Chapter 8
– Progression
Peyton froze as the lock
clicked.
There was a pause, then
the door opened just enough for Constance to peer around it. Peyton unwittingly
compared the effect to Enzo’s disembodied head from moments earlier.
Constance’s hand appeared
around the door, then, and pointed to the spot where Peyton should have been
waiting.
“Sorry!” Peyton cried as
she raced toward the door.
“Good heavens!” Constance
muttered, but said nothing more as she wound the ribbon around Peyton’s wrists.
Peyton watched the
windows silently, her thoughts racing.
“Is he here?” Constance
asked, and Peyton turned to scan the room
She found him with a
start, the visage of his lower half sprawled on the bed. Peyton frowned and
leaned to see past Constance and found his upper half, but this time, his head was
missing.
“Well?” Constance demanded,
hands fisted on her hips.
Enzo’s head materialized
slowly; a purplish mass appearing first and then oozing into its proper shape. His arms went to this throat as his features became apparent.
Peyton fought the urge to
cry out at the sight, and met Constance’s gaze. “M – mostly,” was the only
answer she could manage.
Constance manufactured a
prim expression and put her nose in the air. “Well, tell him it’s time for tea.”
Peyton hesitated.
“My word, Peyton! You’re
slower than usual tonight!”
“I’m sorry. It’s just
that – I don’t need to tell him; he can hear you.”
Constance averted her
eyes as she pressed her lips together.
It wasn’t the first time
Peyton had reminded her of the fact, but somehow it became more difficult each
time, as unsure as she was of Constance’s disposition from moment to moment.
“Right. Then, shall we?”
Constance was blushing; Peyton could see red blotches on her neck, as well. Her
skin seemed as temperamental as her mood, flaring in tandem. A red flag.
Peyton nodded, muttering
a hurried, “Of course,” before stepping lightly past the shorter woman and into
the hallway.
Constance peered around
the space once more before joining her, then started down the hall, nose in the
air again.
Peyton frowned, but
followed, taking in every detail as they went. Constance often forgot to remove
her constraints, but she’d never forgotten the blindfold. She knew she should
speak up – her reaction to the revelation would no doubt sting less than the
discovery of it after Peyton had seen too much and held the knowledge back –
but she found herself unable to dislodge the words from her throat.
There wasn’t much to see;
the hallway was short and decorated only by large tapestries and a single
painting of riders on horseback, hounds at their feet. But as they neared the
stairs, Peyton’s eyes widened as her view did. Several paintings lined the
descending wall. She recognized the one of the twins first, though their
captured images looked back from younger faces than she was accustomed to, and
another of Enzo, alone. He was dressed in riding gear, one foot on an
overturned barrel and his opposite arm bent to hold a riding crop over his
shoulder. His pose spoke pridefully, but Peyton saw sadness in his eyes.
As they continued down, the
largest of the paintings caught her attention. It was a dignified-looking older
man with Enzo’s eyes and a stern-looking woman with thin lips and tightly
pulled-back hair. “Who’s that?” she mumbled aloud, then gasped, inwardly
cursing herself for having gotten so distracted by her surroundings that she’d
forgotten to keep quiet about it.
“What?” Constance turned
as the reached the bottom, then uttered a high-pitched, “Oh!” as she pulled the
thicker ribbon from her sash. “Why didn’t you tell me?” she growled in Peyton’s
ear as she tightened the knot at the back.
Peyton grimaced at the
pressure on her eyes and the way the knot pulled at her hair.
Constance tapped a flat
hand on her cheek, urging her to speak. It wasn’t a slap, really, but it made
her jump, nonetheless. “I’m sorry!”
“You say that so much!”
Constance growled. “And rightly so; you’re such a fuck-up!”
Peyton recoiled at Constance’s
rare use of profanity. Heavy footsteps retreated downward then and she pictured
a smug look on her captor’s face. When she heard no more, she considered her
options. She’d never navigated the stairs without Constance’s guidance, and the
simultaneous restraint of her hands did Peyton no favours. “Constance?”
Silence answered her.
“I -” Peyton faltered,
noting the odd sensation of tears trying to well in her eyes, which were so
tightly compressed in their sockets she felt they may implode. “I don’t want to
fall,” she finished, her words sounding pathetic to her own ears.
A warm hand gripped her
elbow and Peyton exhaled in a rush, relief flooding her. “Thank you,” she
muttered as she continued downward. She became aware it was Enzo helping her when
she reached the landing and Constance took her opposite arm roughly.
“My brother likes to
oppose me,” the woman fumed.
Peyton turned her head to
see him, reminded of her blindfold after the fact. “Enzo?”
Constance tugged on her
arm with a growl of irritation. “If I’d known the two of you would gang up on
me, I’d never have brought you here!” Her fingers dug into Peyton’s upper arm
as she accentuated her words with violent yanks.
“Oh!” Peyton cried as her
shoulder sent out a bolt of pain.
“Shut up!”
Constance spat, pulling Peyton down roughly so she could yell into her ear.
Peyton was quickly forgetting
the rules of social etiquette she’d worked so hard to gain. She sucked in a
breath and made an effort to concentrate on walking, using Constance’s lead regardless
of the pain it caused.
“Bitch” Enzo’s
voice came from her left, and Peyton fought the urge to turn toward it again. “She’s
such a baby,” he added, childishly.
Peyton knew the irony
would be funny later, but it felt too dangerous to laugh at, now.
The smells of tea and cakes
filtered through the air as they stepped onto hardwood floors, and Peyton
realized with a sense of dread she’d forgotten to put her shoes on. She bit the
insides of her cheeks, throwing a prayer out to whomever could hear her. Please,
don’t let her see.
She was shoved unceremoniously,
her knees meeting something solid quite painfully. She didn’t cry out, though;
she stayed still, hoping Constance would remove her blindfold so her eyes could
return to their proper homes.
“Oh, did you hurt your
knees?” Constance crooned from behind her.
Peyton bit her lip,
wanting to be anywhere else. Wanting to be sleeping. Wanting to be gone.
The blindfold loosened,
then was torn from her head. Peyton was aware of the stinging pain of some hair
being torn out with it, but focused instead on the overwhelming relief of
having the pressure removed from her eyes.
But what she saw tossed
her in another direction, entirely.
Enzo was on the table,
squatting over a tray of sandwiches, a huge smile beaming in Peyton’s
direction.
Peyton struggled to
remain calm as her wrists were freed from their restraints, but she couldn’t
look away.
His pants and underwear were
puddled around his ankles, but Peyton could see that nothing on the table had
been disturbed.
He made a feather
flutter, she reminded herself. There’s no way he can take a
crap on the sandwiches.
Still, her appetite had
waned considerably.
Peyton cleared her throat
and looked at Constance. “Shall I serve your tea?”
Constance fumed. “I’d
like an apology, first!”
Peyton worked to steady
herself as Enzo whispered, “Should I do it?” then broke into a fit of laughter.
“I apologize about the
blindfold. I didn’t realize until we were already walking, and then I saw the
pictures and got distracted.”
Constance looked
regretfully appeased, her eyes still flashing angrily.
“How old were you and
Enzo? In that one with -”
Constance pointed a
finger at Peyton’s face, the heat of her fingertip palpable between her eyes. “Don’t
ask questions about things you shouldn’t have seen!”
Peyton lowered her gaze. “I’m
sorry.”
Enzo, apparently bored,
stood and pulled his pants up. “You’re no fun,” he muttered, then jumped off
the table and disappeared in midair.
Constance marched to the
head of the table and sat, her dress fluffing out at the sides. The woman was
short, but she wasn’t slight.
“Serve,” she demanded.
Things were quiet for a
while. Peyton served Constance; she’d deigned to let Peyton choose everything
for her this time, and then made up a plate for Enzo, though he hadn’t reappeared.
Peyton served herself
last, and had to hold herself back as her appetite returned with a vengeance.
Chicken salad sandwiches with little slices of sweet pickles were her favorite
of all the sandwiches served, save perhaps the cream cheese and swiss croissants
with cucumber and tomato. She ate in grateful silence, watching Constance
warily. But the woman’s eyes were clouded over.
Finally, she said, “He’s
not here, is he?”
Peyton froze mid-chew,
then shook her head as daintily as she could.
Constance sighed heavily,
her eyes going to the windows and out into the darkening evening. “She doesn’t
ever stay long, but I know her visits upset him.”
“Who?” Peyton asked
before she could stop herself, her heart suddenly pounding hard.
Constance sent her a
withering look. “For your information, our stepmother was here today. She – she
stays in the city when father is away on business.” Constance said in a rush,
her eyes going to her plate. “Oh, brownies!” she muttered, and Peyton’s eyes widened
as Enzo’s laugher seemed to come from all sides of her.
She squinted toward
Constance as the woman brought the chocolate confection to her mouth,
desperately trying to remember whether she’d served her brownies or not. Relief
rolled over her when Constance closed her eyes, saying, “Mmm!”
Enzo popped into his
chair at the opposite end of the table. He was still laughing. “You actually
thought I did it!” he pointed at Peyton.
“I didn’t realize your
father remarried after your mother’s death,” Peyton said smoothly, proud of her
lack of reaction to Enzo’s tricks as she looked back at Constance.
“It’s not your place to
realize that,” Constance replied, but there was no force behind her words.
Peyton sipped her tea.
“The truth is, if father
wasn’t so busy with work, they’d be divorced already,” Constance said, reaching
for her tea.
“Pfft,” uttered Enzo, who’d
crossed his legs as he lounged sloppily. “She’s always been so jealous of her.”
Peyton knew he was talking
to her, but his eyes were on Constance.
“Why?” Peyton asked, then
sucked in her breath, looking at Constance.
Constance frowned. “Because
she’s hateful!” she said, replying to the question Peyton had meant for Enzo,
in some twist of luck.
“Because she loved me best,
just like mother,” Enzo whispered, and it tickled Peyton’s neck, for he was
behind her, now.
And she was momentarily
distracted from both of them, caught up in the feel of his breath on her skin.
Remembering the warmth of his touch on the stairs. And finally, envisioning the
fluttering feather from that afternoon.
He was progressing
remarkably fast.
This could be bad.
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