Angel Falling Softly - By Eugene Woodbury Page 0,80
She tried to smile. “I met today with a gentleman farmer. He also owns a company I wish to buy. We spent the morning stacking hay. Such are the lengths I will go to. This is an allergic reaction. I am allergic to sunlight. Ironic, don’t you think? The one thing I cannot cure is myself. Or your daughter—”
Her voice caught in her throat. She closed her eyes and fought to retain her composure. Rachel knelt on the floor next to her. Despite all that the woman had confessed, Rachel wanted only to somehow comfort this terrible, fallen angel. But she could see the stripes on her shoulders and didn’t know how tender the rest of her body might be.
“You don’t know that. I asked impossible things of you. I put you in an impossible position. It wasn’t right, and it wasn’t fair.”
“You worry about being fair to me? And yet how your God harries me.” This time she did manage a smile.
“I don’t know who you were, Milada. I don’t even know who you are. I’m in no position to judge you or judge your past. But I know what you were willing to do for me. You didn’t have to, but you did. And that is enough.” Rachel got to her feet. “Is there anything I can do for you? Anything I can get you?”
“No. I will be fine. By Tuesday I should be as good as new.”
Chapter 42
You can’t go home again
The drugs at last lulled Milada to sleep. The narcotics freed her dreams. Dreams that flew her halfway around the world. Dreams that loosed the restless past from its sepulchral moorings. The rain fell, the hurricane roared, and the doors of the manor house shook with heavy reverberations.
Milada awoke with a start. Her breath caught in her throat. The shock of realization raced through her veins and struck hard at her heart: the consummation of her own design, sooner than expected and hostile beyond expectation.
She parted a slit in the heavy curtains. The street below her window was painted with the flickering orange glow of fiery torches, the dancing gray and black shadows of the jostling throng. She crossed to the door, cracked it open, and peered out. She heard the swift padding of small feet behind her, turned and caught Kammy by the shoulders.
“No,” she whispered in their native tongue. “Leave it be.”
An awful crash below made them both jump, the battering ram at last deployed. Across the room, Zoë’s wide, frightened eyes stared, aglow in the dark. Milada spun her sister about and pushed her toward the bed. “Stay with Zoë till I return.”
She looked once more to ensure that Kammy did as she was told, and then she stole down the hallway. The way was clear. She darted to the balustrade and crouched low behind the banisters.
The Master staggered from his bedroom. “What? What?” he exclaimed, his mind confused by sleep. “Robbers!” he shouted. “Brigands!” He twisted his head, the movement almost a spasm, toward the narrow staircase.
Milada ducked her head, overcome by guilt and fear.
The final assault splintered the jamb. The door fell inward and crashed onto the flagstones. The Master shrieked and stumbled backward. A phalanx of uniformed men swept through the entrance hall, an angry tide drowning the Master in a rain of pummeling fists and kicking feet. Furniture broke under the force of blows, as did glass and bones. The Master was as strong as half a dozen men; half a dozen more surged into the breach. Milada heard the harsh clank of chains, the muffled roars and curses as the bolts were locked and hammered into place.
She smelled blood in the air. The rich odor of steel and salt brought out the prickle of sweat on her skin. A casualty supported by two compatriots hobbled to the shattered entranceway. Another man followed, hand clasped to his bloody forehead. The clutch of constables came next, dragging the bound Master. They needed no more violence. Terror had numbed his faculties to the point of paralysis. They dragged him out of the house, onto the cold, cobbled street. Then came the thud of a body cast hard onto the bed of a wagon, the rattle of irons against rough wood.
The horses unhitched. The shake of reins. The creak of wheels on the stones. Leave, Milada urged them in her mind, and leave us alone.
Just as suddenly, the storm subsided.
She waited until she believed they had gone for good, until she believed