Page 74 of The Shadow of Breninsol
She didn’t get far until she felt claws tearing at her arms. She tried to rip her arms free, but it was futile. Claws replaced more claws. It was endless. The creatures held her solidly between them.
As she stood fighting, squirming, doing anything to dislodge their black claws, the cackling had risen, and a second voice had joined the first. The terror that’d gripped her held firm.
She realised in her struggle she couldn’t move her feet; they were stuck to the floor. She didn’t want to look at the creatures. She knew once she saw what they looked like, then there’d be no unseeing it.
Instead, she looked down at her legs, hoping that if she could see what held her, then she could undo it. She expected to see her legs covered in the same type of darkness that’d leeched from the creatures, but no. She was being held in something solid. It was white and cold. So cold that it took her breath away and stopped her from being able to scream.
She squirmed, pulled, and tugged, trying to get away, but she knew she could not.
She was stuck.
Her panic turned to helpless fear.
No, this couldn’t be it, not like this.
Her breathing became laboured as she realised that the substance had rapidly covered her legs and body.
She’d been so focused on getting free that she hadn’t noticed that the creatures had retreated to the darkened edges of the hall. Finally, the owner of the steady gait came into view. Surprise but relief filled her at who she saw.
The Marquis of Laerus.
She desperately reached for him, but the rapidly spreading coldness engulfed her hands and arms.
His measured clicking steps came to a stop as he stood just out of reach. His head tilted to the side as he watched her mouth be stuffed with the bland hardness. Even if she wanted to, she couldn’t scream nor sob. Despair and devastation filled her as she had no choice but to surrender to the shimmering ivory alabaster. In one final attempt to be spared, her eyes went wide and watery as she wordlessly pleaded with him to help her save her, but he stood there unimpressed, unmoving, and utterly bored.
Nothingness surrounded her. Encased in the pure white luminous stone. Stranded in her horrifyingly helpless and suffocating pose.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
The Collection
Waking up, Eleanor let out a groan of displeasure, a sound that spoke of a difficult night and an unwelcome morning. The torrential rain that’d disturbed her throughout the night was a backdrop to her churlish mood. Upon her return from the marquis’s party, Eleanor had discovered a half-empty bottle to add to her collection hidden beneath the floorboards, then closed the door on the world. Sleep had barely found her, and she’d gasped awake more times than she’d have liked, but thankfully, the night had remained quiet.
That was no longer the case as giggles, murmurs, and shuffling feet loudly intruded from under the door. They were all making their way to the kitchen for their mid-morning breakfast ritual. Given the events that transpired last night, she adamantly refused to venture downstairs, her reluctance fuelled by the lingering unease of the previous evening's occurrences. It was clear to Eleanor that her trip and her companion were no secret, as everyone knew where she had gone and who she was with. Their desire for the gossip and information she didn't have would be evident in their hateful sneers as they eagerly sought out every last detail.
She wasn’t in the mood.
She’d amassed a nice collection of bottles under the floorboards. If there was ever a time to aim for the backboard, it was now. Hopefully, it’d be enough to get pleasantly drunk, enough to sleep deeply. Reaching that point, though, would have to wait for a little while longer.
No matter how fatigued Eleanor became, she always maintained her minimal magical reserves to shield any of her exposed scars and marks on her skin. So ingrained was the reflex that it occurred with the same acute and unconscious ease as breathing, a testament to her years of repetitive training.
Eleanor pulled the fraying ties of her cotton robe together as she made her way to the door. It wouldn’t do to make the trek to Madam Grace’s office naked, unless…it might make the madam more favourable towards granting her this request. The door ripped open before Eleanor potentially made a mistake.
The sudden burst of movement made Eleanor sober up too quickly for her liking. She shifted backwards, with her hand hovering over her pocket.
“You’re not working.” Madam Grace’s stern voice filled the doorway.
Eleanor blinked, wondering if she’d heard the madam correctly.
“You’ve been paid for this week. I’m not to see you in line for the carriages, and don’t you dare go, thinking you can work on the side downstairs.” The fine lines around the madam’s harsh red lips twisted, as if she tasted something unpleasant. “You’reillas of now.”
Eleanor bit the inside of her cheek, but she was not questioning the reasons behind whateverthiswas. She nodded in agreement and without another word the madam left as suddenly as she’d appeared, leaving Eleanor somewhat stunned at the circumstances.
She’d been ready to feign illness. She admitted to herself that it wasn’t her finest moment, but she would rather charge an army into battle than let anyone make a fool of her again. The only reason she hadn’t wanted to claim ill-health was that this wasn’t anywhere near the lowest point in her life. It only felt awful because it was a raw and current low that she found herself in.
If Eleanor was honest with herself, she knew she was hiding from the marquis and his entourage of flustering courtiers. There mere idea of showing her face in court right now was enough to make her groan. Her eyes tracked to the floorboard stashed with liquor bottles and licked her lips. Without knowing it, the madam had solved a problem for her. She could stay here and happily work her way through the bottles.
“You don’t look ill.”
