Chapter 4 - The Ninth Night
Days six, seven, and eight passed in a terrifying haze. Audrey worked with desperate efficiency, never slacking for a single second, driven by the sheer terror of what would happen if she displeased the master of the house. She avoided the east wing entirely, leaving meals at the kitchen pass-through and retreating to her small room the moment her duties were finished.
Brinley was growing restless. Being confined to a small room with white walls for over a week was difficult for a vibrant three-year-old. She spent her days drawing pictures on scraps of paper Audrey managed to salvage from the recycling bins, inventing complex games with her single teddy bear, and looking out the high, bar-covered window at the distant pine trees.
On the ninth night, a heavy thunderstorm hit the coast. Violent winds howled against the heavy stone walls of the estate, and sheets of rain slammed against the high glass windows. Lightning flashed across the dark sky, casting long, twisting shadows through the corridors.
Audrey was completely exhausted. After twelve hours of relentless physical labor, cleaning the central ballrooms and scrubbing the long service stairs, her body had reached its limit. She fed Brinley her dinner, read her three storybooks, and lay down beside her on the small bed.
"Mommy?" Brinley whispered, tracing her finger along Audrey's tired face.
"Yes, sweetie?"
"Is the thunderstorm going to break the house?"
"No, baby. This house is made of very thick stone. Nothing can hurt us in here. Go to sleep."
Audrey closed her eyes, intending only to rest them for a few minutes while Brinley drifted off. But the sheer weight of her exhaustion, combined with the rhythmic sound of rain against the glass, proved overwhelming. Within minutes, Audrey fell into a deep, unconscious sleep.
She didn't feel Brinley wiggle out from under the covers an hour later.
At nine o'clock, Brinley woke up. She was thirsty, and her teddy bear, Barnaby, had slipped off the side of the bed. She retrieved the bear from the floor, clutching him under her arm, and looked around the dark room. The small nightlight plugged into the wall flickered as the storm outside rattled the power grid.
Brinley walked to the door. Earlier that evening, when Audrey had returned from her late shift, the heavy metal latch had clicked into place, but the secondary brass deadbolt hadn't fully caught in its strike plate—a microscopic failure born of Audrey's sheer physical exhaustion.
Brinley reached up with both hands, standing on her tiptoes, and pulled down on the heavy brass door handle.
With a soft, metallic click, the heavy door swung open an inch.
A three-year-old child does not see a dangerous world governed by ruthless mob bosses, high-security perimeters, and deadly rules. A three-year-old sees a dark, open hallway as an invitation to explore.
Clutching Barnaby tightly against her yellow pajamas, Brinley slipped out into the dim hallway. Her small bare feet made no sound against the thick, runner carpet.
The west wing corridor was empty. The night shift guards were positioned at the main entrances and security monitoring stations, expecting no internal movement from the domestic staff quarters.
Brinley walked slowly, her bright eyes wide as she looked at the tall walls, the wall sconces casting warm pools of yellow light on the floor, and the grand oil paintings. She wandered past the small dining room, past the main kitchen, and toward the grand archway that led to the forbidden east wing.
She wasn't afraid of the darkness or the thunder that rumbled overhead. To her, this was a massive, mysterious castle, and she was on a mission to find a glass of water for her bear.
She stepped through the archway into the east wing. The air was warmer here, smelling faintly of old wood, expensive tobacco, and polished leather.
May you like
At the far end of the long corridor, a single door stood half-open. Warm, gold lamplight spilled out from the gap, painting a bright rectangle across the dark carpet.
Brinley walked straight toward that light.
