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And it misses the mark spectacularly.
Time slows, and I watch the document somersault through the air. It falls against the mantle and slides down the jamb, landing with a soft flump onto the tiled hearth. Captain Porthos pads over to inspect the fallen manuscript as though it’s a game, his large black nose sniffing at the curled pages with interest.
A mournful cry rips from my throat, because this was it, this had been my one chance to right the wrongs of the past, to derail the runaway train with its manic driver.
And I failed.
I’ve failed Finlay.
I’ve failed the world.
I don’t realize I’m wailing with pent-up emotion until a palm flattens against my mouth. Oscar Munro does his best to quell me, and my tears run down his thin, rigid fingers. I shudder in his arms, a ball of overwhelming sorrow, until he brings his lips, his hot whisky-soaked breath, to the shell of my ear.
“You manipulative little brat,” he seethes, hurting me in all the places where he touches me. “And here I thought we’d been having a pleasant conversation. I want you to think about what you’ve done and about the trouble you could have caused.” He inches his mouth closer to my ear, almost crooning into it, “Tomorrow, I want you here at the stroke of midnight. Be ready to dance.”
