Jane was back in her room.
The evening had not ended well. Dracula had left them alone, and she had spent more than an hour trying to coax Cassandra into joining her in leaving the castle. She had used mentions of their family and friends in Steventon, along with everything else she could think of, to try to convince her to return.
Nothing had worked.
Finally, a clock had chimed. It was well after midnight, far later than Jane imagined, when two women emerged from a doorway and headed for her.
'These women will return you to your room,' Cassandra had said.
'I prefer to stay here.'
Jane had tried running and had been taken forcibly by them. She had screamed and cried out to Cassandra as the women had dragged her away, but Cassandra had merely raised a hand in farewell.
'We'll speak again, Jane,' she said. 'You will join us freely once you know the plan. Dracula will change the world—and we will rejoice.'
Jane had struggled against the women but without success. They dragged her kicking and screaming back up the stairs, threw her into the room, and locked the door. Jane had battered against it, crying at them to release her, but no one had answered.
There is no escape, she thought. I am a prisoner.
She lay back on the bed and closed her eyes. Her mind in turmoil, Jane doubted she would be able to rest, but sleep finally came. When she next awoke, many hours had passed, and sunlight pierced the gloom of the chamber.
Much of the day is already gone.
Dracula may have drugged her food. It was a possibility. He seemed to have no morals at all. Yet there seemed to be a chink in his armour: Mara. She must have been exceptional, indeed, to earn the vampire's affection.
Jane shivered. A woman may as well have had Satan for a suitor.
Dracula was not unpleasant in appearance, but any idea of forming an unholy union with him was abhorrent. He had killed and maimed throughout human history. To engage in any kind of alliance with him would be a fool's errand.
Still, his dream of achieving world peace was enticing. How could anyone, even a vampire, put an end to war? No single man could bring about such a thing. Lord knows enough people had tried.
Her mind turned back to Dracula. It was strange to think of Dracula loving another person. It was strange that he believed in love. Even she did not believe in it. But as this thought went through Jane's mind, she remembered Max Filador.
Dear Max. He was such a kind and considerate man. Nothing like how she had first thought of him. He was a gentleman who had fought beside her to try to rescue Cassandra and stop Dracula. He, Doctor Porter, and Eddy would be so worried about her.
Jane went to the door and gave it an experimental tug. Locked. Of course. She checked the window. It was mid-afternoon, but already late in the year, and so the sun was setting earlier each day.
She remembered what the other side of the door had looked like and what had secured it: a huge padlock. The hinges were recessed into the timber. There were no screws or bolts that could be loosened.
How can I break it open?
Back in the basement at Ransome Park, she and the others had used a piece of metal as a lever to angle the bars from the window. There was no such item readily available here, but perhaps something could be fashioned. Jane scrutinised the small table and the bed. There were no metal parts on either, but the table gave her an idea.
She experimentally hefted it from the floor. It had real weight to it. Perhaps it could be used as a crude battering ram. Jane smiled grimly. People had been using similar weaponry to breach castle defences for centuries.
'Why not now?' she murmured.
Gripping the table hard, Jane ran at the door, aiming at the padlocked side.
Thud!
The door did not move an inch. She did the same again. Thud! Nothing. And again. Thud! She smacked the unrelenting door seven more times before stopping. At that point, she thought both the door and the table had small dents, but little else. Still, sometimes her father shared in his sermons the story of the stonecutter, the man who had struck a great boulder thousands of times to break it. It did not split, but each time he struck it, the stone weakened until a final blow smashed it asunder.
I will be a stonecutter.
She had struck the door ten times already, so she aimed for another ten. Each time she finished, she allowed herself a moment to rest. The table was heavy, and wielding it was not easy despite her youth and good health. Then she whacked the door another ten times and continued the procedure: repeated blows followed by a pause, then more blows.
An hour passed. Two hours. Three hours.
There was no food or water in the room. Perhaps Dracula did not need such things, but she did. She was feeling weaker now after her exertion, but she thought the door may have been slightly weakened. Jane tried opening it again, and there was a slight give. She returned to her endless battering at the timber. Ten blows. A moment of rest. And then ten more blows.
My goodness, she thought. This is hard work. I will never look at labourers the same way again.
Jane continued striking the door. The sun was much lower in the sky now, and she felt the first stirrings of real panic. Not being able to break through the door was almost as bad as finding out that Dracula had already arisen. She was running out of time, so she slammed the table against the door twenty times each time before resting.
Sweat saturated her garments, coursed down her face and stung her eyes. It was a most unseemly look. Anyone in the neighbourhood of Steventon would have been aghast. Well, she had no time for social niceties. She had to escape and save Cassandra at the same time.
Twenty more strikes of the table. A rest. And repeat.
Finally, like music to her ears, Jane detected a different noise from the door. By then, she must have struck it a thousand times. This time, the sound was like a sharp, bone-deep splintering. Jane had read in one of her father's books that a chain is as strong as its weakest link.
Then let's break that link.
She continued battering at the door. Nothing happened for some time, and then there was another sharp snap from the other side. She hit it again—and this time was rewarded by a massive crack in the timber.
Dear God, she thought. Thank you.