The House of the Stone

“Now let’s get you ready,” he says cheerfully.

“Stop it!” I shout. “Stop acting like we’re going on some fun adventure. Stop sounding so irritatingly chipper. Do you know what they did to me yesterday? Do you get it?”

Emile is in front of me in a second, his mouth so close to mine at first I think he might kiss me.

“Of course I know,” he hisses. “I know a great deal more than you do. Do you know how many surrogates I’ve seen pass through this house? Ten. One for every year I have worked here. I assume you have noticed by now that there are no other women in this palace. Just you and the Countess. The doctor’s appointments serve a purpose, but the equipment that Frederic creates? That is just fun for her. You are the target on which she can focus all her rage. All her hatred. So follow my lead. When I act happy, it is because you have at least the slimmest, slightest chance of being happy today.”

I am stunned into silence. Emile turns away and I follow him without thinking, wrapping a towel around my body and standing numbly in front of a closet full of dresses I don’t want to wear. Emile talks to himself, musing about this fabric or that. All the dresses he handles are black. That does not make me think “Happy Day.”

Ten surrogates have lived in this room before me. And how many others before that?

“Ah,” Emile says. “This will be perfect.”

He holds out a long black dress with an accordion skirt and lace top. I don’t even glance at myself in the mirror when he sits me at the vanity to attack my face and hair again. I don’t trust mirrors anymore.

The food arrives. Cinnamon rolls and hot coffee and fresh peaches. This time I eat everything.

Emile finally pronounces me finished, then steps back to admire his work.

“You really are beautiful,” he says.

I stare at him. I don’t know what he expects me to say to that.

We sit in silence for a while.

“Would you like to know where you’re going?” he asks.

“No,” I lie.

His mouth twitches.

The door opens and the Countess walks in. I can’t help it—I jump to my feet. I don’t know if I’m preparing to run or fight or if I just feel more confident standing.

Frederic is right behind her, carrying some black lace in one hand and—my stomach drops—that horrible jewel-encrusted helmet thing from the wall of torture. The Countess sees me looking at it and smiles.

“I can have five Regimentals come in and beat you bloody and Frederic will fix you up as good as new,” she says. “And you will still wear everything I want you to wear. But that will make us late, and I despise being late. So be a good girl and stand still.”

The memory of my mother’s face, melted and distorted, keeps my feet glued to the ground. Frederic fastens the black lace to the crown of my head and pulls it over my face like a veil. My stomach turns as he gently places the helmet over my head.

But it’s not a helmet, really.

It’s a muzzle.

It pushes my jaw shut, leaving space only for my eyes. But there must be some kind of visor on it, because the last thing I see before Frederic pulls it down is the Countess’s gleeful expression.

“Oh, Frederic,” she says as everything goes dark, “it’s perfect.”

ONCE AGAIN, I’M LED ON THE LEASH THROUGH THE PALACE, unable to see, waving my hands in front of me like an idiot.

Every time I catch myself doing it I stop, but it’s deeply instinctual. I hear the whispers again, this time commenting on the horrible muzzle.

“So much nicer than last year’s.”

“Oh look, he’s used sapphires and emeralds.”

“Such attention to detail.”

I don’t know what Emile was playing at thinking this day would make me happy in any way. Until I feel a warm breeze on my skin and hear the distinct sound of a motorcar engine.

I’m going out.

Out means Violet.