27. Amal
AMAL
Isit in the conservatory with its glass walls and glass ceiling and watch the weather.
Jameson returned for me exactly twenty-nine minutes after leaving me and I had no choice but to go with him.
At least I could see more of the castle and have an idea of the layout although I’m not sure if it came down to it how we’d make our escape considering we’d need a plane or a boat to get back to the mainland.
Either of those would be hard to obtain and given the storm, I’m not sure even if we had transportation that it would be possible.
“Is this normal?” Gesturing to the weather, I ask the waiter who lays out a lunch I’m too anxious to eat.
He glances out then back to the task at hand. “Pretty much,” he says, setting a dish of chicken curry in front of me along with every possible accompaniment. “But don’t worry, you’ll stay warm and dry in here.”
Thirsty, I drink half the glass of iced tea and when I set it down, he quickly sweeps it up to set a fresh glass before me.
“I don’t need a new glass,” I tell him as he pours me a brand new one.
“Policy,” he says and turns to walk away.
I wonder at a policy like that and pick up the glass, thinking how weird, but drink some more.
Rain sweeps the island in violent spasms before wind forces the clouds to clear for moments at a time.
The ocean remains a terrifying black. It is as quiet within the glass walls as it is within the stone of the castle.
I wonder how it would sound to stand on those cliffs, to feel the wind and taste the sea salt and know the viciousness of the storm.
Shifting my gaze back into the room I take in the beauty of the place.
The money. Someone tends the fire in yet another massive fireplace.
Above it are dozens of ancient wooden plaques.
Coats of arms, I realize. Through them is a pattern of roses and thorny vines similar to the furnishings in my room.
A chill runs down my spine because I suddenly realize where I’ve seen it. Why it’s familiar.
Startled, I reach for my purse which I hung from the back of my chair and pull it onto my lap.
I almost take the diary out. Almost. But I glance around and see Jameson appear beneath an arched doorway.
He’s speaking with another man and they’re looking at me.
The staff, too, who appear to be busying themselves are watching.
My heart races. I’m being paranoid. Shit. I’m just being paranoid. But I swear, I know that pattern. I’ve seen it before.
I’ve seen it in my mother’s diary.
But I can’t take the book out here, with them watching.
So, I rifle through the bag for a tissue then set it by my feet, not trusting to have it out of sight. I need to eat at least something so I can get back to my room and look at the diary. I need to make sure. Then I need to figure out what the hell is going on.
I pick up my fork and spear a piece of chicken. Although spicy and delicious, it’s hard to eat. I force myself though, tearing off some of the Naan bread to dip into the rich sauce.
I’m half through my plate when I hear the commotion at the door and relief floods my system when I see Jet’s face. I don’t miss the same in his eyes when he spots me. I’m up on my feet instantly walking fast toward him as he forces his way into the dining room.
“Jet.” I throw myself into his arms and he holds me tight, exhaling and kissing the top of my head before drawing back to take my face in his hands. He looks me over as if making sure I’m in one piece before pulling me in to hold me again.
“Are you all right?” he asks after a long time, his large hand at the back of my head, fingers tangling in my hair.
“I am now,” I say, letting my guard down finally. Feeling safe, finally. “Although Jameson is a creep. They all are. Can we get out of here now?”
As he takes in the room I get a good look at him. That’s when I see the strain behind the facade of calm control. He shifts his gaze to the food and calls the waiter over.
“We’ll need two more servings of the curry for my brother and myself.
Are you still hungry?” he asks me. I shake my head.
“Just that and whiskey. Bring the bottle,” he says and effectively dismisses the waiter.
This is so Jet. He’s so used to giving orders and having those orders obeyed that even here, a place we are not welcome, he simply expects to be obeyed.
“What happened?” I ask.
“They want us to sign some nonsense paperwork before they let us off the island.”
“Paperwork? People were killed. What do you mean paperwork?”
The waiter returns with the whiskey, and we both wait until he’s gone to speak.
“Just nothing. I’ll make sure you’re out of everything, don’t worry. But we’ll need to spend the night.”
“The night? Here?” I ask, glancing at the wall containing those coats of arms, the vines and roses creeping throughout the plaques. I’m too far to see the detail but from this angle, I swear the bird in this carving isn’t merely standing on the branch. It’s impaled on a thorn.
I shudder.
“Hey,” Jet says, calling me back. “What is it?”
I glance over his shoulder at that thing again but shake my head. Whatever this is, I need to figure it out before I involve him any deeper than he already is.
“I just want to get out of here. I don’t like this, Jet.”
“Me either, but this is how The Society works. Creepy is part of deal. But, bonus, apparently there’s a ball going on tonight.”
“Masquerade ball, Jameson said.”
“Well, at least we’ll have entertainment?”
“Are you serious?”
He shrugs a shoulder and I get the feeling we don’t have a choice.
“Well, you apparently have your own room. We’re not staying together,” I say, knowing there’s no way I’ll sleep without Jet holding me.
“Is that what they think?” he asks, the revelation catching him off guard. He covers it up quickly though, and I get the sense he wants to reassure me, make it seem like it’s not a big deal, but I think we both know it is. “Well, they’re certainly not going to keep me away from my wife. No one is.”
Severin walks into the dining room and we both turn to him. He glances at us, his expression remaining hard as stone even when he greets his brother with a nod.
“I ordered lunch,” Jet tells him.
Severin glances out the window as he pulls out a seat looking not at all pleased.
“I think we should call Cassian,” I say, looking between them.
The brothers exchange a glance. “They blocked our phones,” Jet says. “Couldn’t if we wanted to. Anyway, I don’t want him involved.”
“He can help. He can—”
“This isn’t mafia business, Amal. This is something else altogether. I don’t want to involve anyone else in it,” he says with finality.
The waiter serves up bowls of curry and brings more of the accompaniments.
My attention shifts once more to the coats of arms over the fireplace’s mantle. Jet’s gaze follows mine before our eyes meet and I feel the squeeze of his hand on my knee.
“What is it?”
I consider telling him but telling him what? That I think maybe I recognize that strange design? That maybe my mother doodled it in her diary more than once?
But before I speak, Severin clears his throat and gives a subtle shake of his head. He eats a bite of curry. I look over his shoulder, over Jet’s. I don’t need to look over mine to know more staff have entered the room and they’re not wait staff. They’re soldiers.