20. Breaking Free
Breaking Free
Lucinda returned to wakefulness with a soft groan, her senses sluggish.
The storage room was brighter when she entered.
Now the area around her was dark, but high up through a grimy glass pane a yellow gas lamp from the street cast slanted beams across the cramped chamber.
She must have been senseless for some time.
She raised a hand to her head, where a sharp throb hammered, and her fingers encountered a tender, swollen patch near her temple.
She hissed through her teeth and closed her eyes against the threatening nausea.
When a soft whimper drew her attention, she blinked and turned her head; the movement bringing with it a fresh wave of pain.
“Periwinkle?” she croaked, her throat dry.
The greyhound was huddled against her trembling, still shackled by the heavy rope around his neck, his wide liquid eyes fixed on her face.
She reached out, her hand unsteady, and brushed his head.
He whined low in his throat, leaning into her touch.
Her fingers smoothed along his silken rib cage, and tufts of fur were found where wounds were weeping.
“Oh, Peri,” she murmured. “What have they done to you?”
Periwinkle gave a tentative lick to her hand, his frame shuddering as he shifted.
Lucinda closed her eyes, willing her dizziness to subside.
She forced herself upright. “And what have they done to me?” she asked, aware of all her aches.
Her hair now tumbled around her shoulders in disarray, her delivery boy cap on the floor beside her.
Staring up at the only light source, her vision doubled, she saw two small window panes that gradually focused into one.
She cradled the greyhound closer, removing the slackened noose around his neck.
“Don’t worry Peri, we’ll get out of here,” she whispered, more to herself than to the quivering animal.
She glanced around the dim storage room, noting wooden crates stacked haphazardly, their labels faded and illegible.
A scattering of broken tools and scraps littered the floor.
The door at the far end of the room drew her attention.
She shifted Periwinkle back onto his feet and noted he favored one front paw.
“Stay, my darling. I’ll not leave you.” First, she tried the door handle but was not surprised when it wouldn’t budge.
Hopeful that the keyhole might yield more, she crouched to look through and found the hole blocked.
“A triumph!” she whispered and turned to the watchful dog, her mind alight with a plan.
“I’ll have us out of here in a trice, Peri.
All I need is a—” her eyes scanned the discarded mess, “—perfect!” Lucinda picked up an old grimy fire poker.
She eyed the greyhound. “Did Miles ever tell you about the time we got locked in Doctor Able’s medicine store, Peri?
” The dog, standing on three legs, licked his nose excitedly.
“Well, at a time like this, the punishment we received seems all worth it.”
She untied her apron and released the button on her vest in order to lay the fabric flat on the dusty floor.
The apron now bore witness to the day’s trials with smudges and creases.
With her fingers soot-blackened from the poker, she smoothed it as best she could and eased the hem edge beneath the door, positioning it beneath the lock to act as a makeshift mat to catch her prize.
“Now,” Lucinda coached herself, “if that key is positioned right,” she inserted the poker end into the keyhole hoping it would be narrow enough. “then I can push…it…out.” But the poker merely hit the end of the key pin and stopped dead. Lucinda sighed, “It seems we must coax it to turn, Peri.”
The dog tried to put his injured foot down and approach but it was too painful, so he remained where he was.
“Oh, but wait!” Feeling her hair, Lucinda found a pin.
“This should do it.” She bent one end into a small hook and with a delicate touch, she maneuvered the makeshift tool inside the keyhole, probing the mechanism.
She pressed her brow and shoulder to the door, eyes closed to concentrate on the sensations at her fingertips.
After several vexing attempts and no small amount of whispered cajolery, she at last persuaded the key into a reluctant quarter-turn.
Her arms ached—one shoulder throbbed abominably—but she would not give up.
Whisker by whisker, the key turned until the bit aligned with the keyhole.
The weight of the bow and shaft was enough to make the key fall from the mechanism onto her apron with a muffled thud, and relief flooded her.
“Come to me,” she breathed, retracting the apron from under the door, producing the key. Turning to Periwinkle’s expectant eyes, she smiled reassuringly. “We are nearer to freedom now, Peri,” she whispered.
Periwinkle gave another soft wag of his tail as if to share in her triumph.
The next task was to fashion a sling from her apron, a skill the ever-practical Admiral Harrington had taught her in youth.
Scooping up the injured greyhound, she positioned him with care in the sling and secured him against her side under her arm, ensuring his comfort and safety.
His slight weight was reassuring, a reminder of why she could not falter.
She gathered all her messy red tendrils above her head and twisted them into a knot before enveloping the mass under her large delivery boy cap.
Clutching the iron poker in one hand and the key in the other, Lucinda steeled herself for what lay beyond the door.
Beyond their makeshift prison lay the darkened expanse of an unused gaming room. Dusty shrouds draped the furniture in ghostly outlines, and the still air carried the faint scent of dust and disuse. She closed and re-locked the storage room door, slipping the key into her trouser pocket.
She cracked open the door to the passage, straining to listen to the distant, triumphant voices echoing from another part of the house.
Perhaps a gambler rejoicing at some win, she surmised, though their revelry felt worlds away from her predicament.
The voices soon faded, leaving only the low flicker of the sconces casting light into the passage beyond.
Still clutching the poker in one hand and steadying Periwinkle’s makeshift sling with the other, Lucinda stepped into the corridor, willing the persistent dizziness to subside.
Periwinkle stirred, prompting her to adjust the cloth sling to ensure his injured limb was secure before continuing down the corridor.
The hazy memories of being in this corridor previously flickered in her mind, and she clung to the one thing she knew for certain: the way out lay below.
Somewhere in the bowels of this labyrinthine house was the cellar door that had first admitted her here.
Reaching it would mean escape—or, at least, the hope of it.
Ahead, a heavy curtain blocked the passage.
She froze. From the other side came the faintest groan of floorboards, a sound so soft it might have been imagined.
Yet Lucinda’s instincts screamed otherwise.
She pressed herself into the nearest doorway, holding Periwinkle’s snout to stifle any noise.
Her breath came shallow and swift, her pulse thundering in her ears.
The seconds stretched unbearably until she convinced herself that what she had heard was a figment of her imagination.
Exhaling, she stepped back into the corridor. Suddenly, the curtain swept aside. Startled, Lucinda raised her weapon, but the man disarmed her without effort. The poker slipped from her grasp as powerful hands caught her trembling frame and pulled her into a firm embrace.
“Lucinda, my darling!” Alex’s voice was low as he held her close. His cheek pressed against the top of her cap, and for a fleeting moment, Lucinda allowed herself to sag against him, his faint scent of sandalwood reassuring her. She thought he had called her his darling, but she couldn’t be sure.
Periwinkle, his nose crushed between them, let out a plaintive whimper that drew Alex’s attention. He eased her back, his hands steadying her shoulders, and glanced down. The greyhound’s small head peeked out from beneath her arm.
“Faith, I have you both. What providence!” His voice was rich with feeling, though his eyes darted down the corridor.
“Alex—” Lucinda began, her voice faltering as she tried to focus on the twin images of him. Her limbs felt leaden, and her head throbbed anew. She was nearly spent.
Before she could utter another sound, his hand came over her mouth, his touch firm but careful.
His other arm drew her to him, cradling her and the injured dog as he strained to listen.
The distant murmur of voices reached them—muffled but unmistakable.
Alex’s jaw clenched. In an instant, he lunged for a nearby closet door.
Urgently, he guided Lucinda inside. She stumbled on the pile of shoes but caught herself against the shelves.
Before she could regain her footing, he slipped in after her, closing the louvered door with a soft, click .
The space was stiflingly small, pressing her between the rough wooden shelves and the solid warmth of Alex’s chest. She shifted, discomforted by her bruises, but the movement only brought her closer to him.
Sensing it, he pulled her forward against him, away from the shelves, his chest warm and steadying.
“Not a sound,” he breathed against her ear. One hand held her capped head against his chest, the other, careful of Periwinkle’s pouch, wrapped her securely in his embrace. Beneath her fingertips, she felt the powerful rhythm of his heartbeat.