Chapter 41
S tuck in the same bedroom where she had dressed earlier, Amiya watched out the cracked second-floor window as the last rays of sunshine bled out of the day.
All dressed up and nowhere to go , she thought. She put her fist to her mouth to suppress a manic giggle.
She had heard so much about what would happen next—the master would see her at dinner; the master would “romance” her before taking her to his chamber; the plantation itself transformed radically at nightfall; the Overseer would mark her only after her date with the master—but she hadn’t a clue about what might actually happen.
It was as if everyone there were privy to some great secret, excluding her.
She was still inclined to believe that every one of them had been systematically programmed and were living under a mass delusion.
All of them were truly captives. Some of them, such as Miss Lula, had been there so long they no longer desired to leave.
Others, such as her new ally, Ossie, still had enough of a connection to his former life to want to escape.
She wanted to help Ossie and anyone else trustworthy who wanted to come with her, but first, she needed to help herself. Her number one priority was safely getting out of the house.
Miss Lula had brought her to the bedroom and left Amiya there, unattended, as if she no longer considered her a threat.
“You’ll wait here until I come to collect you later,” Miss Lula had said. She had shut the door behind her, but it didn’t sound as if she had locked it.
Amiya still had the steak knife she had stolen from the dining room. It wouldn’t be enough to take down Miss Lula—that woman looked strong enough to sustain a point-blank blast from a cannon—but used at the right moment, it could give her an advantage.
Amiya tested the doorknob. The brass was scorched, but it yielded to her hand. She pulled the door open, tensed, expecting Miss Lula to be waiting on the other side ready to yell at her, but the woman was out of sight. The corridor was empty, lit only by a single wavering candle.
Ossie had warned her against an escape attempt, had cautioned her to bide her time until she encountered the master. She was inclined to accept his advice, yet she needed a better understanding of her environment.
She slipped off the high heels and left them inside the bedroom. Barefoot, she stepped into the hallway, the dark wood cool underneath her soles, the dress sweeping around her legs.
The mansion was as large as a boutique hotel.
Once, she had traveled with her family to Paris and they had lodged in an establishment in the Le Marais historic district.
The wide hardwood corridors, high-ceilinged rooms, crown molding, and general air of tainted decadence reminded her of that place, which, thanks to her mother, had been one of the worst vacations of her life.
The room in which she had been placed was near the midpoint of the hallway.
The canted spiral staircase stood slightly ahead; it twisted ever upward, leading to an even higher floor of the estate.
The balustrade looked ready to collapse, the wood half-eaten by flames.
Weak light filtered to the stairs, possibly from a skylight.
She padded to the foot of the steps and peered upward. She saw only patches of light and shadow. The fading light came in through a damaged section of the ceiling up there.
She glanced over the railing at the spiral beneath her, saw no one watching. Lips pressed together, she took to the ascending section of the staircase, taking care to avoid the warped steps and the debris left behind from the old fire.
On the third floor, the air was thick and warm, and immediately wrung perspiration from her pores.
The landing emptied into a wide open space, which brought to mind a spacious loft.
Part of the ceiling had collapsed, boards buckled as if warped out of shape by giant hands.
Several windows, old but intact, were spaced throughout the chamber.
Across the room, someone was staring out one of those windows.
It looked like an elderly woman. She wore a tattered white housedress, and her gray hair fanned across her narrow shoulders. She was perched at the window like a child gazing outdoors waiting on a beloved parent to arrive.
“This is my favorite part of the day,” the woman said, in a brittle voice that crackled with excitement. Without looking over her shoulder at Amiya, she waved her over with a liver-spotted hand. “Come lookie, dear.”
She punctuated her invitation with a giggle. The sound of her laughter raised the hackles at the back of Amiya’s neck. Instead of approaching her, Amiya stepped to a nearby window that faced the same direction.
From her vantage point, Amiya could see the front of Westbrook, twilight settling over the plantation: the fields, the various buildings that supported the operation. She noticed that the field hands had vanished; off work, perhaps?
She could see the barn in which they had imprisoned Nick, a boxy shape in the gathering gloom. Her heart clutched. Was he still in there?
“Here it comes!” the woman cried. She was suddenly beside Amiya, one gnarled hand clutching Amiya’s shoulder with frenzied strength. She pointed out the window.
Amiya started to push the woman away but stopped when she saw the thing the woman had indicated. She stared, lips parted.
For a moment, her heart stopped.
A towering wave of darkness rolled across the land, like an apocalyptic tsunami. But this was a wall of blackness, not water. It was coming directly for them, rippling across the plantation as swiftly as the wind.
Amiya squeezed her eyes shut, a scream trapped at the base of her throat.
Coldness tore through her, bone deep, as if she had been flash frozen. It felt like a million icy pinpricks on her skin. The pain was so intense that she thought she might pass out.
As quickly as it came, it was over.
Shuddering, she opened her eyes. Closed them, opened them again.
Laughing, arms spread wide, the old woman raced to the staircase with the giddiness of a child on Christmas morning. Her dress, previously soiled and tattered, fluttered around her, fresh and new.
The staircase glistened richly, too, as if recently restored.
Amiya put her hand to her mouth. Heart pounding, she turned, taking in the loft.
This can’t be , she thought, gazing at the perfectly formed ceiling, the shining hardwoods, the sparkling windows. This place had been falling apart.
Not trusting her balance, she shuffled to the head of the staircase. She put her hand on the balustrade. The mahogany, in pristine condition, was cool underneath her fingers.
It felt real. Indisputably.
Piano music had struck up from somewhere downstairs. She recognized the rich, sonorous notes of “Moonlight Sonata,” and she remembered the crumbling grand piano she had seen in the parlor.
A spell of dizziness spun through her. She grasped the balustrade to assist her balance, simultaneously realizing that she was holding onto something that shouldn’t have existed in its current condition.
Laughter bubbled up from the lower levels, too. She heard chattering, excited voices. The clink and clatter of glasses.
It’s like a party has started , she thought.
Although she feared what she might see, worried that whatever she would discover would blow away her sanity for good, she descended the staircase to the second level.
Candlelight brightened the corridor. The hallway had been restored to a state of grandeur.
Miss Lula emerged from the doorway of the bedroom that had been assigned to Amiya. Amiya was taken aback by the older woman’s appearance. Not only was she smiling, but her clothes had been revitalized.
She even wore a string of pearls.
“There you are, lady,” Miss Lula said. “Come and put on your shoes and freshen up your makeup. It’s time to meet the master.”