Giles cradles it in his palms, staring at it for a long moment.
“I’ll keep hold of this,” he says.
“It’s mine,” I reply sharply. “It’s all mine.”
“Of course,” he says soothingly. “I’ll look after it for you. Keep it safe. Come on.” Giles throws my bag over his shoulder and takes my arm, just above the elbow. “Let’s get you home.”
If I go with him I’m done for. Forget the bag, forget my stuff. They’re just things. Maybe I can still get away, and as long as I’m free, I’m fine.
“I want to see Mrs Logan first,” I say. “Offer my condolences. I heard about Aileen. Just now.” I remember at the last second that he never told me what happened to her.
“They’re not ready for visitors,” Giles replies. “Save that for the funeral. If you’re brave enough to show your face.”
I suppress a growl of frustration as he continues. “You’re probably best not to go at all. But we can decide that later. In the meantime, your place is with me.” His grip on my arm tightens and he begins to walk, taking me with him.
I’ve seen rabbits caught in snares; trying to fight makes it worse. Every time they try to escape, the wire tightens, until they’re dead, strangled by their own struggle. So I don’t argue or protest, just trot meekly beside him, my cheeks aflame when Maggie Wilson steps out of the store and watches us pass, bidding Giles a good day. He nods tersely, and we keep moving. I feel her gaze as she looks after us, all the way down the street.
The Stewarts’ house hasn’t changed at all since I was a child. The hallway where Giles drops my bag is still gloomy, panelled in dark wood. There’s a long rug running the length of it, the middle faded from years of footsteps. To the left is the receiving parlour and beyond that is the family parlour – only the Stewarts are grand enough to have two. Ahead is the door to the dining room, scene of those weekly dinners of my childhood, the kitchen behind that.
But it’s up the wide stairs Giles leads me, grip still firm on my arm.
“Where’s Mrs Stewart?” I ask. “And Gavan?”
“My wife is abed. She took the news about Aileen hard,” he says. We pass what I assume are the family bedrooms. “And Gavan is out with the others, searching for Hattie.”
At the end of the hall is another staircase, to a second level. But instead we make for a small door that looks like it might be some kind of cupboard. I’m surprised when Giles pulls a key from his pocket and opens it, pushing me inside, even more so when I see another staircase there, narrow, high steps, the wood less fine, leading up into the dark.
“Go on,” he says.
Apprehensive of what awaits me at the top, I go, gripping a rope that’s been attached to the wall to serve as a banister. My eyes adjust as I near the top and find another door, a key in a lock.
“Where are you taking me?” I ask, but Giles is at my back, reaching past me to unlock it, using his body to force me inside.
It’s a small room, a round window set with thick greenish glass casting an eerie light through it. There’s a mattress on a small brass bedstead, a chipped chamber pot visible beneath, and a wardrobe. No desk or chair, even. A bed, a wardrobe and a pot.
I turn to Giles, who is blocking the doorway. “You can’t seriously mean to keep me up here.”
“It’s just for the time being,” he says.
I take a step towards him. “I want to go back downstairs.”
“Why don’t you lie down for a bit?” he says. “You must be tired.”
“I don’t want to lie down.”
He looks at me as though I’m a child, and when he speaks it’s slowly. “Listen, Alva, you have to understand, there’s a lot of bad feeling in Ormscaula right now. A lot of uncertainty, and fear, and anger. People are out for blood. They need someone to blame – for what happened to your mam, all those years ago, and what happened last night. And I’m afraid with your father locked up, they’ll take it out on you.”
“Then I’ll stay in the house,” I say. “Away from the windows, so they can’t see me.”
He shakes his head, smiling faintly. “People will be coming and going. No, it’s best for now if you stay up here, safe and sound.”
“I don’t want to.” I don’t want to be locked in somewhere again. Especially not here.
His face darkens, his pupils becoming pinpricks. Then he forces himself to smile once more. “So like your mam when she was your age. Just as headstrong.” He turns to leave.
“Where are you going?” I try to keep the desperation out of my voice.
“To the mill. I’ll be back later with a tray for your supper.”
The mill. If Ren and I are right, and the water level dropping means those creatures can get out, then every inch of water he uses is an inch more freedom they have.
The door shuts behind him and the key turns in the lock.
I fly across the room and hit the door with my fists. “No, Giles – Mr Stewart – listen to me, there’s something I need to tell you! Something about the mill. You have to stop. Listen to me. Listen!”
There is only silence. I continue to batter the door and shout, until my throat and hands are raw. Despair floods me. No one knows I’m here. No one will miss me. And no one will hear me. I’m three floors up, behind locked doors. I look around the room – neat and tidy, the bed made – and my skin crawls. How long has he been planning this?
I head to the window, searching for a latch, but there isn’t one. The glass is thick and full of bubbles, making it impossible to see out of, though I’m pretty sure I’m at the back of the house. With nowhere else to sit, I cross to the bed, sinking into the ancient mattress.
Now what? I think of my bag downstairs, the clothes, the ink and pens, the money in it. My gun. If I had that I could shoot out the locks. I could have forced Giles to let me go. Threatened him. Wildly, I remember when I pulled it on Ren, him telling me he knew I wouldn’t shoot him, because I never cocked the gun.
Ren.
He’s going to Maggie to tell her about the creatures, and Maggie knows I’m with Giles. Surely she’ll tell Ren. He’ll come for me, won’t he? He’ll help get me out of here.
As I lift my legs onto the bed, I find my skirts are stuck to the gash on my knee where I fell earlier. Bracing myself, I peel the fabric from the wound and pull them up to inspect it. The gash is bleeding again, the ends ragged and raw. I spit on to what I hope is a clean bit of skirt and dab at the cut. I tear the bottom of the inner skirt and tie it over it as a makeshift bandage. Then, with nothing to do but wait, I curl into a ball.
I must have fallen asleep, because I sit up suddenly, confused about where I am, just in time to hear a key in the lock. Before I can swing my legs off the bed, Giles is in the room. He locks the door as I stand, pocketing the key.
“What time is it?” I ask.
“Four. Teatime.” He takes a step forward and I see it.
The dark shape of a gun in his hand.
“Get on the floor. Face down,” he says pleasantly, as if remarking on the weather. “Please.”
I stare at him in shock.
“Alva, if you want to eat you’ll do as I say. Otherwise I’m happy to wait for you to come to your senses.”