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I wondered if I’d had some kind of reaction to jam on toast, like processed strawberries had even the slightest chance of being a hallucinogen. That at least made me giggle a little out loud.
Eventually, it was time for sleep round two, so I opted for a trip to the bathroom first, to save the urge to pee before breakfast.
I didn’t need to see my feet as I dropped them down onto the carpet. The sensation told me all I needed to know.
I held my breath and closed my eyes, bracing myself to take it, and then I faced it.
I opened my eyes and looked down, and yes. I was right.
There was dirt all over the carpet, and moss still trapped between my toes.
Chapter Three
It’shardtoconvinceyourselfit was only a dreamwhen you’re washing fresh dirt off your feet in the shower.
Was it sleepwalking? Sleep-running? Was it really a strawberry fuelled hallucination that sent me out into the street in nothing but a flimsy satin slip?
Who knows, but I slept with the light on for the rest of the night, tossing and turning even worse than before.
Sleep eventually found me again, and this time Hans did not. I woke up to the sound of a car horn tooting on the street. With a groggy head, I pinched myself hard, half-expecting Hans Weyer to step out from my wardrobe. But no.
Just a dream.
My housemates were at work when I pulled myself out from under the covers at just gone midday. The house was empty, and I was like a ghost as I mulled around, getting myself a breakfast-lunch. I most definitely avoided jam. Strawberries could leave me alone for the foreseeable. Possibly for ever.
My toes were still sore from the pounding on cobbles, and I felt like I really had run a marathon. All of my muscles were aching. It was crazy, what I’d done, running around the streets in nothing but a satin slip. I wondered if I’d been seen, flashing myself as I ran. I could have been arrested – or worse.
I was shaking when I got dressed for work, trying to talk rational sense into my stupid imagination.
The dream wasn’t real. Hans Weyer wasn’t chasing me. Hans Weyerdidn’thit the spot. Hans Weyer most definitely isn’t a vampire. Vampires don’t even exist.
I buttoned up my freshly washed and ironed crip white blouse. I made sure my bun was tight and neat, and made sure my foundation was solid enough to keep my skin glowing, as though I hadn’t just spent a night on the run.
I wished it was summer as I set off on my way to Regency. The nights were already drawing in, and the air was chilling more every day. It was especially eerie when I reached the cobbled street, and I made a dash for it on instinct, despite getting strange looks from passers-by.
I figured I’d calm down when I reached the other side without anyone chasing me, but I jumped a mile when a bus pulled up and a group of girls climbed off, cackling and dressed up as witches.
I needed to get a hold of myself before I got to the bar. I’d be the worst barmaid in creation if I was wide-eyed in panic, too shaky to so much as hand over a beer. Eliza would probably fire me on the spot if I spilt red wine over someone’s tailored suit across the bar.
Red wine.
Blood-red wine.
Hans Weyer drinking blood-red wine.
I could have screamed at myself. On some level I even wished my grandma was standing there next to me, pulling her usual nasty face about how stupid my fairytale reality was.
I did my best to imitate her.
Katherine, grow up. You’re being a fool over a ridiculous night terror.
You probably embarrassed yourself in front of half of Hyde Street. They were likely peeping through their curtains at you. Stupid girl.
I gathered myself at the staff door of Regency, my last chance at coming back to my senses. I took a breath and braced myself, pasting on the closest attempt at a natural smile I could manage.
I stepped into the hall, closed the door heavily and hurried to the staffroom. I hung up my coat on the hanger, hung up my bag alongside it, and then I made my entrance into the bar, praying to hell I didn’t look as scatter-brained as I felt.
Here goes…
