CHAPTER THREE

ESCAPE

Ulrika stepped past the maid to the door and tried the latch just to be sure. It was locked. Her skin prickled with terrible premonition, and she hurried through the house to the front door. It was locked too.

She turned to the maid, who had followed her, wide-eyed, from the rear vestibule. ‘Fetch the butler. Tell him to bring his keys.’

The girl scurried off, and Ulrika paced the entryway, her long skirts shushing on the polished wood floor until the butler arrived, looking sleepy and holding his ring of keys.

‘Open the door,’ said Ulrika.

‘Yes, m’lady,’ said the butler.

He inserted the key in the lock and tried to turn it, then turned back and bowed to Ulrika. ‘It appears the countess has set the wards, m’lady. The lock will not open.’

Ulrika cursed and looked around. ‘Wards? There are wards? Does she always do this?’

‘Usually only when she sleeps, m’lady,’ said the butler. ‘We must be able to go in and out, to go to market, to deal with tradesmen and–’

Ulrika snatched the key from him, then tried it herself. With her unnatural strength, she bent it, but could not budge the lock. She cursed again and strode to the back door. She had the same result there.

‘Damn her!’ She threw the keys away, then stomped back into the parlour. There were floor-to-ceiling windows there, heavily curtained. She threw open the curtains and fumbled with the hasp that held the windows closed. It opened, and she breathed a sigh of relief, but as she pushed against the windows, they did not move. It felt as if she were pushing against a stone wall.

With another curse she drew back a fist and punched at a square leaded pane. Her knuckles stopped a hair’s width from the glass, blocked by the same invisible stone wall. She snarled and jumped back, then picked up a heavy oak chair and flung it at the windows. The thing bounced back and thudded to the ground, the windows untouched. Ulrika glared at them, fists clenched at her sides.

‘Mistress,’ said the maid softly. ‘Mistress, are you well?’

Ulrika turned. The girl and the butler had edged back to the dining room door, watching her warily.

‘I am fine,’ she said. ‘Go to your rooms.’

They ducked their heads and hurried away, relieved. Ulrika righted the chair, then kicked it savagely, then paced and kicked it again, smashing it into a table.

The countess had locked her in. Ulrika had made a solemn pledge to her that she would not leave the house, and she had still locked her in! Ulrika snarled. Now she knew what Gabriella truly thought of her. For all her petting and soft words, she did not trust her to keep a vow. She believed her nothing more than a child, without honour or brains or sense of duty. It was a slap in the face – an insult to her integrity.

Rage filled her again, crimson clouds blurring and warping her vision until the room seemed at the bottom of a stormy red sea. She kicked the chair again, upsetting it. When Gabriella returned there would be a reckoning. Ulrika would not be lulled once again by smooth talk. She would demand her release, and if the countess refused, she would fight her way out, or die trying. She could not allow herself to serve such a duplicitous witch for one second longer. Ursun’s teeth! If she could break the wards that trapped her, she would leave now and never come back. To hell with all this Lahmian intrigue, with its rivalries and subtleties and airless rooms. She wanted out!

A tiny voice in Ulrika’s head reminded her of her vow to Gabriella, but she roared at it and it retreated into a corner, cowering. When the countess had turned that key, she had removed any obligation Ulrika owed to her. There was no dishonour in breaking a pledge to someone without honour.

She leapt at the window, claws and fangs bared, and slashed and clawed at it. It rebuffed her as before, and she fell back panting, but her anger was too hot to let it be. She turned, growling under her breath. If there was a way through the wards she would find it, and if there wasn’t, the countess would return to find her tidy little home torn to shreds.

Ulrika sprinted up the stairs to her room, darted around her canopied bed and crossed to the heavy curtains on the wall that faced the street. She gripped them in her claws and tore them down – and was faced with a blank wall. There was no window behind them. She stared, nonplussed, then ran across the hall to Gabriella’s room and tore down her curtains too. Again there was no window, only smooth plaster.

Ulrika stepped back, mind churning. She was certain she had seen upper windows on the outside of the house. They must be false, to give the impression of normality, while protecting Lahmian guests from exposure to the sun. Quickly, she tried every room on the floor, tearing down the curtains. None had windows.

Ulrika kicked the wall in frustration, then stopped, panting. What about a fireplace? Could she climb up a chimney and out? She ran back to Gabriella’s room and ducked her head under the mantelpiece. No such luck, the inside of the chimney was hardly big enough to admit her head, let alone her shoulders.

With a snarl, she snatched up the poker and slashed at a cherubic marble caryatid that held up one end of the mantel. Its little stone head bounced across the room and stopped below where the window should have been. She laughed and crossed to it, meaning to hurl it at something, then paused, looking again at the wall. There was a shadow on the plaster – a very faint vertical line. She stepped closer. It looked like the impression left on a blotter after one had lifted away the paper – an almost imperceptible tracery of what one had written. She ran her hand over it. There was a shallow depression in the wall, and to the right of it, another. She looked up. An arched line connected them, as faint as the rest.

Her skin tingled with excitement. This house had not been built for the Lahmians. It had been refitted to suit their needs. There had been a window here once. Indeed, there still was, on the outside. The question was, how sturdily had they closed it up?

She raised the iron poker, then paused. This window faced the street. Breaking through it would attract attention. She hurried to the study at the back. Yes. The same shallow grooves in the wall. She smashed it with the poker. The plaster cracked and crumbled. She struck again and made a hole. With her claws she tore at the edges, ripping away the smooth painted veneer until she could see what lay beneath. Only lathing and gravel fill!

She went at the lathing with both hands, ripping out the thin strips of wood and letting the pebbles they held in place spill to the floor. Buried only two inches deep was a wooden window frame. Ulrika ripped and tore until the whole frame was exposed. A thin black-painted wood panel had been set within. She pried at the edges and pulled it out, and saw moonlight. The window looked out into the carriage yard.

Ulrika reached out with the poker, hardly daring to hope, and thrust at a diamond pane. The tip popped through it with a tinkling of glass. There was no ward. She was free!

In her eagerness to be out of the house, she almost leapt through the window then and there, but then caught herself and stepped back. If she were truly to strike out on her own, she must prepare. Suddenly she smiled. How nice of Gabriella to have had the forethought to provide the things she needed the most.

She ran back down to the parlour and stripped out of her plaster-dusted dresses, then pulled on a shirt, the black velvet suit, the leather boots and some gloves. They were all a perfect fit. Next she strapped on the beautiful rapier and dagger, then took the grey suit from its hanger and folded it up. There was no pack, so she slipped the suit into one of the voluminous shirts, tied off all the holes, then knotted the sleeves together and slung it over her shoulder like a bag.

What else would she need? Money. She jogged back up to Gabriella’s room and ransacked her bureau and armoire, taking every piece of jewellery she could find. Under a hat box she discovered a small iron coffer which was filled with fifty golden Reikmarks. She scooped them up and filled the purse that hung from her sword belt. Now she was ready.

Part of her wanted to wait until Gabriella returned, just to confront her with her leaving, but that would put her much too close to morning, and she would have to be far away and under cover before then.

She hurried to the study and the window. A last moment’s hesitation overcame her as she looked out into the yard. It was an enormous thing she was doing, leaving the woman who had saved her and taught her how to get along in her new life. There might be no going back. And who knew what lay before her? Death might catch her that very morning as the sun rose. She shrugged and kicked through the glass. Better to die free than to live caged.

A thrill ran through her as she leapt down into the coachyard and the night wind ruffled her hair. Already she felt better. She padded past the carriage house to the back fence. Now to find a way out of Nuln. If only she could have said goodbye to Famke before she left.

She paused. Why say goodbye? Hadn’t Famke said she wanted to run away too? With a mad laugh, Ulrika vaulted the fence and struck out through the sleeping Altestadt for Hermione’s townhouse.

She wasn’t so inclined to laugh as she observed the place from a rooftop across the broad, mansion-lined Aldig Quarter street upon which it sat. It was a three-storey palazzo in the Tilean style, with elaborate stonework and twisting columns flanking the doors and windows. But for all its filigree it was as sturdy as a fortress, with bars on the windows and a four-inch-thick oak door, and though there were no guards visible, Ulrika knew Hermione’s ‘gentlemen’ were inside, and there were likely wards and heavy locks too, stronger than those that had protected the little safe house. No wonder the Strigoi, with all its strength, had preferred to kill the Lahmians outside of their houses when it could. It would take an army to break down Hermione’s defences.

Of course, it wouldn’t take an army for Ulrika to enter. The maids and men-at-arms knew her, and some little lie would be enough to get her through the door. The difficulty would be getting Famke out again. She was sure Hermione could lock the doors and windows with a snap of her fingers, and then she would be trapped inside. Hermione might kill her for trying to steal her protégée from her, or worse, bring her back to Gabriella.

But perhaps she wouldn’t have to enter the house. Perhaps Famke was still in the garden. With renewed excitement Ulrika dropped down from the rooftop to a narrow side street and circled the block until she reached the back wall of Hermione’s estate. Her heart surged as the tinny strains of an inexpertly played lute reached her ears. That could be only one person. Ulrika tiptoed to the wall and made to spring to the top of it, then paused. What if Hermione was with Famke? Or some of her gentlemen? She strained her senses. No heartbeats, but Hermione might still be there. Ulrika would have to spy it out.

She jumped up and caught the top of the wall with her fingers, then pulled herself up slowly until she could just peer over the wall. Trees and shrubs and statues of lovers dying in each others’ arms screened off much of the house, but by craning her neck and leaning to the left she could just see the veranda, and Famke.

She was alone on the bench where Ulrika had left her, her golden hair gleaming silver in the moonlight as she bent assiduously over her lute, wrestling with a Bretonnian melody – and losing.

Ulrika breathed a sigh of relief, then slipped over the wall and dropped down into the garden. She padded through the trees and shrubs to crouch down at the edge of the lawn, not wanting to step out where she would be in view of the windows.

‘Famke!’ she whispered.

Famke looked up, peeking through her long straight tresses.

‘Who?’ she asked, her playing faltering. Then she saw Ulrika and stopped altogether. ‘Sister! What are you doing here?’

Ulrika put a finger to her lips and beckoned to her. ‘Shhh,’ she said. ‘Come here.’

Famke looked back towards the house, then stood and hurried down the steps and across the lawn. ‘What is it, Ulrika? Why are you sneaking around like a thief?’

Ulrika grinned. ‘I have run away. The countess revealed herself to be without honour or respect, so I have decided to strike out on my own, and I’ve come to take you with me.’ She took Famke’s hand. ‘Come. We haven’t much time.’

‘You… you’ve run away?’ asked Famke, stunned.

‘It was that or die.’ Ulrika stood. ‘Now to the wall, before anyone comes looking for you.’

Famke pulled back. ‘Ulrika, I… How can we do this? It was only a joke. A dream.’

‘It is no joke for me,’ said Ulrika, impatient. ‘Not any more. I tore apart the countess’s house and robbed her blind. There’s no going back.’

‘But it’s impossible!’ said Famke. ‘We will need a coach, and blood-swains, and places to stay.’

Ulrika hefted the purse at her belt. ‘We’ll buy all that. Now, come on!’

Hermione’s voice rang from inside the house. ‘Famke? Famke, where are you?’

Ulrika turned back to Famke. ‘Come, sister,’ she whispered. ‘Before it’s too late.’

Famke shook her head, looking as if she would cry were vampires able to shed tears. ‘I cannot. It won’t work. I’m sorry.’

Ulrika stepped out of the bushes towards her, anger growing in her breast. ‘What is the matter with you? Do want to live under the thumb of that horrible woman for the rest of eternity? How can you stand to be shut up like this? You are like a doll in a box. Wouldn’t you rather die free than live caged?’

Famke hung her head. ‘I’m sorry, Ulrika. I am a coward.’

Ulrika groaned, and considered slinging the girl over her shoulder and carrying her over the wall by force, but just then the veranda door opened and Lady Hermione stepped out, two of her gentlemen at her back. Famke squeaked.

‘What goes on here?’ asked Hermione coldly as she stepped down to the lawn.

Ulrika fought down the instinct to attack, and bowed instead. ‘For-forgive me, Lady Hermione. I heard Mistress Famke playing while I was walking, and thought I would pay my respects.’

‘I see,’ said Hermione, swishing forwards through the grass as her men spread out behind her. ‘A social call, over the garden wall.’

‘Ah, yes, mistress,’ said Ulrika. ‘I-I know I should have presented myself at the front door, but I thought I would surprise–’

‘So you were only being social,’ said Hermione, cutting her off, ‘when you asked my darling Famke if she would rather die free than live caged?’