"Blackfriars' Web"

Panic, cold and sharp, erupted in the priory's predawn darkness. The housekeeper, Jenny, was the first to discover the breach. She woke to find the chain lying limp on the rug, still attached to the collar, next to it, the cock cage. A cold dread filled her as she checked the room, then the corridors, her calls for David echoing unanswered. She woke the Matron.

Elizabeth was out of bed in an instant, her face a mask of fury. They checked the cameras, but the screens were blank. The entire network, including cameras, sensors, and restraints, was down. A quick check confirmed it: the main Wi-Fi had been disabled remotely. Then another problem dawned on them. They went to Beatrice's chambers and found them empty. Roger was gone. Beatrice was gone. They had vanished into the same digital blind spot. The Matron let out a scream of pure, primal rage that sent every servant in the wing scurrying for cover. They had been played.

***

At that exact moment, Beatrice was returning to their bland Travelodge room in Bromley, carrying a cardboard tray with two Starbucks coffees and a bag of pastries for her and Roger. She felt a thrill of victory, a giddy sense of freedom that made her want to laugh out loud.

David had stayed in the BMW for most of the night, curled up on the backseat floor. Luckily, in their haste, Beatrice had forgotten to set the car's alarm. He had searched the car, his stomach a hollow ache. In the glove compartment, he found a bag of Skittles and a Mars bar someone had secreted away, a treasure trove of sugar and calories. He also found seven loose one-pound coins in the center console. It wasn't much, but it was something. While waiting, he had come up with a plan. It was a risky play, and it would mean giving something up, but it was the only play he had.

He spotted Beatrice walking out of the Starbucks attached to the hotel and heading back toward their room. He followed her into the lobby, which was busy with the morning rush of customers checking out. His rough overalls and sandals drew a few odd looks, but in the chaos, he was just another anonymous face. She stepped into the elevator, and he noted the floor number as the doors slid shut. That was enough information.

He found a grimy phone booth on the high street and made the call, his hand shaking as he dropped a coin into the slot. An hour or so later, David stood on a street corner, hands shoved in his pockets, watching the black BMW X5 drive off. Not even he noticed the unmarked black transit van that pulled away from the curb a moment later, its engine a low, predatory hum.

David found a greasy spoon cafe and ordered as much food as his six pounds would buy him—a full English breakfast, a pot of tea, and a slice of toast. He ate ravenously, the hot food a balm to his soul.

***

The BMW wound through the countryside, heading as far from Kent as they could manage. Beatrice had squirreled away enough money over the years, siphoned from various household accounts, to get new identities and leave the country. They were laughing, the tension finally breaking, when they pulled into a quiet, wooded layby so Roger could relieve himself.

That's when the black transit van pulled in beside them, its engine dying with a sudden, ominous silence. Roger was just stepping out of the small brick toilet block when he was confronted by a familiar, terrifying face. It was Mahera. The little Indian maid was gone. In her place stood a woman in tight black combat clothes, her hair pulled back in a severe, practical knot, a cattle prod held loosely in her hand. She looked impressive, dangerous.

***

A few weeks earlier, when Beatrice had Mahera removed, she had also sent a recommendation to the Sisterhood, noting the girl's potential. The Sisterhood recognized it as well. Mahera had been fast-tracked through their training program and was now on probation as a team leader for specialized pick-ups. She had been sitting in the London office, talking to one of the senior household heads, when the alert for the Ashworth escapees flashed on her screen. She had excused herself and called her manager, Mistress Carol. "I know them," Mahera had said. "I can take it." Carol had agreed.

And there she was, smiling at Roger's shocked face as she pressed the cattle prod into his groin. He collapsed with a strangled cry, his body convulsing. Through his bleary, tear-filled eyes, he saw Beatrice being dragged from the BMW, a black sack pulled over her head as she struggled and screamed. Then it went dark for Roger as two sets of strong arms grabbed him and dragged him into the van. Zip ties secured them both, their wrists and ankles bound tight.

Mahera looked at the four men with her, each wearing a blinking black collar identical to those worn by the priory servants, hidden beneath their shirts. "I'll meet you at the priory," she said, her voice cool and commanding. "I need to pick up a package."

Mahera took the BMW, the engine purring smoothly under her touch. She found David exactly where he'd said he'd be, still at the cafe, nursing his third cup of tea. She sat down beside him in the booth and ordered coffee and toast for herself.

"Are you sure you want to do this?" she asked, her voice lower now, more personal. "I can easily say you weren't there. They'd never know."

David looked at her, his expression grim. "This is the only way," he said quietly. "The only way I can guarantee my family will be looked after. A deal's a deal.” He had traded them and himself for his family's safety, a price he was willing to pay.

Mahera walked with David to the Travelodge's underground car park, where the BMW sat waiting. She stopped him beside the passenger door. "I'm sorry," she apologized, her voice sincere as she held out a sleek, black collar. "It's protocol."

David sighed, a sound of profound resignation. He took the collar and placed it around his own neck. It tightened automatically with a soft hiss, fitting perfectly to his neck. Then, without being asked, he turned around and put his arms behind his back. Mahera cuffed them together, the metal clicking with cold finality. She helped him get into the passenger seat, her touch surprisingly gentle as she pulled the seat belt across him and tightened it. She leaned over him to buckle it, her face close to his. She leaned in and kissed him softly on the cheek. He didn't know why she did it; she didn't say. But in the darkness of his new reality, he was glad she did.

An hour later, they were pulling into the priory's private, underground car park. The transit van had arrived earlier and was waiting, its rear doors open. Its cargo had been delivered. Mahera unhooked David's seat belt and attached the leash to his collar. She took him to the reception rooms, a place he had never been before

Beatrice and Roger were kneeling in the center of the grand room, still hooded, their arms still bound tight with zip ties. Jenny and Elizabeth stood beside them like two grim sentinels. David walked in, defeated, the leash a pendulum swinging from his neck. Mahera stood back after unclipping it, her job done.

Elizabeth, the Matron, moved with terrifying speed. She ripped the hoods from Beatrice and Roger, then slapped them both, hard, across the face. The sound echoed like gunshots. She began to verbally lay into them, her spittle flying as she shouted, her voice a torrent of fury and betrayal. She railed at their stupidity, their ingratitude, their pathetic attempt to defy her. She screamed until her voice was hoarse, her face a contorted mask of rage.

Finally, Jenny, the housekeeper, stepped in and gently touched her arm. The simple gesture was enough to break the spell. Elizabeth took a deep, shuddering breath.

"Our first instinct," Jenny said, her voice calm and clear, "was to have you both removed to the care of the Sisterhood. But we have invested too much in you, Beatrice. And it would be too complicated to explain to the outside world that Lady Beatrice Ashworth had simply disappeared." She paused, letting the weight of her words settle. "But then another opportunity presented itself."

She looked directly at David and asked, "Were you sincere in your proposition?"

He looked up, his eyes meeting hers. "May I speak freely?"

She nodded.

David explained, his voice steady despite the tremor in his hands. "I will give my life to you. I will serve in any way you need, as long as there are no repercussions against my family."

"Excellent," Jenny told him, a thin, satisfied smile on her lips. "Elizabeth and I have come to a decision. If you agree, not only will your family remain safe, but we will ensure they want for nothing for the rest of their lives."

David looked her straight in the eye. "I'm listening."

The Matron stepped forward. "We want you to be the new Lord Ashworth."

Beatrice's head snapped up, her face a picture of pure shock.

"We can have the paperwork legalized by the end of the week," Elizabeth continued, as if discussing a business merger. She nodded to Mahera, who stepped forward and unlocked David's wrists. She then used a fob, held it up to his collar, and pressed a button. The collar beeped and then released. She took it from his neck, smiling.

Mahera walked over to Roger, who was still kneeling, his head bowed. She placed the collar around his neck, clipped the leash to it, and pulled. Roger glanced at Beatrice for the last time, a look of utter despair in his eyes, as he was dragged away to whatever fate was waiting for him at the hands of the Sisterhood.

Elizabeth picked up a velvet box from a side table and handed it to David. "This is for your new wife," she said, her eyes glinting.

Inside, nestled on a bed of satin, was a thin, gold-coloured band. It looked like a necklace or a choker, but David knew better. It was the latest edition of the collar, elegant, beautiful, and utterly inescapable. As he went to take it, she held his gaze, her voice dropping to a low, serious whisper. "If you cross us, the deal is off. Do you understand?"

"Yes, Miss Elizabeth," he said, and he bowed.