Page 88 of A Slipper in the Smoke
Her stepmother had locked her in.
No.
She forced her thoughts back into order. She couldn’t panic, not yet. She wasn’t late. Perhaps there was a spare key around…
Not in the hallway or kitchen, where Elena could have taken it any time. But perhaps in the Baroness’ room?
She tore through the apartment, flinging open the door, racing through the Baroness’ bedside tables. She found no keys there, just faded books, a worn silver pen, a few hairpins, a couple of secreted chocolates—
And a picture of the Baroness on her second wedding day.
Papa.
Elena was sure that the Baroness had destroyed all evidence of her father ever existing, but for whatever reason, she had kept this. He smiled at her in faded black and white, one arm around his new wife, the other around Elena’s. She remembered that day perfectly. The warmth of the Navarran dome, the honeysuckle in the bouquets, the rustle of silk from her dress—
And her father’s hand on her shoulder, warm and bright. Strange, how a picture could reach through the years and touch you, though she was far from that girl in ribbons now.
Elena peeled off the back of the frame and tore her father’s image from the Baroness’ side, stuffing it into her pocket. She couldn’t take her father’s empty ashes with her, but she could take this. She could free him from the Baroness like she would free herself.
Free herself.
Finding no keys in the bedside unit and nothing in the dresser, Elena gave up the search. It didn’t matter. She didn’t need a key. She had her tools in her bag—a key to anywhere.
If she had enough time.
The clock on the mantelpiece chimed. Elena picked it up and hurled it to the floor. It smashed into a hundred glittering pieces: dented cogs and springs, shards of mother-of-pearl.
“Oh, do be quiet.”
She emptied out her bag and unrolled her toolkit, starting at the lock mechanism with her screwdriver and cursing the rusty screws. No matter. She could do it. She had no choice. She had to.
Time, time, time, it ticked soundlessly onwards as she picked and twisted and hissed and swore.
Come on, come on!
One of the screws had melded into the lock. That took the longest to extract. Another had almost dissolved into dust. Several of the lock springs seemed to actively scuttle away from her, retreating into the mechanism. But metal would not imprison her. No one would. Never again.
Finally, the lock pinged open. It clattered to the floor. The door swung open.
Elena breathed, stuffing her bag back together and racing down the stairs, two, three at a time until she reached the streets outside.
Never before had the oily air tasted so much like freedom.
Elenaarrivedatthedoor to the rebels’ safehouse breathless with her legs on fire. Snowdrop met her at the door, her white face twisted into a smile. It was clear she’d been worried. The frown looked etched onto her face.
“We thought you might have changed your mind.”
“I’m not sure Buttercup would have fit in the dress,” Elena said, panting for breath.
“No,” Buttercup agreed, nodding his head, “but I do look fabulous in them when the occasion calls…”
Elena stifled her laugh. “How long have we got?”
“Not nearly long enough. But come on. I’ll do my best.”
He pushed her into a chair and started attacking her hair, affixing pins and stolen hair pieces which gave her the illusion of volume. Dandelion grabbed her face, scrubbing it and painting the visible parts while Snowdrop kept an eye on the time.
“What’s this?” Dandelion asked, examining the mark left by the Baroness’ fan, imprinted on Elena’s cheek.
