The House of the Stone

I swear, I will make it my life’s mission to see that, one day, Frederic knows what it feels like to be on the other end of this thing.

“Lay down,” he says, pointing to the bed. I climb up onto it and then, oh! I can’t be angry because it is so soft, and warm, and comfortable, and I’ve never felt anything like this. My aching legs and sore back and pounding head melt into it. It’s better than Emile’s magical fix-it cream.

But even as my body relaxes and my eyes begin to close, there a snap-snap-snapping sound, as straps appear from the sides of the bed and secure themselves over my forehead, my chest, and my waist, leaving only my legs free. Then those are hiked up as two stirrups shoot out of the edge of the bed, and my feet are strapped securely inside them. One part of my gown falls open, leaving my entire leg, including my upper thigh and my left butt cheek, exposed.

I close my eyes and swallow. I don’t know whether I want to scream or throw up or both.

I am Raven Stirling, I remind myself. They cannot own me.

But the words feel weak inside my head.

I force my eyes open and look out the window. A bird lands on the windowsill. It has brilliant yellow feathers around its eyes. It cocks its head, like it’s studying me. Then it flies away.

I have never envied another living creature so much.

The door opens.

Frederic is flipping through some papers on the desk, but sinks into a bow as my second (or first, really, I think it’s a tie) least-favorite person in this palace enters the room.

But the Countess isn’t alone. Of course not. This is a medical room.

“Your ladyship,” Frederic says. “Dr. Falme.”

The doctor wears the usual white lab coat and beige slacks. But he isn’t like the other doctors I’ve seen, either the crotchety old ones who get shipped off to diagnose surrogates in the Marsh clinics, or the opiate addicts like Dr. Steele, who work in the holding facilities.

It’s not just that we look like we could be related—same skin tone, same eyes, same hair color. It’s that he’s young. I’d guess maybe his late twenties. And he is incredibly handsome.

Not like that boy I saw at the dinner, the Duchess of the Lake’s son, whatever his stupid royal name was. That guy was pressed and perfect in a way that felt artificial. Sort of like his personality—shallow.

This doctor is maybe as tall as me, but with long, curly dark hair that falls to his jawline and deep dimples in both cheeks that pop as he smiles at Frederic. Then he turns his gaze on me and I think maybe that smile isn’t so appealing after all.

“So,” he says. “This is Lot 192.”

I futilely wriggle my arms. “My name is Raven Stirling, you bast—”

I don’t even get to finish cursing at him. Lightning zips across my forehead as sparks explode in my vision. The pain is dizzying. It’s here and then it’s gone.

“It’s not learning very quickly,” the Countess says. My body convulses in the aftermath, held steady only by the straps. “But it certainly has a lot of fight in it.”

“Ah, but that is just what we were looking for, isn’t it, my lady?”

Suddenly, the bed shifts, sinking back so that I am tilted at a forty-five-degree angle. I can’t see the windows anymore. And my open legs are sticking up in the air, exposing me for anyone to see.

Not that anyone has taken any notice of my body—not the Regimentals or the footmen or Emile or this beautiful, scary doctor. I can’t feel the lightning pain anymore and it leaves me with the same fear I had last night, that it’s scarier not to feel it.

“So,” the doctor says, walking over to me, but not looking me in the eyes. “Where shall we start?”

He reaches out and I wish I could move away, or move at all, but his fingers are on my scalp, probing my skull. They are gentle but focused, looking for something but I don’t know what.

“Not through the mouth again,” the Countess says. She’s looking at the papers Frederic was poring over earlier.