40
KATE
I’ve had enough of Wolf’s rules and enough of Wolf’s house and enough of Wolf’s endless feckin’ control. He decides what he wants and what I want as well. He chooses when to take me to the dungeon and what we do once we’re there. It doesn’t matter if I want it. If I need it. If I’m longing so hard for it, my teeth ache.
Enough of this shite. I’m leaving.
Which would be a hell of a lot easier to do, if I didn’t have Granny to worry about.
Back in Baltimore, I could pretend my grandmother was getting better, was regaining her familiar fighting spirit. I could argue to myself that she’d be brilliant if only she got the doctors she needed, the care she deserved. I could say her wasting away was Da’s fault, that he needed to spend more money, more time.
But Wolf has ruined all those lies. He’s had a specialist in four times since we arrived, some sort of concierge doctor who only works with geriatric patients. He’s hired a nutritionist tocook Granny’s meals, an expert who can get her all the nutrients she needs, even though she refuses to eat more than ten bites at a time.
Sure, he fired Ms. Sutton, and I’m still livid about that. But Mrs. Watson is even better about coaxing Granny into taking a walk. About helping her with meals and with the toilet. About challenging her to do all the things she’s still capable of doing, and managing ways around all the rest.
Even with all that, Granny can’t manage a walk about the garden. She’s choked on food every meal I’ve eaten with her this week. She needs oxygen almost full-time now.
So I can’t exactly pack my bags and run away, dragging my grandmother behind me.
But after two weeks of living like a prisoner in Wolf’s house, I can’t just sit here either. I’m not asking for much—just the right to leave the property. To cross the road to visit my grandmother without asking permission. To go for a walk in the fresh spring air, to see the daffodils and cherry blossoms and tulips around my new home.
Maybe then, I could write a decent line of code.
Making demands hasn’t worked. Showing my vulnerability—nearly crying at the subway station—didn’t work. Showing up naked to dinner definitely didn’t work.
So I try a different approach.
After lunch on Saturday, I ask Nilsson for a bottle of rubbing alcohol, another of nail polish remover, and a mountain of cotton balls. They’re delivered to my office just before dinner, along with a vat of hand lotion, as if Nilsson knows what I’m planning.
It’s Sunday afternoon before I’m ready to use them. I take all my supplies into one of the guest-room toilets, turning on the fan in a useless attempt to clear fumes. I peel off my silk T-shirt and remove my lacy bra.
Chances are, I’ll ruin these grand clothes with the clean-upI’m about to attempt. But my hoodies and yoga pants are long gone. Wolf’s little games have left me no choice.
My nose stings as I soak the cotton wadding in alcohol. The liquid is so cold that I shiver as I sponge it across my chest. The ink has been there for a long time, so it takes several passes, and there’s still a ghost of my banjaxed lettering even after I’m done.
Shuddering, I soak more cotton in nail polish remover. That smells worse, and it dries my skin even more, but it takes my writing down to a faint shadow. I end the effort by rinsing with cool water, then I smooth on loads of lotion.
Writing finally gone, I head down the hall to our bedroom.
There are plenty of clothes in the closet, neatly hung by Nilsson. Trousers made out linen and wool. Tops made of silk. If I want to, I can dress in a different ball gown every night of the week.
I don’t want any of that. I want the outfit I wore to Fiona Moran’s wedding, my dark green pencil skirt and my black button-up shirt. I want those clothes to plead my case, to make Wolf realize how far we’ve come over the past fortnight.
But they’re gone now, taken with all my yoga pants and my frayed hoodies. I settle for the next best—a jet-black skirt I haven’t yet worn and an emerald-color top I think is silk.
After I’m dressed, I head to the jacks to do something with my hopeless hair. Breagha knows how to make it behave with something she calls an updo, or something else she says is a French twist. I settle for a braid, simple enough to keep my curls out of my eyes and something even I can’t ruin.
If Breagha were here, she’d help me with my makeup—dramatic eyes, a statement for my lips. I manage to swipe mascara onto my lashes without stabbing myself. I add some lipstick, the new shade Mam gave me on Christmas morning, just before she took to her bed with a migraine.
I don’t trust myself to handle any of the heels Nilsson has provided—the last thing I want is to sprawl flat on my arse as Itry to seduce my husband. I slip my feet into ballet flats, black to match my skirt.
Breagha would wear her little gold cross. Maybe, if she was feeling especially daring, the pearl choker she inherited from Aunt Alis, Granny’s sister.
I don’t own a cross, and Aunt Alis left me her family Bible, which I lost years ago. The only jewelry I own are the rings Wolf gave me—the diamond for our engagement and the simple gold band for our wedding.
They’ll have to do.
I pause before I leave the bedroom, rehearsing the words I want to deliver over dinner.