The House of the Stone

The voice has a strange quality—too high for a man’s, but too low for a woman’s. I peel my eyes open.

The first thing I see are the bars. Thin golden bars curve around me, forming a point above my head. I sit up.

I’m in a cage. Or, more accurately, a human-size birdcage.

It’s about as long as I am tall, but not nearly high enough for me to stand up. The gold bars are engraved with delicate, swirling patterns and occasionally studded with gemstones. There is a gilded padlock on the door at one end and a bowl of water at the other.

A bowl. Like I’m a dog.

“Welcome to the palace of the Stone.”

My head whips around, locating the source of the strange voice. He sits in a chair several feet away from me, wearing a long white dress with a high lace collar. His head is shaved except for a circle on the crown of his head, which boasts a dark-blond topknot. He has an unpleasant face—beaked nose, small dark eyes, and a mouth that turns down.

A lady-in-waiting. I wonder if he was the one Violet had as a prep artist.

For several long minutes, we watch each other. Then my stomach growls loudly. A dull flush creeps up the back of my neck.

“Hungry?” he asks.

I don’t reply.

“Why don’t you have a drink of water,” the lady-in-waiting says, nodding toward the bowl.

I look away. My mouth is parched, but I’m not giving him the satisfaction of seeing me drink like an animal. Unfortunately, looking away from him means taking in the rest of the room.

It’s devoid of furniture except the one chair that the lady-in-waiting occupies. There is a single, circular window set high up in the wall opposite me. It’s crisscrossed with thick iron bars, unlike the ones on this cage. The light is a dark yellow, so the sun must be close to setting. And I can see little spiky things poking up at the bottom of the window. Grass maybe?

Am I underground?

But whatever unease I have about being kept in some psycho royal’s basement pales in comparison to the sharp slice of fear that cuts through me when I see the wall to my left.

The wall itself is made of cold gray stone, like the floor. Everything in this dungeon is dark and dank except for the cage I’m stuck in, and the row of instruments lining that wall.

There are a series of four glittering rods, hung up in decreasing length. The longest has a metal circle fashioned on the end of it, engraved like the bars on my cage. The shortest one has a blade. Next, there are three delicate chains, hanging by artfully wrought silver circles that also decrease in size. Then two lengths of rope, made of a silky white material. Last, and worst, some sort of helmet, beautifully crafted out of gold and copper and adorned with jewels.

“Do you like my collection?” the lady-in-waiting asks. I try to keep my expression neutral, but honestly, my heart is pounding in my throat. When I meet his eyes, I know he sees I’m scared. His mouth curves up, which is even creepier than when it curves down. “I made them all myself.”

“Was that before or after you got your balls cut off?” I snap.

His eyes widen a fraction, but he doesn’t look upset or insulted. In fact, his smile becomes even wider. I can see his teeth. His gums are bloodred.

“Oh, my lady chose wisely this year,” he murmurs. “Very wisely indeed.”

As if on cue, the door opens and the Countess of the Stone saunters in. She is a woman who I imagine can really make an entrance in any situation, but she is particularly impressive when entering a dungeon. She wears a bright yellow gown, tighter than I think it needs to be. Flesh bulges out at her waist and on her thighs and arms. It reminds me of the time my sister Sable tried to teach me how to make bread—the Countess’s skin has the same color and consistency as the dough.

“How is it doing so far, Frederic?” she asks, after a cursory glance in my direction.

My spine stiffens at the word it.