The moon broke through the clouds and the four of them stood there, frozen, waiting for something to happen. They were in the middle of an open field, and it was as if a spotlight had been trained on them.
The Steward nodded to the Chatelaine. “The Baron requests that his wife call upon him at her earliest convenience.”
The Chatelaine curtsied in reply. “The Baroness informs her husband she is unwell, and declines his request. He may, however, call upon her tomorrow, when she has recovered.”
Monica had been in the bathroom for close to an hour. Her hands were red raw from the cheap nightclub soap. The girl in the red dress had already been to the toilet twice, but Monica had soaped, washed, rinsed and dried her hands a hundred times between her visits.
Shakespeare has been outside my window for the past three nights. It’s rather annoying actually. He’s far too fond of composing sonnets about me, and it’s not at all flattering having my hair compared to a loo brush. At least he’s not holding up a boombox. I don’t think I can handle Peter Gabriel at this present moment.