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Once again, there is movement, footfalls. When it seems to get louder with time, bile rises in your mouth, and from the tips of your toes to the ends of your hair, your entire body crests atop a surging wave of roiling, black panic. The singular thought left in your head is to shrink down more, further into the now questionable safety of the alcove's shadow - but you stay yourself. You mustn't forget, you already are as far as you are like to get into the shadow, so further movement would do naught much more than risk making noise. You also catch yourself trying to close your eyes, as if you were just some scared little child, as opposed to the grown woman you are. Angrily, you stare and strain at the the little tableau before you - which at the moment is nothing more than the hearth of a great, looming chimney and the feet of trenchers and benches. For a moment, you think you can see a shadow playing - movement from the master or the servant - but when you blink again, all that you can see is as still as the grave.
More movement, more footfalls ... but this time they are heading away. You strangle the sigh that blossoms from deep in your breast, and you do what you can to keep your composure, even as you feel fit to melt. As quick as it came though, the sound stops - worry returns, panic at bay. Moments pass like screws into wood. There are more incidental noises - a step here, a groan of wood there - all further and further away. Finally, there the unmistakable sound of a sigh. Then -
