Episode2
1073 Words
Chapter: Supposedly a Wedding Day
Hyacinth kept staring out the window like God might descend at any moment to rescue her. The day had finally come. Never in a million years did she think she’d end up marrying a man she had never met.
“Come to think of it… at least we get to escape this hellhole,” Hyacinth muttered, turning to face the ceiling, hands clasped in a prayer of hope that she was right.
“Language, ma’am! And we don’t even know the terms of this marriage. What if—what if he’s some old hag?” Patricia gasped, slapping both hands over her face.
She hurried across the room and grabbed Hyacinth by the hands.
“I think we should consider running away. Now is the time—before they notice we're missing and we’re already in Scotland or—”
“Come on, Lady,” Hyacinth interrupted gently.
“Try to look at things positively for once. I could marry the old hag, then run away to Scotland—or wherever.”
She locked eyes with Patricia—guilt flickering behind her lashes. It was because of her that Patricia had stayed and endured so much. Assigned to her as a maid from childhood, they were the same age and had grown to become more like sisters than mistress and servant.
“Remember the promise we made? I won’t let you go through more pain. Not anymore. If we run now, I’ll just be caught and married off again. But after the wedding, they’ll all relax. That will be our chance to escape,” Hyacinth explained, lips tight, eyes wide with determination. She blinked rapidly, trying to steady herself.
“Trying to be cute? You look like a stray cat,” Patricia teased, poking her forehead playfully.
“Okay, okay… I guess we can wait. All our past escape plans failed anyway—thanks to you,” she added, narrowing her eyes at Hyacinth with mock accusation.
Suddenly, a loud voice screeched from the hallway.
“What are you girls waiting for?” her uncle’s wife yelled.
She barged into the room, eyes scanning quickly.
“Oh—she’s dressed. Pack your bags. Your carriage is waiting. And you—” she jabbed a finger toward Patricia, “don’t fill her head with ideas. Ta-ta!”
She gave a smug wave and swept out of the room.
It had been days since Hyacinth had stepped out of the mansion. The scent of her mother’s old flowerbeds filled the air—faint but familiar.
Sigh.
There was the carriage. Black, boxy, and cold. Did he not know women would be riding in it—or did he simply not care? She looked at it, then down at her dress. She might as well be attending a funeral.
“Come on, darling. Get in the carriage,” her uncle said, extending his hand.
More like a human cage, she thought.
She and Patricia climbed in, glancing back to see her uncle’s wife waving from the doorway.
“Why is that witch waving at us like she means well? I should’ve clipped those claws she calls fingers,” Patricia muttered, throwing a small punch into the air.
“Language, please,” Hyacinth chided.
They both laughed quietly.
“So what’s the plan? I brought the map,” Patricia whispered, leaning in.
“I guess we find out how tall the fence is first,” Hyacinth replied with a mischievous smirk.
Hyacinth was led to her room by a butler named Hank. The room was drenched in pink. Pink walls. Pink floral wallpaper. A pink velvet sofa. A pink vanity. Even the bed and curtains were pink. The only exceptions were the windowpanes and the dark wood bed frame.
“I’d like my friend Patricia to have a room too. En suite, please. She’s not a maid,” Hyacinth said firmly.
“Anything else, madam?”
“No. Thank you,” she replied with a polite smile, waving him off.
Patricia entered, squinting around the room.
“What is this color? You’re not five years old,” she said, grimacing as she rubbed the arm of the couch with one finger.
“Everyone assumes all girls love pink. But this? This is overkill. Horrid taste,” she said, checking another piece of furniture for dust—a habit she’d picked up from years of cleaning.
Hyacinth walked to the window and parted the curtains. “He didn’t even come say hello. Either he's busy or he doesn’t care. Works to our advantage. And that fence doesn’t seem very high…”
“Where’s the survival bag?” she asked, turning.
“Survival bag?” Patricia repeated, raising an eyebrow and resting a hand on her chin. “No one said anything about a survival bag.”
Hyacinth facepalmed.
“The bag we packed to escape!”
“Aaahhh!” Patricia exclaimed, eyebrows shooting up in recognition. “That bag.”
She retrieved it from the floor.
“Quick, toss it,” Hyacinth ordered.
They opened the window and threw the bag out. Her room was on the first floor and, luckily, faced the back of the house where a field stretched beyond the fence.
They bolted down the staircase, out the front door, and around the side of the house.
“Is… no one here?” Hyacinth looked around in disbelief. “Well—that was easy.”
“That—was a lot of stairs,” Patricia gasped, panting with her hands on her knees.
They reached the fence.
“Okay, now jump. I’ll give you a lift. You sit on the top and pull me up,” Hyacinth whispered.
“No—you should go first. You’re the one who needs to escape. If they catch us, I’ll stall them. You run.”
“Nooo, I’m the better climber. You go first,” Hyacinth whispered back through gritted teeth.
“But—”
“Oh, stop wasting time! Fine—I’ll go first,” she gave in, frowning.
They were both straddling the top of the fence, about to drop to the other side when a deep voice spoke from behind:
“I wouldn’t do that if I were you. There’s a rose bush behind the fence. You know what they say—roses have thorns.”
They looked down.
A whole field of roses waited below.
They had been caught.
- Writer
