A Defiant Liaison

XXVI

"There's always use in fighting," said Emma. "Especially when it makes terrible people cry." Ransom Riggs, A Map of Days

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XXVI.

Belle ran.

She didn't feel the pain in her foot even though she ran with only one shoe. She didn't feel the fatigue in her body as though she had been travelling for days in a confined space. She didn't feel anything but determination to put as much distance between her and that house as she could.

Belle ran towards the ocean. The ocean meant fishermen, people, help. She needed help. She prayed for help.

As soon as Belle had crossed over the grassy hill, her eyes took in the great expanse of the sea before her. It was endless. But it wasn't a fishing village. The boats were not fishing boats. It was a port.

Belle had experience with ports. The boats were tall ships, docked in the great harbour. Some flew the British flag, and they looked to be military vessels. Others looked like ... they looked like trade ships. She froze as panic began to cripple her. It began to flow through her veins and paralyse her right there in the middle of the dirt road.

Which way?

Whichever way she ran she could be taken. She couldn't run down into that port and ask for help. She couldn't risk being led somewhere, abducted, forced onto a vessel and shipped somewhere terrible. Not again.

Belle's breaths were shallow as she struggled to suck in enough air to fill her lungs. Without warning, her legs gave way and her knees fell into the stone covered road, digging into her skin and, no doubt, breaking it. Belle tangled her fingers in her hair as she gripped her head, trying to focus, trying to breathe, and trying to calm down so that she could think.

I don't want to be taken. I don't want to be taken.

I don't choose it. I don't want it.

I want to choose. I want to be the one to choose.

"Stop it," she hissed at herself. "Stop it now." Crippling herself in the middle of the road was far more dangerous. She was practically asking for someone to come along and take her. She had already fought, and she had already won. She could do it again.

Belle climbed to her feet and filled her lungs with air, properly this time. She knew what was behind her. She didn't know what was in front of her. As if there was ever a choice.

Belle continued to run, putting one foot in front of the other, bringing her closer and closer to the port town. The smell of salt and fish in the air was intoxicating and Belle prayed that she would find sanctuary.

As she began to pass the first few houses, she realised that she was still gripping the fire iron in her hand, from the point of which dripped Jean's dark red blood. Belle knew that she needed to abandon it, even if it made her feel safer to hold it. She said a prayer to ask for protection as she threw the iron into the long grass on the side of the road. And the moment she did, she wanted to run back after it. She felt naked without it, and the fear began to turn her veins to ice.

But Belle kept moving, determined to steer clear of the dock. She would not go anywhere near a ship, and she would keep her wits about her. She needed to find a way to contact Peter.

The village itself was busy. The wind whipped off of the ocean in a freezing chill, and Belle hugged at her sides for warmth. There were stalls hawking their fresh catches and men selling fishing supplies. Belle recognised the scent of the tavern before it actually came into view.