Free Steam Dogs by Sharon Joss Page B

curtains across the windows
complemented the mauve-grey stucco and whitewashed trim. He sat up straighter,
thinking that perhaps Benoit was indeed his benefactor after all.
    The old man snorted. “It belongs to my wife's family. It costs a
fortune to heat in the winter, you can be sure.”
    But Simon was given no opportunity to see the inside, as still in
chains, Benoit dragged him, around to the back entrance, where the door opened
directly onto the basement stairs. Lit only by the dim light of an oil lantern,
the old man did not hesitate, but led him down the winding stone steps, where
the smells of earth and dampness grew with every step.
    Simon shivered in the chill, his apprehension growing with every
step. No good could come by going down here. Perhaps Master Benoit had had been
lying to him all along. But when he hesitated, the Master jerked on the chains
that bound him, and he had no choice but to follow.
    They reached the bottom, and Simon could immediately see that the
low-ceilinged room had once been a wine cellar. Now, with only a few dark and
lonely exceptions, the trestles stood empty. Benoit led him across the chamber
to a stout wooden door with a barred window and opened it.
    “This is where you’ll stay. At least until you’ve managed to get
yourself out of those cuffs.” He jerked his head toward the open doorway and
gave another jerk on Simon’s chains. “In you go.” Simon quailed at the sight of
the cell; no more than five paces wide and perhaps a dozen deep, entombed by
thick stone walls. In one corner, crouched a cot and a rough-hewn cupboard; in
the other, a bucket. No window, no light.
    A dungeon.
    When Simon hesitated, the old man grabbed him by his shirt and
shoved him inside, slamming the heavy door behind him. “There’s an extra
blanket in the cupboard. No heat down here, but you won’t freeze.” The Master
slid a heavy bolt across the outside of the door.
    "No, you can’t do this! I haven’t done anything!" he protested.
"Please, I'll do whatever you want, just don't leave me here!" He
pounded on the door.
    But the Master would not be moved. “I’ll come back when you’ve
calmed down.” And then he left, taking the oil lantern with him.
    Caught like a rat in a trap.
    With only his greenfire to light the frigid
darkness, Simon railed and swore. He pounded the walls and thick door of his
prison until his hands swelled up. He cursed Benoit and promised revenge
against the evil wizard who killed his father, and stole legacy.
    But no one heard his calls; no one answered
his pleas. The walls pressed close, as if to crush the very breath from his
chest. “If I had real fire, no one could ever stop me,” he muttered. His anger
faded, leaving only bitterness and despair.
    He had not felt so alone since the death of
his father. What have I done to deserve
this? The warm summers of Ryde had long since faded from his memories. Even
Brussels seemed a fond and distant dream, compared to this crypt.
    When Master Benoit finally returned, he
brought a jar of icy water, a bit of cake and a few slabs of ham. Simon burst
into tears at the sight. He wolfed down the food--in his ravenous state, he
barely tasted it. He hated how much being locked in the cell terrified him, but
even more he hated the thought that Benoit might leave him alone again.
    When he finished eating, the old man sat on
the cot beside him and showed him several thin bits of metal he’d brought. “These
tools will help you get better acquainted with those locks. They’re all you
need to free yourself. Best get to it, lad. You’ve got three more days. If you
haven’t figured out those locks by then, you’re no use to me. I’ll drown you in
the river. Believe me, I will.”
    Simon trembled. He had no doubt Benoit would
carry out his promise. In the lantern light, the old man’s gaze was hard as
stone. “Leave me the light, at least,” he protested. He held up his frigid
hands. “It’s so cold; I can barely move my