Wasp Read Online Free PDF

asked.
    ‘Yes.’ Blood trickled from one of the Fixer’s nostrils. ‘They will come back. We have to go.’

In the Mirror
    Again the tread of those large feet. A click. A gentle draught on her skin. She looks up and he is gone. No door. Only those reflections.
    She pads over to the nearest mirror. A scarecrow girl stares back. She tugs at the frame. It won’t budge. She debates whether to try the others. One must hide the way out, but which? And even if she finds it, what can she do? It is likely locked. He would not have left her if he thought she could escape. Perhaps she can smash one of the mirrors and use a glass shard as a weapon. He’s big, but he won’t expect her to attack him. She can catch him the moment he steps back through the door. He’s much stronger than she is but a quick stab in the neck might do it. Her skinny limbs are no use for anything else. She doubts she could break an eggshell.
    Look at you, standing here plotting murder. Not so long ago you were reading Greek and Latin, or listening to pretty melodies played on Lord Russell’s harpsichord. The only weapon you ever held was a knife for cutting cake or spreading butter over the baker’s scones.
    Bethany returns to the middle of the room, sits beneath an unlit dome lantern and draws her legs up under her. After a few minutes a mirror swings open. The dark man steps back into the room, followed by a swarthy, white-skinned fellow. Cloth breeches hug the newcomer’s legs. Apart from a sleeveless leather jerkin his upper body is bare. Not a single lick of hair. Pale, puckered streaks furrow his skin. He closes the door and approaches the girl. Square feet are crammed into a pair of thonged sandals, the toes as thick as carrot stubs.
    ‘My saints, what a pretty piece of pastry we’ve bagged,’ he says. ‘Can’t be more than eighteen. Maybe less.’
    ‘A children’s tutor,’ the dark man says behind him. ‘Locked up in a private madhouse.’
    ‘Not so vicious a find, Kingfisher, compared to some of her soon-to-be-Sisters.’
    ‘She would be dead enough if she remained there.’
    ‘True.’ He nods at the girl. ‘What’s your name?’
    A pause while she hooks it from her memory. ‘Bethany Harris.’
    ‘You can read and write?’
    ‘Yes, sir.’
    ‘What else can you do?’
    ‘I can count. Do needlework.’
    ‘How about singing or dancing? I don’t mean these cloddish country reels, but a proper gavotte, say. Have you ever been to the theatre or the opera?’
    ‘I watched the mummers at Moorcott fair. A travelling company also put on Shakespeare.’
    The bald man grimaced. ‘What about languages? Have you any musical ability? Can you play cards?’
    ‘I know a little Greek and Latin, and I play the harpsichord passably well. My employer taught me the rules of piquet.’
    ‘Thank the gracious God for His mercy. Walk over to the door and back again. Go on.’
    He watches as Beth gets up and shuffles across the polished boards. ‘She must have put a right bee in someone’s bonnet. Look at her.’
    ‘She made an accusation against the local squire’s son. Nearly caused a scandal the breadth of the county. When will she be ready to meet the Abbess?’
    ‘At least a day. I wonder if her belly will hold a bite of decent food.’
    The girl turns and peers at them through limp strands of hair. ‘Am I in a nunnery then?’
    Both men burst out laughing. ‘In a manner of speaking,’ the bald man says. ‘Now open your mouth.’
    She hesitates, then obeys. Baldy walks over, grasps her chin and checks her teeth. ‘Much work to do. Good food and careful cleaning should take care of it.’
    ‘Are you a surgeon?’
    He grins. ‘Fixing people is what I do. Broken people. Like you. Now, hold out your arms. Good. Pull up your skirts. No, don’t go coy, I’m not some cully with stiff breeches and a shilling in his pocket.’
    Beth lifts her hem. Bug bites pepper both wrists and ankles. Baldy unslings a canvas pouch from his