My hair had fallen out of its pins, and at first I was able to whip the worst of the mosquitoes away by throwing my head back and forth to lash loose tendrils across my face. But it wasn’t long before my neck began to ache, and the mosquitoes grew emboldened. They ducked in around my flying hair, searching out juicy bits of flesh, and I could hear the disgusting bugs buzzing around the back of my neck.
My skirt was bunched up almost to my knees, but fortunately my stockings presented an impregnable barrier to the horrid insects. I hadn’t been wearing gloves, and my arms were bound so tightly in front of me that I could only watch as an army of the monsters settled in to feast on my hands and wrists.
I had heard of a child killed by a hive of angry bees.
Could a person die of mosquito bites?
I eyed the hairpins that had come loose and fallen to the ground. Even if I could reach them, they’d be of no use in cutting the ropes that tied me to this ghastly tree. Now, if I’d been dealing with a nice thick lock, the pins would come in handy as lockpicks. That’s a skill I haven’t entirely forgotten.
I pulled and squirmed and battled against the ropes holding me to the tree. But my hands were bound in front of me, and as much as I stretched my fingers, they couldn’t reach the knots.
There had to be a way out of this. Surely Margaret wouldn’t leave me here to die? What had I ever done to her? Other than expose her for the mad, cold-blooded killer she was?
I tore at the ropes holding my hands until the blood ran (how pleasant for the mosquitoes—all the feasting and none of the work). I spat and coughed at the handkerchief in my mouth to no avail.
The sun had almost disappeared below the small rise to the right of me, and the brief Yukon night had descended, when I finally gave up the struggle.