Chapter 67: The Supply Bus

Beatris

The maid's uniform hung awkwardly on me, a little looser through the shoulders. I had tied the scarf low over my hair and high enough across my face to shadow the shape of it.

Too high?

I stared at myself for a second longer. Would that make people look closer?

Or less?

I could no longer tell. My hands would not stop shaking. I slipped out before I could lose my nerve.

The back grounds were already awake. Servants moved between the kitchens and storage rooms, carrying crates, sacks, baskets. The supply bus stood near the service entrance with its rear doors open, half-unloaded, while two men hauled down boxes and passed them to the maids below.

I slowed at once and kept my head down. Too many people. Not many enough to make me invisible.

I moved toward the edge of the activity and picked up one of the smaller baskets left near the wall, forcing myself into the rhythm of the others. In. Out. Head lowered. No hesitation.

If I looked like I belonged, no one would study me too closely. At least, that was what I told myself.

My pulse only grew worse the closer I came to the bus.

A maid brushed past me carrying folded cloth. Another crossed toward the kitchens with a sack of flour balanced against her hip. I followed the flow of them, lifting one last crate when the unloading had nearly finished and carrying it toward the storeroom with the others.

My breathing stayed too fast. Just one more little while. Once the last of the supplies were offloaded, the servants began drifting back toward their duties. The yard opened up. The noise thinned. The bus stood waiting.

This was it. I set the crate down and turned quickly toward the rear of the vehicle, my head still bowed beneath the scarf.

"Hello, you there."

My whole body went cold. I knew that voice. Mrs. Elara

I froze mid step, my mind breaking in two directions at once. Run. No. If I ran, they would chase me.

Slowly, I turned, already shaping the lie in my head. I was bored. I wanted to help. I couldn't sleep. Anything. Anything believable enough to keep her from looking too hard at my face.

Then I saw her.

Mrs. Elara was not looking at me.

She stood several feet away, frowning at another maid near the kitchen steps.

"Mind where you're carrying that," she was saying sharply. "If you drop it, you'll clean the yard yourself."

Relief hit me so hard my knees nearly softened beneath me. I turned away at once before anyone could notice the breath I had just let out. Then I saw the real problem.

The driver.

He stood at the back of the bus, arms folded, waiting while one of the boys checked the inside against a list. There was no way to climb in without being seen. Not while he was there.

I kept moving, forcing myself not to stare. Think. The yard had grown quieter now. Only a few servants still crossed it. On the far side, near the bend in the road leading out past the service gate, fewer eyes lingered. I slipped that way, keeping my pace steady until I reached the edge of the drive.

My heart pounded so loudly I could hear it in my ears.

There, half hidden near the flower border, lay a scatter of loose stones broken from the gravel edge. I stooped quickly and gathered two of the larger ones.

When I reached the narrowest part of the road, I dropped them into the path. Not enough to wreck the bus. Only enough to jolt it. Enough to make the driver stop and check. Then I stepped back into the shadow of the wall and waited.

The bus engine coughed, then rumbled to life. It rolled forward. One wheel struck the stones with a hard crack. The whole vehicle lurched.

The driver swore, braked, and threw the door open.

My breath stopped as He climbed down, muttering to himself, and moved toward the front wheel. The kitchen boy followed him, pointing uselessly at the road while the driver crouched to inspect it.

Now. I ran. Not toward the back. Toward the side where the canvas flap had not been tied properly after unloading. My fingers caught the edge, found space, and I pulled myself up, scrambling half blind into the dim interior.

Wood scraped beneath my knees. My shoulder hit a crate. I bit my lip hard enough to stop the cry that rose into my throat and dragged myself deeper behind a stack of sacks and folded tarps.

Then I curled into stillness. Outside, voices continued. The driver cursed once more. The boy laughed nervously. Boots crunched over gravel. Every muscle in my body locked.

If he checked the back, If anyone looked under the tarp, I pressed my hands over my mouth and stayed absolutely still.

The bus shifted. A door slammed. The engine growled again. For one endless second, nothing happened. Then the vehicle rolled forward. Slowly at first. Then faster.

I stayed frozen, hardly daring to breathe until the rhythm of the road settled beneath the wheels and the sounds of Crimson Hill began to fade behind us. Only then did I let my eyes close.

The bus rattled over uneven ground. Every jolt made the crates shift and the sacks settle around me with soft, threatening noises. I flinched at each one, waiting for a shout, a hand dragging back the tarp, the sharp command to stop the bus and turn it around.

Nothing came. Only the engine.

The road pulling us farther and farther into town. Slowly, I lowered my hands.

My breath still shook, but it no longer felt trapped inside my chest. I could breathe again. Not properly, but enough.

A small, disbelieving laugh rose into my throat and died there before it could become sound. I had done it. The thought felt too fragile to touch directly. I had actually done it.

My fingers tightened in the folds of my borrowed dress. Beneath the scarf, sweat clung to the back of my neck. My whole body still felt braced for disaster, as though fear had not yet understood that the walls of Crimson Hill were no longer around me.

Agnes.

I swallowed and shifted carefully, trying to ease the ache in my shoulder without making the crates knock together.

What would I even say to her?

How do you ask a stranger to explain a house full of dead girls, a man who fed on blood, and dreams that felt more real than waking?

The bus hit another bend in the road, and this time I dared to lift my head just enough to peer through a narrow gap in the canvas.

Trees blurred past. Not the grounds of Crimson Hill. The road beyond. Relief moved through me again, deeper this time.

I was really out.