Rhiannon’s Nightmare
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The net covering Rhiannon’s door shifted listlessly in the damp night air. She rolled to her belly and pried her shift from her back, seeking relief.
If Liam were still in residence, she’d put on her wrap and go outside. He’d be awake–or else he’d wake instantly, she’d never been certain which. He’d rise from his hammock and sit with her. Often he’d hold her hand, and if she were sad he’d hold her close, cushioning her head against his chest. She never left him on her own accord, but without fail she’d wake in her own bed the following morning.
Had he returned? A shadow loomed in her doorway. She closed her eyes in a silent prayer of thanks. He’d known, then, that she’d not meant the awful words she’d said, that her outburst had stemmed from frustration.
“Li—” Her tongue stilled, the word suspended as the shadow approached. Liam moved with grace and ease. When he moved her heart clenched–with admiration, with need, with longing—but never with fear. This shadow was not his.
Mesmerized as the net surrounding her bed undulated with the thing’s nearness, she lay rigid. Was it a man or a woman? Black or white? It carried no scent. Was it one of Maisie’s duppies?
Others would come if she could find the breath to scream. It needn’t be Liam. Tyler would come. He would come and would dwarf this person . . . this thing . . . into insignificance.
Unless he lay dead in bed. Albert had lain dead for hours, and she hadn’t known. No one had come to his aid.
Slowly the net parted as the shadow’s hand groped inside, reaching for her. She leapt in a crouch to the far side of the bed, clutching the bed linen and cowering against the wall. She dredged a scream from deep within her belly. One that ricocheted round inside her head; one that made no sound.
It’s a dream, Rhiannon. Wake. It’s only a dream. Screams are soundless in dreams. If you wake, this nightmare will cease.
But it’s not a dream. Carbrey Ford had come back. The clatter of the mill and bray of a donkey broke through the drone of the night insects, and that could mean only one thing. He was here. He’d come to feed her to the mill, as he’d promised.
Feet first he’d said, he’d start with her feet first. Because the anticipation was the best part. She wasn’t to be deprived of the anticipation, nor were Fain’s slaves. Her slaves. They were her slaves now, and she owed them that anticipation, that thrill of just retribution.
It might take time for the mill to turn, he’d warned, as her screams would unsettle the donkeys. But she was to be patient, because turn it would, and once it did there would be no stopping it. Slowly she be fed through, inch by inch, and the slaves would sing and ply their drums in triumph as she came out the other side, a mass of bones, blood, and tissue.
It was a pity, Ford claimed. A pity she couldn’t bear witness to the complete transformation. But some things couldn’t be helped. He’d promised to do what he could to ensure she remained conscious as long as humanly possible. In turn she was to stop screaming now, stop so that she’d have screams left to scream. He shook her shoulders, seeming almost worried that she wouldn’t save her screams.
“Missus! Missus, wake up!”
“Rhiannon? Let me through, Bosco. Rhiannon, it’s Tyler. What is it?”
Her teeth chattered as she stared at the two men hovering over her, neither of them the one she craved. “Mr. Ford . . . Carbrey Ford . . . he was here.” She reached for a pillow and curled into it, knees to her chest, and rocked.
“No, Missus. He’s dead. He’s not here.”
“No. I saw him. He talked to me. The mill . . .” The mill was silent. She listened. There were no calls to prompt the donkeys, nor strain of timber creaking.
“It was a dream, Rhiannon,” Tyler said. “Only a nightmare. Try to go back to sleep.”
Go back to sleep? Had the man lost his mind? She bit her tongue, tasting blood, so as not to cry out for Liam.
“Rhiannon? Did you hear me? It was only an nightmare.”
“I thought . . . he said he’d . . . I thought . . .” Still rocking, she buried her face in the pillow.
“Missus, I’ll get Miss Maisie.”
“Bosco, I don’t think—”
Maisie would slay the dragon. Maybe not for Rhiannon’s sake, but for Albert’s. She’d slay the dragon once more.
Rhiannon raised her head. “Tyler, let him. Please. I would very much like Miss Maisie to come.”[/weaver_showhide]
