The Vorrh

the heavy gate and stood aside.
    ‘That’s more like it,’ she said, beaming down at the wide man as he seemed to chew on a sticky and knotted word. ‘Now, go and tell your mistress that I am here,’ she commanded.
    He made a strange gesture, his eyes seeming to roll around in his head, as if he were trying to observe the entire courtyard via his peripheral vision.
    ‘Please wait inside, madam,’ he said in a flush of unsurpassed politeness.
    She was taken aback at such a remarkable change of attitude and let herself be swiftly escorted across the cobbled yard, away from the stables and into the house. He left her in the reception room and went to find Ghertrude. She was delighted that Mutter had responded to her firm but polite commands so well: there was hope for the man yet.
    Several minutes later, the door opened soundlessly and Ghertrude curved into the pale room. She had changed. Cyrena’s first thoughts were that she looked older since their last meeting, larger somehow, but that was impossible. Yet her complexion, it seemed, was also different to what she remembered. Cyrena’s new eyes were still hungry for detail, even if the rest of her mind found them rather too unrelenting.
    ‘My dear, how are you?’ she said, pushing aside her doubts to greet her friend with the great warmth and pleasure she nonetheless felt.
    ‘Very well, thank you Cyrena, how are you?’ Ghertrude replied, her few words exposing so much – it was obvious that she was anything but well. The speed with which she had politely changed the direction of attention was overly polite and Cyrena began to suspect that her presence was less than welcome. She quickly crossed the room and made a soft extension to grasp her friend’s hand. She saw the flinch; it was involuntary and momentary, but it was there. She held it anyway, shuddering at its coldness.
    ‘My dear, you are freezing!’
    She instantly brought the warmth of her other hand to cup the cold paw. Ghertrude looked away. Cyrena’s concern grew; the inbuilt determination that so marked Ghertrude’s character was nowhere to be found: whatever had happened, it was serious.
    ‘What’s wrong, Ghertrude?’ she asked in a caring, solid tone.
    She felt the movement again, trapped beneath the warmth of her grip. This time, it was not a flinch but a tiny tug of escape.
    ‘Ghertrude? Tell me. You know you can trust me.’
    Ghertrude wrenched her hand free and looked at Cyrena with an expression that neither recognised.
    ‘Don’t treat me like a child!’
    Cyrena felt the words slap against her face and looked on, speechless.
    ‘We are in serious trouble and you pretend nothing has happened?! You breeze in here as if all these horrors never occurred. You are laughing and I cannot even smile!’ Ghertrude was fighting back the tears, her shaking fists beginning to bunch. ‘I cannot sleep; I keep seeing those men and that horrible monster. Ishmael is lost and we will be dragged into the very depths of this dreadful crime!’
    The younger woman was instantly overcome by a great gushing of previously contained emotion. She erupted in sobs and shudders, collapsing her stance and her speech into uncontrollable, wet convulsions. Cyrena guided Ghertrude to the sofa as she gave in to the tumult and wept until there was nothing left inside. Little sniffs punctuated the growing weight of her body as she fell into an exhausted sleep in her friend’s arms.
    Cyrena was very still, cautious not to move and wake Ghertrude from the depth of such vital rest; she had been turned inside out by the strenuous action, but sleep would reform her in its flat, calm wake. They were both soaked from her tears; Cyrena’s blouse clung coldly against her bosom, where Ghertrude rested.
    From her fixed position, she looked around the room, letting her mind recall their adventures together. Why had Ghertrude said ‘crimes’? Nothing they had done could be called a crime; their involvement with those dubious men may have been a secret, but it was not illegal: she had paid for their services, which had proved to be less than useless. She moved slightly, to shift her weight; the sleeper gave a quiet moan. Cyrena stroked her friend’s head and settled her weight again. She continued her casual inspection of the room, trying to alleviate the growing discomfort and take her mind off the pins and needles developing in her feet.
    Sometimes, she thought her inquisitive eyes had a life of their own; they