Consciousness returned to Margaret slowly.

Touch came first. She was lying on cold hardwood floor, uncomfortable but unable to move.

Sound came with the metered, unhurried steps of a clock’s pendulum that suddenly became louder then the blood in her ears.

Smell came with the aroma of melted wax and a mild aftertaste of sulfur. The room didn’t smell like the moldy prison cell, and that would have been a relief if she didn’t feel so helpless.

Taste came with the realization of bitterness in her mouth. It was as if she had woken up after the worst hangover in her life; Margaret wanted to throw up. As her mind cleared more, she realized something was very, very wrong with her.

With effort, she finally managed to open her eyes. The room was dark, and Margaret had to blink several times to get rid of the haze clouding her vision. That small action made her feel better, more in control, and she tried to look around as much as she could without turning her head.

There was what looked like a chair and a sofa, a cupboard with carved doors at the edge of her vision.

It was a nicely furnished room; the fact that Margaret was left on the floor probably wasn’t a good sign. The pendulum swung back and forth, each cycle reverberating in her temples, and it took her a while to recognize both the furniture and the sound.

It was her own flat.

She was no longer in prison, but in her own home.

After that realization soon followed another as symptoms started coming together. The worry that had nearly subsided, returned tenfold. This was the drug she had made with her own hands, the last formula she had hoped to replace her unstable tinctures with.

Who would have access to it? The police, perhaps, if they were competent enough to search properly, but that seemed like a game they wouldn’t play. The only other person would be…

A man came inside the room, a familiar and usually welcome face. For a short moment, Margaret let herself believe that her nephew had kept his promise and stole her from prison, maybe drugging the entire convoy that was supposed to transfer her to the Central department.

He looked at her with the same coldness with which he regarded everything else. It didn’t bother her – she knew it was the trade-off he made for his magic, much more powerful than anything Margaret herself had ever hoped to achieve.

Then he put on his mask – the delicate, painted thing that was his companion for the most depraved of crimes, and Margaret’s heart sank.

He unsheathed a dagger, and Margaret wished she had the strength to scream.

Her escape was no mercy, after all.

(To be continued tomorrow, on day 16: Love & Hate)

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A short one this time, to make up for yesterday’s monstrosity. But this one will have a continuation! Also vaguely references the same events that were mentioned in day 2 and day 10.