And he forced himself to pause, to listen.
Naught.
No footsteps or reply, and all he could do was sprint for the centre, pray he stumbled across her.
Right.
Left.
Continue and ignore the right.
Head straight.
Right and a left.
Ernest knew this maze like the back of his hand, had roamed every path as a boy and had never forgotten it.
Further turns and twists until at last…
Lurching into the centre, he sought her verdant dress in the grassed garden.
Nothing, and he swivelled to retrace his steps when…
In the shaded corner, a bundle of leafy cotton huddled to the hedge, hands obscuring her face as though to hide from mankind and even the heavens above.
“Hebe!”
He ran, stumbled, fell to his knees before her, pressed out a hand to her arm.
At his touch, she whimpered, breath so shallow as she shrank from him, as though wishing the hedge would absorb her, and dread seared his veins – had someone attacked her?
What the bloody hell should he do?
“Hebe,” he whispered, and imposing gentleness to his shaking fingers, he laid them upon her bare wrist, caressed up to the hands held to her face and drew them away. Her eyes were crushed shut, tears spilling silently down her cheeks. “Hebe, look at me.”
She shook her head, shoulders so hunched, and he fought for calm.
He swallowed deep. What was he to do?
“You should see this maze in spring,” he whispered. “An ancestor planted bluebells in the grass paths, and from the castle parapets all you see are patterns of blue and green. It’s glorious. And here in the centre are cowslips.” He drew her palm to his mouth, kissed the frantic pulse of her wrist, felt a quiver. “Stand with me, Hebe. Kneeling here I may be crushing autumn crocuses, for they’ll carpet here in just a few months.”
Her head shifted, just a fraction, her eyes still shut tight, and he inspected her clothes and skin. Nothing seemed amiss and yet…
“Hebe. Look at me.”
At last, her eyelashes fluttered open. “E-Ernest.”
“Yes, indeed. The adorable one of the family.” He hoped for a smile but received a spluttered sob. It would do. “Stand with me, Hebe.” Placing fingers to her arms, he bore her weight as she rose on unsteady legs like a newly birthed foal. Once on her feet, he enfolded her in his embrace, her frame stiff and unresponsive, but Ernest just held her, smoothed a hand along her back, felt her silken hair twist in his fingers.
He’d wanted Hebe Locke in his arms but not like this, never like this.
Little by little, her body melded to his, muscle softening, and he knew Hebe was ready to speak when she rubbed her soggy cheek against his shirt. Unhurriedly he clasped her jaw within a palm and raised her face to his.
“Did someone hurt you?” he whispered.
She blinked.
“In the maze?” he said softly. “Did someone approach you?”
