his finger at her. “When did you hand over the diamond to the Russians?”
His face loomed over her. She clawed at the guard’s arm, and dug her nails into his skin, but he prized her hand off, and bent her arm back, and her neck arched, forcing her to face the Doctor. Tears streaked her cheeks. Her arm screamed with pain, and she feared it might break. Through gritted teeth she hissed; “Which Russian?”
“The one who helped you of course.”
“But Peter’s dead. You know that. You killed him.”
Hood frowned. “What?”