Rain hammers on the roof, as the carriage sways and jolts through the forest, and the horses whinny in panic when lightning flashes reveal decaying bodies dangling from barren branches.
Glancing sideways, I flinch at his stern countenance, my stomach roiling apprehensively at the torment awaiting me at Surbiton Hall.
The carriage lurches to a halt, and my senses reel in despair.
He leaps onto the gravel drive, and hammers on the great doors, which swing open immediately.
She is there. My wicked stepmother. She speaks.
“I hope we’re not going to have any more of her drama-queen antics this half-term, Harold.”
A lighter note this week, I think – after all we’re halfway through the winter now. Thanks to our own Snow Queen, Rochelle Wisoff-Fields for her ministrations on behalf of Friday Fictioneers.