The Rake (Boston Belles #4) by L.J. Shen

And so I did.




Past.



The dumbwaiter was the size of a bookcase when I was first shoved into it, at age four.

Like a baby in the womb, it was spacious enough for me to move my limbs, but still small enough that I needed to crouch.

By age ten, my legs were too long, my arms too gangly to fit into it properly.

And at fourteen, it felt like being shoved into a sardine tin with fifteen more Devons. I could barely breathe.

The trouble was, I kept on growing and the dumbwaiter stayed the exact same size. A small measly hole.

I didn’t always hate it.

At first, as a wee boy, I even learned to appreciate it.

Spent my time thinking. About what I wanted to be when I grew up (fireman). And later on, about girls I liked and tricks I’d learned at fencing lessons, and what it would feel like to be a bug, or an umbrella, or a teacup.

It all went to hell one day, when I was eleven.

I’d done something particularly nasty to upset my father. Snuck into his office and stole his poker then used it as a sword to fight with a tree.

That poker was vintage and cost more than my life, my father had explained when he caught me with the thing broken in half (the tree had obviously won).

I was thrown into the dumbwaiter for the evening.

Mummy and Cecilia were away, visiting relatives up in Yorkshire. I wanted to go with them (I never wanted to stay all by myself with Papa), but Mummy said I couldn’t miss an entire weekend’s worth of fencing sessions with my sabreur.

“Plus, you haven’t been spending enough time with Papa. A bit of bonding time for you two is just what the doctor ordered.”

So there I was, in the dumbwaiter, thinking about what it must feel like to be a bottle carrying a letter at sea, or cracked pavement, or a coffee mug in a busy London café.

That should have been it.

Another night in the dumbwaiter, followed by a morning drenched with silence and frequent trips to the loo to make up for the time I had to hold it in when I was caged.

Only it wasn’t.

Because on that particular day came a storm so big and so terrible, it knocked out the electricity.

My father rushed to the servants’ cottages, where the power was still on, to spend the night and perhaps be entertained by one of the maids, something I knew he did when Mummy wasn’t home.

He forgot one thing.

Me.

I noticed the leak in the dumbwaiter when a persistent trickle of water kept falling on my face, interrupting my sleep.

I was all mangled inside myself, pressed against all four walls. I ached to move, to stretch, to crane my neck.

When I woke up in a flurry, the water had already reached my waist.

I began banging on the door. Crying, screaming, raking my fingernails over the wooden thing to try and pry it open.

I broke my fingernails and tore my own flesh trying to get out of there.

And the worst part was, I knew I stood no chance.

My family wasn’t in the house.

My father left me for dead. Deliberately or not, I didn’t know, and at that point couldn’t care less.

If I died, they could try for another. My father would finally have the son he always wanted. Strong and tough as nails and never scared.

The water came all the way to my neck when I heard thudding across the hallway. Footsteps.

By that time, I was almost drunk with exhaustion and already came to peace with my fate. All I wanted was for death to be quick about it.

But this gave me new hope. I banged and I screamed and splashed, trying to draw attention to myself, swallowing water in the process.

“Devon! Devon!”

The voice was muffled by the water. My head was going under, but I could still hear it.

Finally, the dumbwaiter door pushed open. Gallons of water poured out of it—and so did I.

I fell down like a brick at the legs of the person who was now my savior. The saint who gave me mercy. I choked and flailed, like a fish out of water. Relief made me pee my pants, but I didn’t think anyone could tell.

Looking up, I saw Louisa.

“Lou,” I choked.

My voice was so hoarse, you could hardly hear it.

“Oh, Devvie. Oh, God. We were meant to meet up, don’t you remember? You never showed up at the barn, so I sent for you. But the driver didn’t want to leave the car, so I asked him to drive me here. The front doors were locked, but then I remembered you told me where the spare keys were …”

She fell to her knees, pulling me into her arms. Her voice hovered over my head like a cloud as I drifted in and out of consciousness.

“I promised I would always have your back,” I heard her say. “I’m so glad I got to you in time.”

We hugged on the floor. I slackened against her, my body so much heavier than hers—and still, she handled my weight without complaint. Thudding came from the stairs, and in the darkened hallway loomed the shadow of my father, big and bad and imposing.

“What did you do, you stupid girl?” he growled, seething. “He was supposed to die.”




Sweven was crying.

She didn’t even try to hide it for a change.

Tears ran down her cheeks, some slipping into her mouth, others rolling down her neck.

“I can’t believe the bastard put you through that. No wonder you ran away and refused to do what he wanted you to. Jesus. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

Her whole body was quaking, back and forth. “You looked death in the eye, Devon.”