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Bravado doesn’t work. Already too close, he sidles closer. Impossible to make the ladder without him catching me. Still, I edge back, filling my lungs to scream when he lunges.
In a safer time, in the careless days of youth, before Bentwood was removed from the fun, a young under-gardener started a game. He would run for us, hands spread claw-like, shoulders hunched, a great beast bearing down to gobble us up. High-pitched squeals would ring out as we darted and dashed, refusing to be caught, to become the monster. We soon took over the play, tackling each other in the soft cushion of lawn, victim turned to monster when caught.
Once, Bentwood charged me, arms curved over his head, ready to lower around me and pull me to the ground, turning me into the chaser. He hurtled full force, leaving me no time to get away, so I dropped to the ground. He grasped empty air, momentum pitching him to the ground, streaking his face with grass and mud.
Again, nowhere to go, only this time, the fear is real, the danger unthinkable. I mimic that day, dropping, rolling hard against my assailant’s shins, fighting to upend him. There is no open lawn to fall onto, no free space. He doesn’t go down completely but hits the ladder full force, his head beating against rungs as he falls, his feet pummelling my back as he fights for purchase.
I’m not much better. The roll tangles volumes of cloth about my legs, tripping my scramble to rise. By accident or intent, a kick knocks the wind from me, not that I was prepared to scream. I’m too busy trying to get free. We are making a ruckus, yet no one is there to help. Worse, there could be more attackers descending.
Fighting the snarl of my skirts, I roll further down the hallway. Finally, I’m free and scramble to my feet. My attacker is up as well, eyes narrow, watching me, his breath rising and falling as he calculates his next move. Encouraging that he doesn’t take me so lightly, but this is no time to be prideful.
There is a long space between us, lined with tables and benches, webbed hammocks closed and hanging on either side. Finally, a portal opens, and a man peers out. I squint, surprised to see someone who looks almost exactly like Mr. Cabbage. But he’s dead. I shake my head to clear my thoughts as he darts back into his cabin.
With no help from that quarter, I look over my shoulder.
There’s another hatch at the far end. I fly for the ladder, climbing faster than a squirrel up a tree. Nearly a deck up, a shadow blocks the light and a foot lands on the rung above my hand.
A properly polished boot.
I risk a look back. The scarred sailor is scurrying away so I lower down, standing on the deck below the main.
“Kat?”
A loose strand of hair dangles over my left eye, and I try to blow it away.
“Bentwood.”
Eyes narrowed, he studies me, tucking the errant lock behind my ear before scanning the deck and passageway.
His jaw flexes as he focuses on dark corners before finally turning back to me.
“All alone and dishevelled.”
Oh, Lord, surely, he saw me leave Montague. In a blink, I shutter fear behind boredom, stem a rash of rising shivers, and step away.
“There’s no one here.” I pout. “You would expect someone to be about on a crowded vessel,” I whine. “Damned nuisance, as I could have used help.”
“No doubt,” he snaps.
Furious, I toss at him, “Aid would be welcomed. Silly me, I thought that’s why you were here.”
“Aid?”
His eyebrow quirks.
“The man Jenny scratched was there. He considered me easy prey, as any unarmed woman.”
Aha! Both eyebrows are up now. Shocked him, didn’t I.
“He scurried off with the sight of your boot. Long gone by now.”
His false ennui evaporates as he steps closer.
I step back.
“I am quite capable of taking care of myself, no thanks to you.”
The shivers are stronger than me, the fear ready to bolt past my façade. I push to get by him before he sees.
