The House of the Stone

Lily was always more Violet’s friend than mine. She was too open, too excited about being a surrogate for me to truly like her. But she wasn’t a bad person. Is someone somewhere stabbing Lily in the foot? Slicing through her skin? I imagine she’s in the Bank, what with her low lot number. Will that be enough to save her?

The door opens again, and I selfishly pull my thoughts away from my friends because no matter how brave I want to be, I am terrified that Frederic will hurt me again. I grit my teeth and prepare for pain. I won’t look at him. This time, he won’t hear me scream.

“Hello.” The voice is hesitant, but musical. Again, I can’t tell if it’s a man’s or woman’s. But it’s definitely not Frederic.

There is the clang of metal on metal and the click of a lock.

“Come,” the voice says. “Don’t you want to get out of this cage?”

That makes me lift my head.

A boy, maybe my age or a few years older, is crouched at the now-open door of my cage. His skin is several shades darker than mine, but his eyes are blue and shaped like sideways teardrops. He has thick, kinky black hair that is tied up in a bun on top of his head, but he wears the garb of the ladies-in-waiting, a long white dress with a high lace collar.

He frowns at my bleeding foot.

“Oh dear.” He glances at the vast array of silver instruments hanging on the wall and I get the sense he is familiar with them and that that barb means something to him. Then he smiles and holds out a hand. “My name is Emile. I won’t hurt you, I promise. That’s not my job.”

I don’t trust him. I can’t. I can’t trust anyone here.

But I don’t want to stay in this cage.

I don’t take his hand. “Back off,” I say.

He nods and moves away, leaving the cage door open so I can crawl through it. Each movement is like glass slicing between my injured toes.

I hoist myself up to stand, my joints creaking. I’m taller than he is. He smiles at me.

“I can fix that when we get to the powder room,” he says, nodding to my injured foot. “Would you like me to carry you?”

He doesn’t look that strong, but it’s not fear of being dropped that makes me shake my head.

As long as I can still make choices, I can still be me.

“I’m fine,” I say through clenched teeth.

I thought he might be impressed by my grit. Instead, his face falls in a look of resigned disappointment.

“All right,” he says. “But my arm is here if you need it.”

“I don’t,” I mutter.





Three


BY THE TIME WE REACH THE THIRD STAIRCASE, MY HEAD is spinning and my vision is getting fuzzy. There is a light ringing in my ears. I so desperately want to grab Emile’s arm, to beg him to carry me, because the stairs are agony. So many of them, a mountain that never ends, and my foot screams at me to let him help, to just ask for a break, to beg him to make it stop.

But I don’t.

When we reach a spiral staircase, Emile turns to me.

“Last one,” he says.

I don’t know how, but I manage to nod. That one simple movement makes the world tilt.

One foot in front of the other. That’s all I think about.

When Emile opens the door at the top of the stairs, I want to cry with relief. But I’m brought up short by the room that spreads out in front of me.

It’s decorated in onyx and gold, large columns sprinkled throughout. There is a thick gold carpet on the floor, and an enormous bed with a white canopy and rich copper bedspread. Circular windows line the walls, though the room itself is shaped like a box. There is a gold-and-white-striped sofa and a polished mahogany table with matching chairs. A fireplace with a hearth of dark stone sits cold and empty off to my right. Gilt-framed paintings are interspersed among the windows, women in various gowns, some holding books, others seated at writing desks, one reaching into a silver dish of grapes.

As I stare at the paintings, I realize it’s the same woman represented over and over again.

I don’t realize that Emile has left my side until he comes back, holding a jar in one hand and a vial in the other.