Closer this time, as though
just outside on the ground level, below the terrace.
Except for the faint light from the downstairs foyer lamp that
bled up through the open bedroom doorway, she was in nearly
complete darkness. The lamp, she thought, turn on the lamp.
Shakily, she stretched to her night table, and, unmindful of the
champagne bottles, her hand blindly knocked one to the floor. It
landed with a solid thud.
Silence.
She hunkered down onto her hands and knees beside the bed to
retrieve the bottle. It was the empty one, and it gave her an
idea. She hefted it in her hand, considered its weight. Could she
use it to protect herself?
She heard the sound again, louder. Closer. A scratching noise,
along on the side of the wall where the ivy clung to the trellis
and covered the huge stone pillars supporting the terrace.
It was probably nothing, she tried to assure herself. A cat. Or
just the wind, she ventured. But then why if it was only a cat,
she asked herself, was she holding her breath and the neck of a
champagne bottle so tightly in her fist? She crouched beside the
bed and stared hard at the drawn cotton curtain hanging before
the French doors. Silver blue moonlight shone through the sheer
fabric, picking up the shadows from nearby trees that swayed to
and fro in the easy breeze.
What to do, what to do, she wondered with growing panic.
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