A Defiant Liaison

XXII

"women
don't endure
simply because
we can;

no,

women endure
because we aren't
given any other
choice.

- they wanted us weak but forced us to be strong." Amanda Lovelace, The Witch Doesn't Burn in This One

---- 

XXII.

Peter's eyes fluttered, and he felt the odd sensation of something cool, yet rough against the side of his face. There was a loud, thumping noise, sounding from the back of his head. It was as though church bells were ringing from inside his skull.

He groaned, finally able to open his eyes. It took a long moment to realise that he was laying down. He was lying face down on the ground against the short blades of grass. What on earth ...?

Peter slowly moved his hands to place them flat against the earth so that he could push himself up. He was able to move his torso and legs quite easily, but the weight of his head was almost unbearable. It was throbbing uncontrollably. Not only did it hurt, but he felt groggy and slow, as though he had been indulging all evening when he knew that he had not touched a drop. He sat up very clumsily and reached behind his head to press his hand against the site of the pain. The moment Peter's hand touched his head, he gasped, wincing at the pain of an open, weeping wound. His finger felt the wetness which could only be blood.

What had happened to him? Who had done this?

He blinked his eyes over and over, trying to focus on his surroundings, and the moment he realised where he was, he remembered what he had been out here doing, and who he had been out here with. Peter's head snapped around, the pain protesting the sudden movement. Though it was dark, he could still see that he was clearly alone in the garden.

Someone had struck him. Someone had knocked him unconscious. And someone had taken ...

"Belle," gasped Peter.

Panic set in as Peter frantically looked around, searching for any sign of her. As he scrambled to his feet, pushing the pain aside, Peter's hand brushed over something soft on the grass. He seized it, immediately bringing it close to his face so that he could see what it was.

It was a lilac ribbon, the same one that Belle had been wearing in her hair.

"BELLE!" Peter's panicked voice practically screamed her name. Whatever demon had knocked him unconscious had thus been alone with Belle, and she had now vanished.

Peter ran, stumbling with the fogginess of his head, as he desperately searched for any trace. As he ran alongside of the assembly hall, back towards the door that they had come out of, Peter nearly tripped over something on the ground. He seized it, taking hold of a dainty, heeled woman's slipper. He had not seen what sort of footwear Belle had been wearing, but women did not leave their shoes about in public gardens.

"BELLE!" Peter screamed once more. For how long had he been unconscious? She couldn't have got far. Someone had to have seen her!

Peter stumbled around the front of the assembly hall, still clutching Belle's ribbon and shoe, and was confronted by the sight of the parishioners leaving the ball. The business was hectic. People were everywhere, chatting animatedly, footmen and servants were attending to carriages, and Belle was nowhere to be seen.

Peter grabbed hold of the first man he saw and asked him, practically hysterically, "Please, Belle Desjardins, have you seen her? She is missing!"

The man was considerably confronted by Peter's frantic behaviour, and shook him off, before hurrying away. Peter raced as quickly as his unsteady legs would carry him to the nearest carriage.