The House of the Stone

Emile’s face tightens. “We have all suffered, 192. You are not unique in that regard.”


He walks over and opens the door to the dungeon. Four Regimentals file in, forming a circle around my cage. I press myself against the bars until they cut into my back and shoulders. Emile removes one of the silver rods from the wall, the one with the circle on the end of it. He opens the door to my cage. My eyes dart from him to the Regimentals to the still-open door and back again.

“I was hoping you wouldn’t need this,” Emile says. “But I can see you do.”

Something in his bright blue eyes tells me he’s sorry. I hate him for it.

The rod shoots into the cage, the circle opening for the briefest second before clasping itself firmly around my neck. I grab the rod and try to yank it away, but Emile is stronger than he looks. He tugs and tugs and the metal bites at my neck as I’m drawn, slowly but surely, out of the cage. Once my head and shoulders are clear, two Regimentals grab me under my arms and haul me to my feet. They march me to the wall with the window, where two iron chains hang at hip height. I try to kick at them, at the wall, at Emile, at anything, but there are too many of them and my head is being forced into an odd angle. Once I’m chained up, they release me, and the metal circle unclasps from around my neck. Emile hangs it back on the wall, next to the barb still crusted with my blood and skin.

“Let me go!” There is about three feet of chain that tethers me to the wall by my wrists. I can only get so far in any direction. I struggle against the chains, pulling on them until the shackles leave cuts on my skin.

The worst part is, everyone just lets me go nuts. I scream and curse and fight, and all the while the four Regimentals and Emile watch from a distance with impassive expressions. Finally, I give up. I didn’t realize I was crying until I taste the saltiness of my tears. I just stand there, limp and empty, waiting, because something is coming next. I make sure to look each man staring at me in the eye. I won’t let them think they beat me.

Emile waits a few seconds, probably to make sure I won’t start fighting again.

“Keep still,” he says. “Or I will have to call Frederic in.” He moves close enough to me that I can smell his skin, fragrant and floral, like a woman. “You don’t want him here,” he murmurs. “I promise.”

The thought of Frederic’s bloody gums and beady eyes is enough to keep me still.

Emile leans forward. “I wish—” he begins, but whatever he wishes I don’t hear because the door opens again and the Countess of the Stone walks in.

This time, she wears a tight satin dress in a cherry blossom print. It looks entirely out of place on her, better suited to someone like Lily or that little girl surrogate the Electress bought.

She glances at my cage, where the peas are still sitting on the silver dish.

“I told you to feed it,” she says to Emile.

“I did, my lady.”

The Countess sighs. “Mother always said,” she mutters, “if you want something done right, you must do it yourself.”

With the barest of nods at one Regimental, my head is yanked back by my hair, so that I can’t see anything but the ceiling and my mouth is forced open. There’s a clang and a shuffling sound, and the peas fall onto my tongue. I want to spit them out, but the Countess’s hand, her thick fingers damp with sweat, covers my mouth and nose until I swallow.

“You eat what I tell you to eat, is that clear?” she says, as the Regimental releases his hold on my hair.

I glare at her. Her eyes flicker to the Regimental on my left. I see a flash of silver in his hand.

It’s a pair of scissors.

The Regimental kneels and cuts a thick ribbon of fabric from my dress, from the floor to the top of my thigh. It flutters to the ground and lies there, curled and twisted like a snake’s skin.

“You will eat what I tell you to eat, is that clear?” the Countess says again.

I can’t speak. My throat is frozen.

Snip, snip, snip.