Bereft [UPDATED VERSION]

I - An Uncertain Doom

I - An Uncertain Doom

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Four hours earlier.

Through an inexplicable twist of fate or bad grace, Sara Gaspard found herself stranded in the middle of Hell.

Or, at least, her interpretation of Hell, which was a ballroom in a downtown hotel on a Sunday night with her feet trapped in uncomfortable heels. It was a black dress that hadn't seen the outside of her closet in more years than she cared to remember—and aching toes, a hungry stomach, and allergies aggravated by too much cologne misting the air.

Not for the first time that evening, Sara dragged her thumbs under her watering eyes and tried to scrub away the smudges left by her running mascara. The stainless steel front of the walk-in made for a poor mirror, but Martha was hunting in the lobby again, making escape into the bathrooms impossible.

One of the hotel employees on break returned through the rear door, and Sara savored the brief flash of dry August heat overcoming the oppressive air conditioning. Outside, Verweald's streets baked under the last of the day's sunlight, lazy as a lizard, the light nearly opaque in how it slipped like an orange sheet through the cracks between the high rises.

Hot. Muggy. A rare summer thunderstorm threatened the seaboard, and Sara hoped it'd make it across the city to the county limits, if only to give her an excuse to be a hermit in her house tomorrow. She deserved it, in her opinion.

"Gaspard!"

Sara groaned. The voice came closer, calling again, and she considered dashing for the door, though Sara didn't believe she'd get far in her uncomfortable shoes. Damn.

Above the clattering kitchenware came the clack of heels, and Sara turned around to see Martha Hurst and her clipboard approaching from the main entrance.

"There you are," Martha said with an officious snap of her papers.

"Here I am," Sara replied, hands splayed. The attempt at humor did nothing to relieve Martha's glare. Bitter hag.

"People have been arriving in the ballroom for the last thirty minutes," she stressed, nails tapping a harsh rhythm on the clipboard. "And you are not at the table handing out the itinerary pamphlets!"

What a crime. It was on the tip of Sara's tongue to tell her that the people attending this stupid soirée could probably figure out how to pick up a pamphlet on their own, but she controlled herself. "I took a break."

"A break is five minutes, not thirty spent lurking in the kitchens."

"It's been ten minutes, not thirty." Martha made for the door and the carpeted hall, forcing Sara to follow. "And I'm not even meant to be here this evening. It's Sunday. I'm filling in for Brenda last minute."

"Well, I'll be sure to let HR know how well you're doing tonight."

Bitter, aggravating hag!

Yes, Sara Gaspard was most definitely in Hell, with Martha Hurst as her own private pitchfork-wielding demon. Though that pitchfork might take the form of a cluttered clipboard, Sara wagered Martha could harass the Devil himself into cleaning up his act if given half a chance.

They returned to the hotel's lobby where the chandeliers gleamed with bright crystal teardrops and shoes squeaked on the polished floor. Sara could already see through the open doors that a thin crowd had begun to congregate in the ballroom. The majority made for the open bar in the back.