Sarah Mac’s Reviews > A Slow and Secret Poison > Status Update

Arabella is such an idiot. I get why Vee is pissed (& rightly so), but there’s something pathetic about orchestrating the humiliation of an antagonist who’s so unrelentingly dumb. Inbred British aristocracy at its finest, exhibit A. 🤖

She floats toward me, reaching out to wrap me in her arms. Her body feels coal-hot. Despite my suspicion, I can’t help but soften, letting her kiss first my cheek, then my lips. Her fingers stroke against the back of my neck, & I slip my arms abt her waist. Pull her closer. When I open my eyes, I can see the cabinet over her shoulder. Our legs reflected in the dark wood, elongated & warped into one combined mass.

‘Despite this grandeur, these sheer dimensions, the place is a ruin. I hadn’t realized until now quite how much Harfold is falling apart. Rising damp, moss on the windowpanes, mouse droppings, cobwebs, silverfish scattering in every opened drawer, freckles of mold if you move a piece of furniture out of place. Not to mention the relentless, inescapable clutter.’ ….Unsubtle metaphor re: post-war aristocracy.

—“You’ve not done anything to curse yourself, have you?”
—I meant this to be reassuring, but Arabella takes it as a question. “How confident you are.” A sad smile. “You barely know me, Vee; you have no idea what might be in my past.” Her gaze is unsettling.

‘She pauses. Twists back to look directly at me. Her face, lit by the lantern below, appears ghoulish, eye sockets in deep shadow. And then she smiles, like a wolf baring its teeth. I’m suddenly rooted to the spot. My own breathing in my ears, ragged after my hurry to catch up. Pulse throbbing at my throat.’

‘Has she seen me return to the cottage? Does she assume I’ve opened the envelope—&, if so, how has she envisioned my reaction? How close did her imaginings get to the reality of it? Maybe we are thinking of each other at this exact moment. That gives me a strange thrill. Almost erotic, but no, more like the moment a prey animal realizes that it’s being hunted.’

‘As I head back across the east lawn, I feel the bulk of the manor at my back—a single window lighted on the ground floor, even in the middle of the day. A creeping, prickling itch as if I’m being watched. I glance over my shoulder. Can’t spot anyone. But even as I enter my cottage, shutting the door tight behind me, that call bell continues to echo like a voice in my ears.’