I am trying to escape, still. I have come to the conclusion that I have two options. One is to discover how the servants come in and out, which I have done, catch them in the act, beat them senseless, and escape through the secret panel. The second is to wait for someone—Havriel or Father—to come in the regular way, beat him senseless, and leave through the door.
I know the servants are only in one of the two rooms at a time, and that the doors lock whenever they are there, preventing me from ever stumbling upon them face-to-face. I know there is a panel in the boudoir and another in the bedroom through which they enter. They will not speak to me through the door. They will not answer my notes, no matter how kindly I write them and how many francs I promise them.
But I have a new idea. A servant will come again today to clear away the breakfast dishes, and this time I will be lying in wait.
I sit at my desk, dip my pen, and write a few words on a square of paper:
Roses
Viper
Whipped cream
I pause. Pretend I have forgotten something in the bedroom. Slip out of my chair and move toward the door. I take special care not to look at the mirror as I pass it. I doubt they are watching me through it, but I will not have them suspect. I go about the bedroom, singing to myself. I move away from the door, casually. Almost at once it begins to creak shut behind me, as if guided by invisible hands.
I wonder if it has something to do with the floor. Perhaps weight on the boards, or simply a watchful eye and a lever. It makes no difference. As soon as the door begins to close, I spin. A heavy wad of stationery is crumpled in my hand. I drop to the floor and jam it between the door and the frame.
The lock snaps out. It does not catch. Perfect.
I feel a thrill of fear as I press my back against the wall. There may be several servants; perhaps someone is standing guard, and I will be hopelessly outnumbered. But if I do not try, I will never know.
I hear the panel in the boudoir opening and footsteps padding across the floor. Slowly, I move forward to look through the crack between the door and the frame.
I see the boudoir, tranquil and empty, like a doll’s room. . . .
I wait, hardly daring to breathe. I do not see anyone, but I hear movement, the slide and tinkle of plates, the whisper of table linens. I reach for the heavy bronze vase in the corner next to the door. It is with this I plan to do the beating. It is too far away. I slide over the floor toward it.
When I return to the door, I see the servant. A leg. A hand. He is standing, facing the bedroom door.
I want to curse. Was I too quiet? Does he suspect, does he see that the door is unlatched?
The floor in the boudoir creaks. I glimpse a heel again, a leg. The servant is turning away, moving to another part of the chamber. I ease the door open, barely a fraction of an inch.
I see his back now. It is a man in fine livery, a waistcoat and white stockings. He is clearing away the breakfast dishes, replacing them with marbled wafers and candied fruits that have been cut into bright squares, like soft jewels. He is young. The slope of his shoulders is vaguely familiar to me, as are the brown curls on his head. Have I seen him before?
An unpleasant needling sensation besets my shin. I try to shift my position as delicately as possible. The floor gives the tiniest of creaks. When I look again, the servant is gone.
My eyes dart throughout the room. I did not hear the panel close. Has he gone? He must not escape. Not before I catch him. I wait, frozen in place, gathering the courage to burst into the room. I take a slow breath—
His face appears between the door and the frame, exactly level with my own. Our eyes lock. I rip the door wide and hit him hard across the side of his head with the vase.
He goes spinning to the side, loses his balance, and crashes to the floor. I lunge at him again. He raises an arm in defense. “Stop!” he shouts, and now he seems to remember himself, and says more quietly, urgently: “Stop, Mademoiselle, please.”
I stare at him, wide-eyed. He is the guard. The young guard who tried to save Mama. He is not a day older than I am. I whirl and head for his secret panel. It is closed, but surely not locked.
I tug on it. It does not move.
I go back to the boy who is just starting to stand, wobbly on his legs. I raise the vase again.
“I don’t care who you are,” I say. “I don’t care what they told you. I am held prisoner here. My sisters are lost. You will help me find them.”
It’s a library. Long, dim—a shadowy gallery of books. It’s got that same faint ultraviolet glow that the hall full of razor wires had, just enough to see by, but still somehow pitch-black. The ceiling arches into a map of the heavenly bodies, gold-leaf planets and star creatures against a blue plane. Mahogany bookshelves reach all the way to Cassiopeia’s toes, twenty feet above us. At the end of the library is a massive marble fireplace. The floor is thick with pelts and furs.
Gross. It’s like a freaking Narnian battlefield in here. I swear one of them is a polar bear.