For his part, the man in the dark mask had simply walked toward them, slow and insistent and terrible as cancer. Even the fire bottles hefted high into the air wrapped around him like blankets and did nothing more.
Having listening to it all unfurl, Penelope felt that was when most of the soldiers’ courage had broken; Men had cursed or screamed before abandoning their posts to save themselves. The lieutenant started shooting deserters but there were too many to make a difference. Besides, he had other priorities.
Because then, when her escorts’ spirit had broken, the man in the dark mask had finally broken into a sprint…
No. She didn’t want to think about this any more. Getting to her knees, ignoring the instant jolt that came with the ice-cold stone caressing her through her dress, she put her hands together in prayer.
“Dear Lord,” she said, her voice echoing in the void, “thank you for sparing me. I know you have chosen to test me, that you want me to hold to my faith in you, and I promise I will not fail. Through you, I will find the strength to endure and ignore my fears and the courage to continue until I’m rescued. You are eternal and divine. Amen.”
In response, the demons returned. Their voices were throaty and deep, cruel and teasing and inhuman, as they whispered:
“You won’t be rescued”
“Nobody’s coming for you.”
“They think you’re dead.”
She screwed her eyes even tighter. “Lord, I ask you for the strength to resist these vessels of darkness.”
“Maybe you’re already dead,” the demons said.
“Maybe the man in the mask killed you.”
Her voice grew louder. “Help me to overcome the trials in my way.”
“The dead’s prayers are not answered.”
“The dead just rot.”
“You will just rot.”
“Shut up!” she shouted, clapping her hands together.
Her voice echoed around her and out into the corridor. Then there was silence. Penelope waited but the demons did not return. If they behaved consistently, they wouldn’t worry her again until she tried to sleep or fell victim to another surge of emotion.
“Amen,” she said, her voice full of gratitude.
There was still some food left from her earlier meal so she decided to tolerate the cold weight in her stomach; she needed some sensation, a distraction. Walking over to the plate she’d left in the north-east, she ate.
The cold meat felt and tasted like pork. The bread was still fresh too.
It occurred to her that she didn’t know what she was eating. It could be horse, or other, more horrid meats… It could even be poison. But surely her captors wouldn’t poison her if they were trying to ransom her…
If she was being ransomed; really, what use would such as the man in the black mask have for money? The abominably tempting revelry showed he was not working alone – plus whoever fed her had heavier steps than he, and breathing troubles to boot – but he hadn’t seemed like something that’d go to such trouble to pay a crew. There was perhaps something deeper happening but whatever it was must have required her to be alive. So she trusted the food.
She left a couple of bites on the plate and went to the south-west corner of her prison to do her private business. It wasn’t the first time and a stench was forming there but she had no choice; repeated pleas for a bucket from whoever fed her had fallen on stone silence. The shameful corner would have to do.
When she saw done, Penelope paced around the room again. Her drained, cold legs ached and twitched as her blood tried to warm them. She didn’t know how much longer she could cope with all of this. She told herself that Papa must have sent someone after her, another host of soldiers or some mercenaries. Maybe someone from the Solution even. He did have solid connections with Penelope’s father, who had funded his election campaign. Or maybe Eleanor Naismith would campaign to save her. She told herself this over and over until the thought became rote.
As she walked in absolute darkness, the shivers returned. Penelope trudged on, clinging to her hope like a limpet to a boat.
