The House of the Stone

“You will be very pleased, my lady. I think you may have finally found what you are looking for.” Frederic bows low.

“Good. When I saw it onstage, I knew I had to have it. Tell Emile it must look stunning for tonight.”

I can’t stand being called it one more time. I grab the bars and hoist myself up on my knees. An emerald digs into my palm.

“My name is Raven Stirling!” I shout. “And I am stronger than you!”

I regret that last part immediately as I say it. It makes me sound as pathetic as I feel.

The Countess turns her formidable gaze on me, but I won’t shy away. She can put me in a cage, but she can’t take away who I am.

She walks forward slowly, enjoying every step, and when she gets close, she bends down so our eyes are level.

“You have no name,” she says in a voice so soft it’s almost like a mother’s coo. “You have no strength. You are mine now.”

“I belong to no one,” I say.

Frederic chuckles. But the Countess just shrugs and turns away. “Time will tell,” she says as she walks to the door. Then she stops and turns. “Just a pinch, Frederic.”

He bows again. “Of course, my lady.”

I catch a glimpse of white fabric in the hall outside before the door closes and Frederic turns to me. “Let us see how strong you really are.”

He walks to the wall of torture—I really shouldn’t call it that, even in my head; it just makes it worse—and carefully selects the third-longest rod. There is a tight barb on the end of it, about the size and shape of a large pea, nestled in a ring of diamonds. My heart is pounding everywhere now, not just in my throat, but my stomach and my toes and between my eyes. I scoot away from him, as far back as I can go, which isn’t far.

Frederic smiles that awful, bloody-gummed smile. “Nowhere to run, poppet,” he says.

And just like that, I freeze. Running makes him happy. Fear gives him power. Fine. I become a statue, only my eyes moving, as he circles around to the right-hand side of the cage. The tunic I’ve been dressed in barely covers my thighs, but this is no time for modesty. I force myself to remain still and calm.

Still and calm.

I will be brave.

He studies me, and for one brief second I think I can taste victory because I feel how badly he wants me to fight or cry or beg or plead. He runs his fingers along the rod, a frown creasing his smooth skin.

He cannot own me. He can’t make me frightened if I choose not to be. I still have that power, as fragile and delicate as it might be.

And just to play with him, I smile.

The rod flies through the bars, quick as a whip, and the barb burrows itself between my big and second toe. I can’t control the shriek of agony that bursts out of me. Blood gushes, hot and wet under my foot.

Then the barb is ripped out, taking a chunk of flesh with it. My shriek becomes a howl and I roll on my side, grabbing my injured foot. My toes are on fire.

Frederic hangs the rod back on the wall without even cleaning it.

“Just a reminder,” he says lightly. And without another word, he turns and strides out the door.

I bite my lip so hard I’ll probably break the skin, but I don’t want to let another scream out. I press my face hard against the cold floor, my hands slippery with blood.

I won’t cry. I won’t.

But the tears come anyway.

I try to control my breathing, to focus on my lungs taking air in and pushing it out. My heart beats in time with the throbbing of my foot.

It occurs to me then that this might be happening to Violet.

This might be happening to Lily.