Tara slipped and stumbled along the gravel drive as the sky grew darker and the rain fell heavier. Despite being drenched by the icy shower, she could feel perspiration trickle down the back of her neck.
‘I’m late!’ she worried, pushing her mane of chestnut curls out of her eyes.
Arriving at the imposing entrance to Ambrose House, she dashed up the stone steps and almost lost her balance as she made a grab for the wrought-iron door handle. ‘If I hurry, I should still be changed and ready in time for the start of the tour…’
She closed the heavy door as quietly as she could behind her, then broke into a sprint across the black-and-white chequered marble of the entrance hall.
Racing along, she glanced down to see her mud-caked ballet flats leaving footprints on the pristine floor.
‘Tara Simpson, what on earth is going on?’ thundered a voice from the shadows beneath the Italianate staircase. ‘What a mess! And have you not heard of health and safety, young lady?’
