One Way or Another(87)

“Come back, miss!” the chef yelled as his staff came running from the various pantries and workrooms. “Everybody out, call the police, the fire brigade, get everyone out.” And he ran after Lucy.

He opened the door, stepped back. All he could see was smoke.

“Lucy?” he yelled. “Lucy, where are you?”

There was no answer. He stood for a few seconds, undecided whether to go after her. He’d heard her call her sister’s name but had no idea where Martha might be, did not even know if she was still there.

He ran back into the kitchen, did his duty organizing his staff, getting them out, every last one, ran outside, found the fire captain, told him about Lucy. The fire captain swore, waved a couple of men after him, and headed in through the flames. The chef sank to his knees and prayed.

Lucy was outside, running through the wet grass, looking for her sister. The pearls swung to and fro, tangling together, choking her. She yanked at them but they would not break. She gave a mighty pull and they sprinkled onto the grass, catching the light of the flames and the moon as they lay there. She stood for a second, gazing at them. Finally realizing. A robber’s fortune at her feet.

Ahmet sprang out of the darkness in front of her.

She screamed, stumbled backward, trying to get out of his way.

“Stop it, you stupid bitch,” he said, in a voice so soft Lucy found herself obeying.

“But your house is burning down,” she said.

“It was my home.”

She ran from him, but the velvet folds caught between her legs and she stumbled. Still running, she plucked at the corset strings, ripping, tugging, felt it tear, struggled her arms free of the long sleeves, pulled the dress down over her chest, over her body, stepped out of it, left it lying there on the grass, an expensive black couture heap she hated but had finally agreed to wear under pressure from Mehitabel. And which left her in only the gray silk slip she’d worn underneath.

Barefoot, the slip plastered against her body by the rain, her long wet blond hair darkened, tears streaking down her face, she ran back to the house to look for Martha. She glanced round, saw Ahmet kneeling on the ground where she had left him, head bent, hands held out in front of him. She could have sworn he was holding the pearls.

*

She was behind the house, the grass felt like wet spinach under her bare feet, slippery, muddy … then she remembered. The marshes. She must be in them. Oh God.

She stood perfectly still. She was too far from the burning house for it to illuminate her way. In front was nothingness. Behind, not even a path to lead her back to Marshmallows.

She couldn’t just stand there, she had to get away from Ahmet, find Martha and Marco. Oh God, how she wanted to go home.…

“Here, come with me.”

She lifted her head, looked at the vision in front of her; the black velvet dress exactly like the one she’d been wearing, the beautiful long red hair, the feather mask.

“Come, I know the way. All you have to do is follow me.”

Lucy thought it might be a ghost, yet ghosts costumed exactly the way she had been did not suddenly appear out of the night in the middle of the marshes, offering help.… But it had to be a ghost, an apparition, a forecast of what she herself would soon become, a dead presence left forever to haunt this place. Terrified, she screamed, but no sound came out.

The woman held out her hand. “My name is Angie. I was trying to get out of here when I saw you running.”

The realization that the woman was real made Lucy’s legs give way and she slumped to the ground. All remnants of her childhood security had left her. She was broken.

“It will be all right.”

“I need to find my sister.”

“We’ll find her together.”

Lucy suddenly needed the comfort of Marco, his masculine presence. She needed her family.

“Now come with me, you’re so cold, we must get you home,” Angie said.

“Home” to Lucy meant only Patrons, it meant her mother and father and her sisters, all the friends and cousins and the dogs and cats and ponies.… Suddenly, the desolation all around seemed even worse.





64

Stuck in the crawling traffic, Marco spotted a leafy path leading in the general direction of the house. It wasn’t too far away, couldn’t be more than five minutes, better than this f*ckin’ slow parade of sightseers all wanting a view of the fire. Ghouls, all of them, probably asking if anyone was in there … and God knows there would be, and it might be Martha, most certainly Lucy.…

Heart racing, he jolted off the narrow road onto the leafy lane and slammed his foot to the metal. The car leapt forward then shuddered to a stop. Shit! Oh God. What the f*ck now!

Sitting next to him, her head stuck out the window, Em suddenly jumped up, slid through the gap, and took off in the direction of the house.

Marco yelled after her, but the dog was gone. He tried to get out of the car but the door was jammed on the driver’s side. He slid over, tried the passenger door. Stuck. The sweat of fear trickled down his spine.

He climbed into the backseat, shoved at the door. It opened immediately; he’d never locked it. He climbed out, stood looking toward the house.

“Em,” he yelled. “Em, goddamn it, dog, get back here.” Shit, he hadn’t meant to call her a dog, she would never respond to that. “Em, you little bastard, get back here,” he rephrased it, knowing she responded to “little bastard” as a term of affection.