Page 52 of The Bridesmaid
‘What was the warning?’ she asked quietly.
My eyes had filled with tears. ‘Never feel safe,’ I whispered. ‘Because really, really bad things can happen to you. Even if you’re really good.’
‘You’re safe now,’ she reminded me. ‘You are safe and loved.’
‘I know.’ I nodded rapidly. ‘I wish … Maybe I would have liked to have been outspoken like Silky. I had Mom and Dad to think of. The Kensington familyfoundedthat school.’
‘That was sixty years ago. They don’t run it now, right?’
‘No. But it’scalledKensington Manor School. The place is associated with the Kensington name. Speaking out against it would have been a complete betrayal. And in the end, what would I have said anyway? The older girls bullied us, and the school served bad food? That isn’t acrime.’
She leaned back, tapping a pencil to her scarlet lips.
‘I think it is a crime,’ she says, ‘to leave small children in the care of fourteen-year-old girls. Particularly if those girls abuse their power.’
Chapter Forty
HOLLY
As we move into the cordoned-off area, deeper into the back of the spa, the grand cave-like surrounds quickly run out. Beneath our feet is a rubble of volcanic rock. There are cracks in between, filled with the same disturbingly bright-colored crabs we saw on the landing runway. They scuttle away as we walk across.
Fitzwilliam digs in his pocket and produces a small flashlight.
‘Don’t tell me,’ I say, ‘you were a boy scout?’
‘Sea cadet. But the lifeskills are similar.’
He swings the slim beam. The cave is much cooler here, with a strong odor of saltpeter. The light bathes the textured volcanic rock in a ghoulish green glow.
The darkness leads around a corner and to a smell that doesn’t match. High and fragrant.
Instantly, Fitzwilliam’s beam of light picks something up. It looks like … flowers.
It takes me a moment to process the magnitude of what I’m seeing. This whole part of the cave has been loaded with blooms of all shades. Roses of white, pink and peach are wrapped in paper, and stacked in layers; a pastel rainbow of velvety petals. Buckets are ranged in rows, filled with the sculpted points of designer-shadedlilies. A huge tarp has been laid to one corner and is mounded several feet high with jewel-bright orange marigold heads.
‘I guess … They’re storing the wedding flowers here.’
‘Cool. Dark. Humid,’ says Fitzwilliam. ‘Makes sense. Check that out.’ He points.
There’s a giant ‘K’, over ten feet in height, festooned in blooms. It’s not quite finished, but you can see the final effect will be spectacular. Fitzwilliam shines the flashlight further back.
‘Turn off your flashlight.’
He clicks it off, and we’re plunged into total darkness in the flower-perfumed, water-drip echo of the cave.
‘Another arrow,’ I say. ‘Drawn on the wall in ultra-violet paint.’
Fitzwilliam clicks his light back on, as we step a little deeper.
‘There’s something on the back wall,’ I say, my voice strained. ‘Iron bars fixed into stone.’ My breathing hitches. ‘Is it … prison cells?’
It’s an emotional sucker-punch, seeing this cruel-looking penitentiary hidden at the back of a luxury spa.
Fitzwilliam blinks. ‘A lot of prison cells,’ he says, taking them in. ‘They’re sosmall.’
The cells have been cut into the stone, running along the length and height of the back wall. The upper levels are accessed by stony steps and narrow walkways.
There’s something insect-like about the way they are arrayed. Like a row of cocoons pressed into the rock. Every oval aperture has a door of iron bars. Like the kind you get in old-fashioned gaols. I shudder as Fitzwilliam’s flashlight sweeps, picking them up.
