The House of the Stone

By the end of the dinner, I don’t have the energy to be angry anymore. I’m just exhausted.

The women all kiss one another’s cheeks as the ladies-in-waiting bring in their cloaks. My heart sinks at seeing Frederic again. I keep my gaze focused on Violet and hope that the “no accessories” rule holds so she doesn’t have to see me shackled and blindfolded.

I will see her again. We’re both in Founding Houses. I will see her again.

I think she smiles at me with her eyes.

Once I’m back in the foyer, the chains come out.

The other surrogates are put on leashes, too, but no one else wears manacles and a blindfold.

I do get a glimpse of what I’ve been riding around in. It’s a sleek black motorcar, the kind I’ve only ever seen in magazines, and I have to admit, it’s gorgeous.

We drive around in circles again, and then I’m led back into the palace of the Stone, a palace I haven’t even seen yet.

Halls. Stairs. I can smell the dungeon before we reach it, the air growing stale and musty. The blindfold comes off, along with the leash and handcuffs, and I’m forced back into the golden birdcage.

I want to scream something at Frederic, but he’s out the door before I can even draw breath.

I’m so thirsty, but there’s still only the lone bowl of water inside my cage. I sigh and move to pick it up.

It’s stuck.

I pull and pull, but it must be soldered to the floor.

I grit my teeth, hold back the tears, and bend over the bowl, lapping up the water with my tongue.





Five


I WAKE TO THE SOUND OF GROANING HINGES AND A DULL ache in my neck.

I must have slept on it wrong, though I’m not sure there’s a right way to sleep on a stone floor.

“Good morning,” Emile says. I sit up and rub my eyes, slippery with last night’s makeup. I look down; I’m still in the same dress, too. Now it’s wrinkled and dirty.

Good, I think. I rub my eyes a little more, smearing eye shadow and mascara over my cheeks.

“Never mind about the dress,” Emile says. “You won’t wear anything more than once.”

“I wasn’t worried,” I say, only half paying attention.

My eyes are focused on his hands. He’s carrying a silver dish with a matching cover and it looks like food. My stomach roars. Emile hears it.

“Yes, I imagine you didn’t get to eat much at the Duchess of the Lake’s dinner party last night.”

Somewhere in my brain, I note that Violet’s mistress is the Duchess of the Lake. But most of my mind is occupied with what might be underneath that silver cover. Emile opens the top half of the door to my cage and hands me the tray. I grab it, too hungry to be embarrassed, and throw the cover off. It hits the gold bars with a dull clang.

I stare at the tray, confused. There are exactly three peas, one slice of red apple, a bowl of clear broth, and half an onion roll.

My brain wants to be angry, but my stomach just wants everything in my mouth. I start with the roll—it is hot and fresh and oniony. Then the broth, which tastes salty and thin. Then the apple, crisp and sweet.

I don’t eat the peas. They feel like a reminder of the rules last night. Screw the Countess and her rules.

Emile watches me with an impassive expression, until I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand and say, “Done.”

“You haven’t finished.”

“Yes. I have.”

He purses his lips. “You aren’t making things easy for yourself.”

I bark out a laugh at that. “In case you failed to notice, Emile, I’m in a cage. I was taken from my family when I was twelve and forced to endure pain and bleeding and vomiting just so I can bear some strange rich woman’s child. Now I’m here, and a psycho stabbed me with a barbed stick, and another psycho threatened to cut out my tongue last night. My life hasn’t been easy for a while.”

But that’s a lie. Southgate was bliss compared to this.