Hunted

Twelve: Changes

Matt paced back and forth irritably, watching the world beyond the study windows begin to thaw, the icy grip of the winter night retreating to the shadows that the sun did not know about. The day was bright and clear, but promised of further frost when darkness would fall once more. Matt was acutely aware of the oppressive heat in the study. He had already shed his jumper, pacing back and forth in his short-sleeved t-shirt. The fire was blazing furiously and the water pipes, bringing heat to the radiators, were continuously banging and clattering with the same fury Matt felt raging inside him as he waited.

Charlotte must have awoken early. She generally made an appearance by seven o'clock, despite the clinging signs of another restless night. Yet as eight-thirty passed, Matt had went to wake her from her sleep in, or at least that was what he had thought he was going to do. As he had walked to her room, concealed high in the attic of the house, he had wondered if he was right to disturb her. He knew she needed to sleep, but the break in her routine had worried him. He had almost put his fist through the brittle door of her room, when he had found her bed empty. He had known instantly that she was not in the house, but he had had to check, denying that she would be so reckless to leave, or worse, to allow herself to be taken. There had been no sense in panicking if she had just been hiding in one of the many rooms they didn't use much. She liked her own space – he had learnt that quickly; she preferred solitude. Once he disturbed her, or sat anywhere near her, she usually started to tap her finger repeatedly against her forehead, echoing some unknown pattern.

He had asked the others, if they had seen her, but they had either shrugged or dismissed him with a frown. It had infuriated him. Didn't they even know what was at stake here? Didn't they know who was hunting her? Didn't they understand what she was; who she was?

Matt reached out and gripped the marble mantelpiece to steady himself, as his head swam slightly. He had brought her with him to protect her, but what he had learnt since returning, learnt about the girl he had risked everything to save, was still risking everything for, and would continue to risk everything for, chilled him to the bone. He really had been blind at Kingston – naïve. It was the only word that could account for his stupidity, his gullibility. He had never questioned the most basic fact about the island, the most obvious and basic fact about its products. He had failed her in that and he was still failing her.

"Earth to Matt". Matt glanced up from where he had been staring into the fire, his eyes settling on his brother resting on the sofa. "You can't be this upset about the girl," Freddie sighed, his tone teasing. "She has probably gone for a walk – or is trying to escape". Freddie's tone was light, but Matt was in no mood. His brother was looking so much stronger, stronger even than he had been when they had first returned. He still hadn't completed Harris' treatment scheme, but Harris was very happy with the results so far.

"Shut up, Freddie," Matt growled, grinding his teeth.

"Don't speak to your brother like that," Daphne chided, not looking up from the newspaper she had spread across her desk. Matt jutted out his jaw, wondering how it was possible, in such a big house, to always be under their scrutinising gaze.

"She'll turn up when she's ready," Rhian said kindly, from where she was playing chess with Harris. She too, failed to tear her eyes away from her game, more interested in what Harris was planning on doing with his rook than offering Matt some decent advice.

"You know Charlotte..." Harris shrugged, taking Rhian's bishop.

Matt frowned. Was that supposed to comfort him? "Yes – I do, and that's what worries me". Frustrated, he watched the minutes waste away, the only sound were the clunks of the heavy wooden chess pieces against the chess board. If she doesn't appear through that door by ten-thirty, I am going looking for her, he decided, watching the clock's minute hand move at a torturously slow pace.