The Society of the Ethereal Medallion

A Night Out

I slept with one eye open for the remainder of the night. I hid one of my kitchen knives underneath my pillow. 

Even Daisy refused to sleep as long as I was awake; she guarded my locked bedroom door (that was not only locked but, for extra measure, barricaded with my night table and vanity). 

I tried to call her to bed; she refused to move an inch. Deep down inside, I felt that she could sense danger; she could sense my fear. I kept the letter in front of me, reading the words, the warning over in my head.

Who could be a friend and threaten me like that? Who was a part of the Brotherhood? And what could they possibly want with me? Rosalie Greene?

What scared me the most was not knowing who it was, who would kill me for what I possessed. I knew my medallion was valuable in some way, but this was beyond my imagination. When the sun rose in the early morning, I didn't want to get up. 

They would find me. They would kill me.

Temptation made me want to call Mr. Jackson and tell him that I felt ill and wouldn't attend work or the party. 

That's what they want. They want to scare me into doing what they want me to do. But then again, only a fool would be stupid enough to challenge their stalkers.

"No. I'm not going to do this. I'm not going to be a bloody victim to these gits." I ripped the sheets off of myself and proceeded to get ready for work. "Not when there's work to be done. Time is of the essence."

***

Sir Johnson had maintained his distance from me, which I was most grateful for. With whoever had sent me the letter and running on empty fumes, I could do without his mouth spewing lies and unpleasantries. 

At five, Mr. Jackson personally escorted me out and saw that I had taken a cab home. I discarded my clothes and used some pins that my mother had gotten me to curl my hair. I took a bath to calm my nerves; I set down candles and poured some Epsom salt into the soapy water.

Daisy looked at me sadly, disappointed that she couldn't get a bath as well. 

"You got yours yesterday. It's me turn you mongrel." I opened the bathroom window to allow the cool breeze to enter. "Go watch the front door. I hate it when you look at me," I commanded Daisy; she obeyed, leaving the bathroom. "I deserve some time alone and to be pampered."

I slipped off my bathrobe and dipped my foot into the warm water. I laid my head against the rim of the tub, grabbing clouds of bubbles forming them into balls before my hand slipped underneath the water. My head swam with thoughts and questions and theories, thoughts of Mr. Johnson, his words, Atlantis, my medallion, my parents. I brought a handful of water and rubbed it across my face.

"You went to Oxford so you could get a job in the field with us." 

My hands gripped the side of the tub. This was my worst memory of my parents.

"But I love to write! Ever since I was little? With those stories? Don't you remember?"

"It's not an ideal job," my father interjected. "You can't make a good enough living off of writing. Besides, New York is dangerous. We've heard stories, you've heard stories about what's been going on in America or what happens to helpless, single, young women."