“No, I’m fine for now, thanks,” I tell her. “To be honest, I would like to be alone for a while. It’s been a bit of a day.” I pause. “Wait, can you send up some bells on a string or rope of some kind. I lost my bag and it’s a comfort thing.”
“Of course,” Isabella nods, looking a little confused. “I’ll leave you be then. But if you do need anything else, pick up that phone on the wall and press the button for the person you want to speak to. Solomon has asked me to be your personal assistant, so most of the time you should call me, but you’ve also got a direct line to the kitchen and chauffeur should you need them.”
“O-okay.”
Isabella leaves, closing my bedroom doors behind her. I hear the distinct sound of a key turning in the lock and even though I don’t feel that threatened here, I still panic. Rushing over to the door, I try the handle. Sure enough, she locked me in.
I try to suck in deep breaths, pushing back all the memories of that one foster parent who loved to lock me in my tiny room and not come back for days, forgetting about me. I sink down to the floor, taking a long time to remind myself I’m not there anymore before I hear the lock being turned. I climb to my feet as a woman in her late fifties and soft eyes brings a tray of tiny blue bells and blue string, placing them on the small table by the door.
“For you,” she claims in what I think is a Spanish accent.
I nod and she leaves the room quickly, the lock turning once more. I make quick work of tying bells to all the doors and windows like I do in every home I’ve lived in since I was fourteen.
Finally, I feel like I can breathe again. I slump down on the bed, knowing I’m stuck here for the foreseeable future.
Then something caught my eye, which made me sit up and take notice.
“Hol-ee crap!”
In the corner of the room is a guitar on a stand. Crossing over to it, I pick it up. Running my hands over the wood, I can scarcely believe my luck.
It is a Gibson Montana Hummingbird!
Placing the strap over my head, I strum a few chords and feel like I am in Heaven. It is the most beautiful sound I have ever heard.
Dad certainly had taste in guitars, but I had to keep sight of the fact that he seemed to be planning on keeping me prisoner for the indefinite future, perhaps the rest of my life. I have to stay strong, stay focused, and not let his money turn my head.
It is a gorgeous guitar though…
Sitting on the bed, I pick out notes at random, a song practically writing itself as I play. I have to get this written down.
Opening a few drawers, I eventually find pen and paper and start scribbling out what I have played so I wouldn’t forget.
“Any other day and I would have noticed you,
Any other time and I might have forgotten you.
Forgetting is easy, cos my heart is taken.
But after what you did, how can I dare care?
After you.
Before you,
Who knows what I might dare?”
Not bad. With a bit of polish, this can be one of my best songs.
I spend the next few hours playing and singing, music becoming my escape from reality once more like it always has. I’m a bird in a gilded cage, Katy once told me, but boy can I sing.
“Ivy, wake up. Come on, wake up Ivy.”
I’m woken by Isabella shaking on my shoulder and I jolt, shoving her away and wondering why I didn’t hear the bells. In fact…when did I fall to sleep or get into bed? I must have been tired. I glance around the room, seeing the bells are still in place and it relaxes me. It’s only Isabella. Apparently she moves like a cat.
“Sorry, Ivy. You’ve got to go to school. I’ve brought you some breakfast. Eat up and get dressed. Your car’s leaving in half an hour and your father will not be happy if you’re late. Trust me. You wouldn’t like to see what happens when he’s angry.”
A shadow crosses her face that makes me wonder what my father had done to her in the past. But there is no time for questions if I only had half an hour to get ready. Isabella is right. Now is not the time to push boundaries. I need to play the game and get to grips with my new life so I can figure out the best way to escape.
Never a morning person, I ignore the food, chugging down the glass of orange juice instead before I get dressed in my new school uniform. It looks as bad as I thought it would, but I do my best to improve things with makeup. Someone had bought me a wide selection of the top brands, so I gave myself a smokey eye and choosing a dark lipstick to make a statement. Nobody is going to mess with me today. I don’t care what my dad says–all schools have a problem with bullying. It goes with the territory. But if anyone tries to take advantage of me, I will hit back so hard they won’t have time to blink. I won’t be a victim for the rich boys of King Academy.
If dad wants me to play princess...then King Academy has no idea who they are letting through their doors.
And if I get expelled for defending myself against a bully, I won’t be able to go back to school and it wouldn’t be my fault. Let’s see what dad does then.
Isabella is waiting outside for me, when she sees my appearance, she smiles. “A little rebel, just like your father. Come on. The car’s ready and waiting.”
She leads me through a warren of corridors and finally to the front of the house. I’m grateful for her help, I would get lost without her, especially since it looks like I’m going to be confined to my room for a while, and the last thing I want is to be late for school because I can’t find my way round the mansion.
A large limo is waiting for me, a chauffeur standing silently by the open door waiting for me to get in. As I climb inside, he shuts the door behind me.
“Have a good day.” Isabella waves me off as the car pulls away.
I wiggle my fingers in return, not wanting to alienate her. Right now, I can do with all the allies I can get.
There is a rucksack lying on the seat next to me, I open it up to see brand new exercise books and a pencil case filled with supplies. Dad really had thought of everything.
“How long have you worked for my dad?” I ask the driver, but he ignores me. There is a screen separating us and I tap on it, but he still doesn’t reply.
There is a slight buzzing, and I hear someone speak over the intercom.
“Your father would prefer if we don’t talk unless there’s an emergency,” the chauffeur tells me. “If you do need to contact me, press the orange button set in the armrest, but I would request you only do so if you really have something important to say. Otherwise, I need to focus on the road and be alert for any danger. In the event of an ambush, I will need to take extreme evasive manoeuvres, so I advise you to sit back, buckle up your seatbelt and let me do my job. Thank you, miss.”
That tells me.
After about ten minutes’ driving, we turn into the driveway leading to the school. A large sign by the gates announced that this is King Academy, Headmaster Mr Pilkington, Cantab. We join a queue of equally impressive limos, all there to deliver their precious cargos to the school. I assume that the gates would close once the school day starts. This is just as much a prison as the one I left at “home”.
We slowly nudge forward, patiently waiting our turn to pull up outside the entrance. I’m glad for the tinted glass making it impossible for anyone outside to see me. Now that we are at the Academy, school is all too real and the butterflies performing an Irish jig in my stomach refuse to be still.