Bianca

I sat, my mouth like an O.

St Just had brought me to the basement and I stood, shocked and trembling, beside him as he pointed out the various instruments of torture in the large room. The walls had curtains of red damask which added to the sinister atmosphere of the room.

I turned to St Just, my palms sweaty and damp as I whispered, frankly,

“I’m…scared,” I whispered and he smiled, his charming lop-sided smile.

He pulled my hand and led me to a variety of whips and strange-looking implements that made me shudder just to look at them.

“This evening,” he went on pleasantly, “I shall just...