I always enjoy stories in which the narrative drive comes from decisions made by the main characters—a choice that goes badly wrong (or beautifully right, as the case may be). So that’s this week’s topic. Feel free to add an excerpt from your work in progress into the comments.

My contribution is an excerpt from the story I’m writing for next month’s newsletter. I set a contest at a Facebook party asking commenters to give me an image as a basis for April’s story, and the painting above was the winner.

George was right about Arthur. That burned worse than Millicent’s own stupidity in allowing herself to be abducted. Her hurt pride, thought, was nowhere near as strong as her anger at her kidnapping, imprisonment and then, adding insult to injury, abandonment.

She hadn’t seen Arthur for three days. Not since the rain started. Not since she threw her chamber pot at him and assured him that he would never be safe in her company. 

“But I mean to marry you, Millicent,” he stammered.

As if that forgave all his crimes against her! “I will never wed you,” she promised, though he had already explained that his mother had a cleric that was willing to perform the marriage ceremony even if the bride had to be gagged.

“When I escape,” she told him, “my brother will have the marriage annulled, if you survive your maiming.” She stamped a foot. “I told you that I released you from our betrothal.”

Arthur pouted, then must have realised that the childish expression did him no favours, for he struck one of his attitudes, his chin up and his chest out, his profile to Millicent as he emitted a loud sigh. “Mama explained that many females are overwhelmed by their emotions as they face marriage. I shall overlook it. Mama says that experiencing the marriage bed will probably help to bring you back to yourself. You do not need to be afraid, Millicent. I shall be gentle.”

Even when she thought Arthur the romantic hero he resembled, Millicent had been disturbed by his repeated references to his mother’s wisdom. Now, she wondered how she could have been so infatuated with him.

“You shall not come near me, then, for I will never submit willingly,” she declared.

Arthur had been at a loss for an answer, eventually concluding that he needed to consult his mother. “I shall probably not be back until morning,” he said. His lip curled as he cast a glance at the chamber pot, which had a large wedge out of the rim from where it hit the door frame as he ducked. “You can probably still use that if you need to.”

Three days later, he still hadn’t returned. Surely, he didn’t mean to leave her here? The cell he had locked her into was just above the river bank, and with the constant rain, the water had breached its confines yesterday afternoon and was now lapping just below the sill.