Read Online The Medea Complex by Rachel Florence Roberts - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Rachel Florence Roberts
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dance floor.
“Me names’ William. William Smith. Nice t’ meet ye
acquaintance.” He places a hand upon my waist, and I incline my head a little
to the left.
“Anne. Just call me Anne.”
He starts to tell me about all the dances he's learnt whilst
being here. “I bin' taught t' polka, t' t' gallop, and the waltz!” he declares,
a little too proudly.
“How about the Polka-Masurka?”
The resulting confusion on his face makes me feel rather
guilty, so I shake my head slightly and offer him a rueful smile.
Half way through our dance, our eyes meet and he smiles at
me. In them, I see recognition of a fellow comrade.
"How do ye' like t' drinks?" he asks me,
performing a perfect two-step, engaging me in the prerequisite small-talk of
ballroom etiquette.
"Rather unpleasant," I say, matching his dance but
not really wanting conversation. I'm too annoyed at trying to pull my skirt out
to the side when I'm not wearing one. "I much prefer root beer."
"Coca-Cola, they're calling it. Developed by some quack
called Dr Pemberton."
I snort, the sound lost under the screeching of a violin.
At this point, I suggest making an escape.
"Aye, I would love to," he says. "The damned
idiots in here keep makin' me miss me train. Do ye know, I have tried ten times
to get out of this place?"
Another song starts and we continue to dance.
"How did they kidnap you?"
"Kidnap? Lady, me' family put me in here. Damn
them."
Interesting. Perhaps they paid the captors to take him? But
what possible reason would they have for this? But no matter, I hardly have
time to ponder another issue. I backtrack to his unsuccessful escape record.
"How can you possibly fail ten times?" Perhaps I
have not picked the best fellow to aid me.
"Well, the first time I broke me' hand tryin' t' break
a window," he says, blushing. "It's the first thing ye try in here -
break a window, and freedom is yours. Not so."
I feel a little idiotic for falling for the same sentiment.
I stay quiet.
"Second time, I picked a lock with a hair pin I'd found
on the floor. I managed to open the door but ran straight into a bunch of
orderlies." He laughs. "That got me put into a cold sheet for two
days. No matter. Third time, I went on hunger strike, and when they tried to
put the tube down my throat I grabbed it...and not much happened. The tube went
down my throat. That was a plan without much foresight, really.
"Fourth time I hid behind my cell door, and punched the
orderly when he entered. Knocked him clean unconscious I did, but then I
tripped over him and unfortunately knocked meself' out too on the
doorframe."
I giggle.
"Aye, very amusin'. Sixth time, sixth?"
"Fifth."
"Ah. Right-o, so fifth time, I put a piece of thin wood
I'd whittled down out of the workshop into the side of the door-frame. The plan
was that when the door closed the lock wouldn't be able t' engage. It fell out,
and that was that. Sixth time was a plea for release really, which fell on deaf
ears, so not sure if that really counts as an 'escape attempt'. Seventh time I
crept into the kitchens and started a fire, but they apprehended me minutes
after, the cook having spied me immediately." He sighs.
"You're not very good at this." I say.
"Why should I be? I'm just a tobacco merchant." We
dance a quick step silently as a jailor walks past us.
"So, eighth time I tried to seduce one of the female
orderlies, and was rewarded by a squeal, a slap, and isolation for a month.
Sexual predator, they called me. Ninth time, I tried to seduce a male orderly.
Got stuck in the hole for that, and almost ended up back at court. Did you know
it's illegal for a man to lay with another man, but in Persia he can have sex
with a goat? Anyway, tenth time I tried to poison myself with weeds from the
garden, but simply ended up vomitin' for a week."
I feel sad for him. "Didn't your family pay the ransom
then?"
He squints. "What?"
I frown. Why does everyone act idiotic when I mention the
ransom? Is it such a verbal
“Me names’ William. William Smith. Nice t’ meet ye
acquaintance.” He places a hand upon my waist, and I incline my head a little
to the left.
“Anne. Just call me Anne.”
He starts to tell me about all the dances he's learnt whilst
being here. “I bin' taught t' polka, t' t' gallop, and the waltz!” he declares,
a little too proudly.
“How about the Polka-Masurka?”
The resulting confusion on his face makes me feel rather
guilty, so I shake my head slightly and offer him a rueful smile.
Half way through our dance, our eyes meet and he smiles at
me. In them, I see recognition of a fellow comrade.
"How do ye' like t' drinks?" he asks me,
performing a perfect two-step, engaging me in the prerequisite small-talk of
ballroom etiquette.
"Rather unpleasant," I say, matching his dance but
not really wanting conversation. I'm too annoyed at trying to pull my skirt out
to the side when I'm not wearing one. "I much prefer root beer."
"Coca-Cola, they're calling it. Developed by some quack
called Dr Pemberton."
I snort, the sound lost under the screeching of a violin.
At this point, I suggest making an escape.
"Aye, I would love to," he says. "The damned
idiots in here keep makin' me miss me train. Do ye know, I have tried ten times
to get out of this place?"
Another song starts and we continue to dance.
"How did they kidnap you?"
"Kidnap? Lady, me' family put me in here. Damn
them."
Interesting. Perhaps they paid the captors to take him? But
what possible reason would they have for this? But no matter, I hardly have
time to ponder another issue. I backtrack to his unsuccessful escape record.
"How can you possibly fail ten times?" Perhaps I
have not picked the best fellow to aid me.
"Well, the first time I broke me' hand tryin' t' break
a window," he says, blushing. "It's the first thing ye try in here -
break a window, and freedom is yours. Not so."
I feel a little idiotic for falling for the same sentiment.
I stay quiet.
"Second time, I picked a lock with a hair pin I'd found
on the floor. I managed to open the door but ran straight into a bunch of
orderlies." He laughs. "That got me put into a cold sheet for two
days. No matter. Third time, I went on hunger strike, and when they tried to
put the tube down my throat I grabbed it...and not much happened. The tube went
down my throat. That was a plan without much foresight, really.
"Fourth time I hid behind my cell door, and punched the
orderly when he entered. Knocked him clean unconscious I did, but then I
tripped over him and unfortunately knocked meself' out too on the
doorframe."
I giggle.
"Aye, very amusin'. Sixth time, sixth?"
"Fifth."
"Ah. Right-o, so fifth time, I put a piece of thin wood
I'd whittled down out of the workshop into the side of the door-frame. The plan
was that when the door closed the lock wouldn't be able t' engage. It fell out,
and that was that. Sixth time was a plea for release really, which fell on deaf
ears, so not sure if that really counts as an 'escape attempt'. Seventh time I
crept into the kitchens and started a fire, but they apprehended me minutes
after, the cook having spied me immediately." He sighs.
"You're not very good at this." I say.
"Why should I be? I'm just a tobacco merchant." We
dance a quick step silently as a jailor walks past us.
"So, eighth time I tried to seduce one of the female
orderlies, and was rewarded by a squeal, a slap, and isolation for a month.
Sexual predator, they called me. Ninth time, I tried to seduce a male orderly.
Got stuck in the hole for that, and almost ended up back at court. Did you know
it's illegal for a man to lay with another man, but in Persia he can have sex
with a goat? Anyway, tenth time I tried to poison myself with weeds from the
garden, but simply ended up vomitin' for a week."
I feel sad for him. "Didn't your family pay the ransom
then?"
He squints. "What?"
I frown. Why does everyone act idiotic when I mention the
ransom? Is it such a verbal
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