Hate and frustration filled him with a furious temper. Prussic acid dripped off his fingers. The bed stood between them. He dived across it, but she was up, and side-stepped his clumsy hands as he grasped at the air. She was swifter, and darted to the other side of the room. He stood on the bed. Height gave him a greater reach, and he towered above her.
He had her covered whichever way she ran, and she pressed against the wall as if she might break through and escape. He sprang at her, and she dropped to the floor and scuttled away, like a monkey. He twisted in mid-air and lunged at her back, but as he landed his ankle bent inwards, and pain ripped along the length of his leg. He stumbled, fell, and tore his forehead on the edge of the wardrobe.
The glass in the window exploded with a bang, and showered him with broken fragments. Flames curled around the frame, and fire burned in the room. Plaster dropped from the ceiling and shattered as it hit the floor.
The walls cracked, forced apart by the heat, and the room turned black with soot. Smoke billowed over him. He covered his nose, and his eyes blurred with tears.
He crawled towards the door, though Isobel was there already. She took hold of the handle in both hands, and with a loud cry, leapt up and wrenched it down, and to both their surprise, the door sprang open.
Smoke streamed through the room, drawn out by the draught. It cleared, and in the doorway stood Terrington, in his hand a large brass key.
William clawed at Isobel’s ankle but she escaped, darted out, and sprinted down the corridor. “Stop her.”
Terrington covered his face against the smoke, and Isobel was past him and out of sight before he realised.
“Help me,” William implored. Hot cinders burned his head and hands. His ankle stung and his foot dragged along the floor. Terrington squatted beside him and helped him up.
“Get me out of here.” He gripped Terrington’s arm for support. “I’ve got to live. I’ve got to kill her.”
Chapter Thirty Five
Sylvia flapped her arms. Smoke stung her eyes and choked her throat.
The floorboards under the bed cracked and splintered, and the bed dropped with a jolt, and tipped towards her. It stopped with a bump, wedged between wooden joists. The silver bowls clanged, as they whirled in wild circles.
Her hips were level with the top of the mattress. She might manage to roll onto it, and if she did, she would shut her eyes and the “vision,” that was bound to happen, would take her away from this terrible danger and frightening destruction.
She just needed to roll. The fire raged, and blotches of red appeared on her skin. Hot cinders landed in her hair and smouldered, and she flicked them away, though they stung her fingers.
The fire must be underneath her too, because her bottom throbbed with soreness. She flapped her arms, bounced on her hips, and willed her body to roll. There was a loud crack, and she gave a cry, as the floorboards beneath her snapped. A cloud of black smoke billowed over her.
She retched and heaved. Her body shook and wobbled, and through streaming eyes, she watched the rolls of fat ripple like heavy waves that refused to settle. Up and down, and side to side, her enormous body sagged and shuddered, and the sudden fluctuations in weight broke the floor joist, and she tilted towards the bed.
That she moved at all wasn’t apparent at first. An imperceptible change of position that built in momentum, and as she gathered speed, her weight shifted from the centre of her body. She experienced the sensation of falling sideways, and once it began, it didn’t stop.
She crashed onto her pillows, and the impact broke the floor. The bed dropped into the room below, and smashed through the burning remains of what had once been a guest bedroom.
The speed of her descent increased. Ancient floorboards and plaster ceilings crumbled under the sudden onslaught from this unexpected blow, and as the bed and Sylvia crashed through one room after another, they left behind them a gaping hole that passed right through the centre of the House.
At every blow, bits of the bed disintegrated. Sylvia clung to the mattress. The dropping sensation tingled inside her stomach. It might have been pleasurable, if it hadn’t been so frightening.
Plaster shattered, wood cracked and flames roared. She wanted the horrible sounds to stop, and she shut her eyes and held on tight.
The bed lurched to a stop with a sickening jerk that almost threw her off. With a loud snap, the remains of the tapestry enveloped her in its dusty folds.
The bed stood at an angle, tilted down at her feet, and it slid, over bumps, and as it increased in speed, each bump hit the bed like a fist. She wailed at the impact of every blow, and the bed creaked, and she feared it might break apart.
And now there were voices, people shouting and screaming. Panic filled the air, and she slid and bumped towards an ending that she didn’t want to think about.
The bumping stopped and the bed levelled, though the sliding continued, over a floor that squealed and squeaked as she passed across it.
Then crunch, and with a sudden swerve that made her scream, she came to an abrupt halt.
She lay still. She didn’t dare look. In the distance, shouting, the words unclear. The fire too, sounded far away; and her body, something strange that she remembered from long ago, like being stroked or washed. It soothed her with its gentle caress.
She opened her eyes, and the wind blew in her face.
Chapter Thirty Six
The door opened. “Oh thank God.”
Isobel’s relief was checked in an instant by Terrington’s sudden appearance. Black smoke engulfed him, and he covered his face, and Isobel seized her chance and ran.
“Stop her,” William yelled, but she darted out and sprinted down the corridor.
She turned once. Terrington didn’t give chase; he was in her bedroom, kneeling beside her brother. She rounded the corner and stumbled over the dead body of one of the soldiers. On his back, his throat cut, his eyes open. Terrington’s work, and she rushed past.
A thin layer of white ash covered the floor. The ceiling blazed at the far end of the corridor, and as she watched, the curtains caught light and a ball of flame dropped to the floor and ignited the carpet. The smoke thickened.
She pinched her nose and cupped her hand over her mouth. Her eyes stung; no soldiers in sight. James must be somewhere on this floor. There were four doors, all shut.
She yelled; “James.”
She ran to the first door and flung it open. An empty room. She tried the next, empty again. Each door brought her closer to the fire, which crackled, and the heat fanned her face.
“James, James! Where are you?”
The third door squeaked as she pushed it, the brass handle warm to the touch; another empty room. She hated Terrington, but she thanked him, for he must have unlocked the doors as he looked for William.
“Can you hear me James?”
Wood splintered, and the flames scorched the walls black, and as she ran towards the fire, hot tears of frustration blurred her eyes. She mustn’t be too late! Not now!
She had her hand on the handle of the fourth door, when a terrible crash from the room beyond shook the floor. She stepped back. There was a roar, and what sounded like an explosion. Had the ceiling caved in? She turned the handle and pushed the door open.
A cloud of dust and smoke billowed out, and she turned her back, as embers of burning plaster spattered against her and dropped to the floor, where they smouldered.
She covered her eyes, and peered through her fingers.
The ceiling had collapsed, and so had the floor. The windows had been blown out of their frames, and the wind blew the dust in frantic eddies.