Mark could feel his chest tightening until even breathing itself had become difficult. “Have any questionable people contacted us over these two days? There’s bound to be a phone call or something for ransom in a typical abduction, right?”
By this point, he wished this was about money, because at least he could have her back through an exchange of money. At the very least, that would be miles better than not knowing where Arianne was, or how she was at all.
Henry shook his head. “I’m afraid there is none. I’ve paid my utmost attention, and there hasn’t been any strange number ringing us. If I may, Mr. Tremont—you overtax yourself. You need respite; leave this to me,” he admonished. “I may be old, but something like this is still well within my capabilities. As long as Madam has a sliver of chance of being alive, I won’t even hesitate to trade my life to save her.”
Mark said nothing.
Any news would be good. Just any news, however small.
But there was none for him. All there was left was a long, grinding wait—the kind a patient with late-stage cancer took up while the Reaper came.
The kind that had only despair as its companion.
…
All the way in the mansion, Arianne had a fretful sleep despite her exhaustion. First, it was because of the strange environment; secondly, it was because of the quandary that had trapped her.
After hours of disjointed nightmares, Arianne woke up in cold sweat.
She barely sat up from her bed when she noticed a humanoid silhouette sitting next to her bed. Unpleasantly shocked, she grabbed a pillow nearby even if it made for a crappy weapon. “Who’s there?!”
The room was tenebrious. It might have rained a while earlier, because even the moon had abandoned the night.
It felt like a man—his statute was too different from the old woman from before that identifying his gender was not an issue.
Hearing her voice, the man by the bedside moved his body slightly. “You’re awake, fair lady?”
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