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Panic fanning…
Trapped.
In this relentless dark.
Fire ripped through her body like a tempest and giddiness brought her forehead to rest upon the door as her knees gave up their resolve.
With a groan, she let them sink, settle upon the cold flagstones.
No more than a momentary weakness, she told herself.
She would ignore the nebulous black which pressed like a living entity, reminding her of…
Non.
Those nightmares, she’d never allow to return. She had seven and twenty years, not eight.
Far-off voices seemed to seep from the very walls but from which direction, she knew not. She should call out.
Let them know she was here…
But that palm of her nightmares pressed to her lips, tightened her throat.
French words whispered through the pitch dark.
“Du calme, ma belle. Not a sound. We must keep quiet. So quiet. For our lives…”
Isabelle squeezed her eyes so tight, as she had done as a child, to shut out the shrouding dark, the crypt beneath the wooden carriage floor entombing her in terror.
Mama?she mouthed.
Then a thud against the wood.
Another.
She mustn’t speak. Or breathe. She must keep quiet as–
“Miss Beaujeu?” came a scream. “Are you in there?”
Mari.
She parted her lips but naught.
Again.
“Y-yes…” A gasp of scant breath. “Yes…” she rasped against the door. “Yes, Mari. I-I can’t get out.”
“There’s a latch this side but it’s bent,” the girl yelled. “Hold on, I’ll just…”
Grunting. Rattling. And Isabelle cursed her own weakness.
Something slammed into the door. Another grunt.
“It won’t budge,” shouted Mari. “Hold on. I’ll go an…” Then her voice simply faded.
“Non!” Isabelle cried. She stood, fingers scratching, nails tearing upon the wood, then fists beating. “Aidez-moi, Mari! Aidez-moi.”
Her breath came in spits and spurts, the giddiness returned.
