The Mask of White and Red - Part 7

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Raised voices echoed down the corridor, hollow and ominous. They seemed to be drawing nearer, the echoes less prominent. Ilsa glanced at her father, but his expression hadn't changed. Was he hearing the same thing she was?

The voices grew louder still—angry, sharp and interspersed with occasional shouting. She couldn’t make out any of the words but the hair on the back of her neck prickled nonetheless. Memories of flames and angry shouting voices were as vivid and terrifying to her now as they'd been the night of the attack.

She peered around the doorway. Towards the end of the hall, the matron and two of the nuns were arguing with several burly men. Backlit against the brightness from outside the doorway, It was hard to make out their features, but she thought from their size and the gruffness in their voice they might be some of the sergeant’s policemen, who were mostly burly, grizzled men who seemed to shout a lot as they patrolled the streets.

She felt her father step close behind her, the warmth of his body a welcome presence. Once he would have put his hands on her shoulders and told her not to worry, he might have called her Illy and pulled her into an embrace, he may have even tenderly touched her cheek. If only he would, but since the incident he’d become miserly with his affection. With her panic rising, she wished she could turn back time and have him back the way he’d been before those other men came and tore her world apart..

“Let me see,” he said.

She moved aside and he stepped into the hallway. A few moments later he returned, the most serious expression on his face. “Take the box and the scroll. My surgical bag is under the bed. Look after it for me.”

Look after it? What did he mean? “What is it? Who are they?”

“They’re not here for any good purpose. We need to get you out of here. Keep safe, and if anything happens to me, find that old woman and tell her I’m asking her as a favor to get you out.”

“Father? What’s going to happen to you?” What was he talking about? Terror took her stomach between its jaws and clamped down hard. Nothing about this was right.

“Hurry,” he said. “I hoped it wouldn't come to this, but it has. We’ll get you out the window while there’s time.” He approached the partly-open window and gave it a shove. The window that had barely moved despite her best efforts flew open as if it had merely been waiting for the right touch. Reaching through, he dropped the medical bag carefully onto the ground beside a patch of clover.

Booted feet stomped up the corridor.

“Get yourself to Kerrie’s. On second thought, find the woman who gave you the scroll and tell her if she wants me, she’ll have to come get me.”

Ilsa’s blood was pounding in her head so hard she could barely think. “Come with me,” she said, but he was already closing the window. A moment later the curtains closed and Ilsa was alone. Ilsa stood for a moment, thoughts spinning in her mind like flights of butterflies. The more she snatched at them, the more they flapped and fluttered beyond her reach.

She was still struggling with the fact that her father had just tossed her out a window with warnings about things happening to him, when a voice behind her said, “You’d best make yourself scarce, girl.”

She jumped, gasping, and turned to find Matron Tettle standing with one hand on the stone of the hospice wall. She was panting as if she'd been running.

“I held them off as long as I could. Going to take you lot off somewhere so they said. Wouldn't take no for an answer.” Her eyes narrowed. “Said Pastor Beckford told them you were here. I'm not a fan of your lot, and I dare say we should keep our city for the locals, but your dad weren't a bad sort. Helped with my cough a couple winters back.” Her face softened. “I were you, I'd be gone before they come out.”

“But my father…”

“You can't help him now. Beckford’s seen to that. Now off with you before I tell them where you are myself.” She waved a hand as if shooing away an errant pigeon. “Go. Go.”

She stared at the glass and the worn, weathered frames, wishing again there was something--anything--she could do. On the far side of the closed curtains she imagined her father facing those angry men.

She swallowed, feeling her eyes heavy, chest tight. If tears would come they would wash the pain away, but it seemed she was to be denied even that comfort.

Matron Tettle’s heavy hand pressed down on her shoulder.

“I know love, but you need to go. They’ll take your father to the lockup by the docks, no doubt. But you…well there's no telling what brutes like that might be capable of.”

Nodding, Ilsa walked away from the house. Looking back, her shadow seemed drawn to the hospice, legs long and spindly as if it could stretch itself away from her and cleave to her father. Leaving felt like betrayal. How could she walk away with him as broken and helpless as he was? But Matron Tettle was right. What could she do?

She turned back towards the town, sticking to the shadowed edges of the road and avoiding the streets where trouble liked to lurk when night fell. Her father said to find the old woman, so that was exactly what she was going to do. It might not be much, but it was what she could do to help.

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Author's Note:

I hope you enjoyed Part 7 of The Mask of White and Red. Life unfortunately got in the way of me doing a lot of writing these last few weeks. It feels horrible, so for those reading this, thank you very much for sticking with me. As always, this would not have been possible without the editors from The Writers' Block on Discord.

To read the rest of this story, please do check it out on my Steemshelf at Steemshelves http://www.steemshelves.com/thinknzombie/. You can see each Steemit post linked there as well as some of my other stories.

Promise I'm doing what I can to get the next part ready much faster than this!

-- @thinknzombie

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