The House of the Stone

“Stand up,” he says. I obey without hesitation. “If you fight or run or move at all, you won’t get this.”


He holds up the fabric, which unfolds into a robe. I nod once, curtly.

“Good.”

Two footmen approach and unshackle me. I didn’t realize how much the metal hurt my wrists until it’s gone.

“Remove her dress,” Frederic instructs. I try to fight the whimper in my throat. Frederic grins as the zipper is yanked down my back, and before the dress is even all the way off, I’m reaching for the robe.

Frederic holds it out and I grab it before he can take it away, afraid this might just be another trick. I slip the robe on over my shoulders, grateful for the warmth and protection it provides. Immediately, I feel stronger. More like myself.

I’m so preoccupied that I don’t see the leash until it’s fastened around my neck.

The worst part is, I don’t have the energy to fight. And even if I did, they might take my robe away.

“Come,” he says, tugging on the leash like I’m a dog. We file out of the dungeon, two footmen in front, two behind. I cross my fingers and hope against hope that we’re going back to that beautiful room I went to yesterday. I remember the bed, so soft and plush.

We walk up some stairs and turn down a corridor I haven’t seen before, not that I’ve seen much of this palace. It is lined with mirrors in all shapes and sizes, some as small as a postage stamp, others nearly reaching from floor to ceiling. Interspersed between them are bouquets of flowers, irises and roses and hydrangeas and sunflowers and daisies. They feel wrong here, too cheerful for this evil place. I catch a glimpse of myself in an oval mirror with a copper frame and shudder. I look as small and weak and scared as I feel. I’m grateful when we leave this hall behind and head up another set of stairs. We reach a pale wooden door, and Frederic opens it while the footmen stay behind.

Frederic leads me into the room, jerking unnecessarily on the leash.

It’s a medical room.

The muscles in my thighs tighten as saliva coats my mouth.

No. I can’t be here so soon.

It’s by far the most opulent medical room I’ve seen. Much nicer than the tiny clinic where I was diagnosed, and even nicer than the pristine facilities at Southgate. It almost reminds me of the fancy bedroom from last night—the medical bed is plush and upholstered in white velvet with gold trim, so it looks more like a chaise lounge. Ornate lighting fixtures hang down from the ceiling, with glowglobes attached so that they radiate a warm light. The walls are painted a friendly peach color, and there are paintings similar to the ones that lined our dormitory halls at Southgate. Smudges of color, landscapes, muted tones. There is an overstuffed armchair with a matching footstool in one corner, a mahogany rolltop desk, and a leather sofa. It looks like a very design-conscious mad scientist’s lab.

Except for the tray of silver instruments beside the chaise-bed.

But what really grabs my attention is the windows. There are two of them, big arching ones with billowing white curtains and I get my first glimpse of the world outside this palace’s walls, or part of it at least, and it’s so beautiful it makes me want to cry.

Roses must be trained on a trellis on the outer wall because I can see their leaves, rich green, slithering up the window frames, and in some places I even get a glimpse of a late-blooming flower. Beyond that is a fraction of what must be an immense garden—a multi-tiered fountain, a wooden bench, several large bushy trees, and a stone path disappearing out of sight. And surrounding it all in the distance, a massive spike-topped wall, like the one I saw from the bedroom. It must circle the entire palace.

And the sun. I can’t see it directly, but I know where it is, off to the left, its rich golden light pouring over the trees and the fountain and the path. I can’t believe I ever took sunlight for granted.

There’s another tug on my leash.