MOLLY BACKED AWAY FROM the doorway, her eyes on the knife in Jenna’s hand. It was a kitchen knife; Molly had seen Mrs. Conine chop vegetables with its long, gleaming blade, always honed razor sharp.
As Molly stepped back, Jenna moved forward, filling the doorway.
“Was the young lady going out?” she said, with mock servility.
“What are you doing?” said Molly, her eyes still on the knife.
“I’m keeping you in your room, m’lady,” said Jenna, in a tone unlike any she had used with Molly before. Gone was any trace of subservience; in its place was only hard contempt.
“You can’t do this!” said Molly, raising her voice, trying to give it a confidence she didn’t feel.
Jenna wiggled the knife. “Can’t I, m’lady?”
Before Molly could speak again, she heard a dull thumping of footsteps coming upstairs from several floors below. The footfalls were heavy: men, possibly two or three of them. Molly looked past Jenna, through her open doorway.
“Help!” she screamed as loudly as she could. “Help! She has a knife! Please, help me!”
No answer. The thumps stopped, but for only a moment; then they resumed.
“Help!” Molly called again, less hopefully. Jenna smirked, as if to say that whoever was coming up the stairs would be of no help to Molly.
The two young women stared at each other as the footsteps reached the second-floor landing, then the third. Molly waited, expecting to hear the familiar creak of footsteps on the stairway that led up to her room in the south tower. Instead, she heard a door opening on the floor below.
Then she heard her mother scream.