Chapter Thirty-Four
Alora tested her binding.
She moved her arms first, and they obeyed. She tried to throw the envelope with all her strength, and they refused.
She hissed a slew of obscenities.
She was able to swing her legs forward and back but wasn’t able to stand. Marshall Merridon, the bloated, old toad, had told her to sit and remain. He’d told her to take the envelope and keep it.
She could feel something there, at the back of her head, some memory she couldn’t grasp that related to the ruby-eyed skull.
It aggravated her further the more she tried.
She wiped her fingers across the cloak she wore until she thought she’d shed a layer of skin, but still her head didn’t right itself.
The oil she’d inadvertently touched had already seeped inside and done its damage. Could it ever be fixed?
She knew she forgot things. Important things.
If she focused on a singular spot in the room, she could see each one shifting in front of her eyes.
But pay attention to one too long and it scuttled away, sifting through her fingers like sand.
It infuriated her to no end! She wanted to tear the room apart, destroy everything she’d managed for that odious man, but she couldn’t so much as rake her nails across the fabric.
She wasn’t allowed to destroy any portion of Opulence. Merridon had effectively restrained her, locking her inside her own head.
But she thought there might be people who could help her here.
Though she couldn’t remember their names.
Merridon had mentioned someone, she thought.
Someone she might know. A brief flash of red came and went, a memory floating just out of reach.
She touched the edge of it but couldn’t… quite…pin…it…
A young Miss Lennox Flowers!
Yes, Alora knew her! A contented feeling drifted through her then. This must mean something. Something positive.
She’d an inkling there were others too. Her mind, however it managed, wanted to fight what had been done. Perhaps her brain was stronger than Merridon expected. Or maybe it was all the black tea she drank day to day. Or something else she drank…
He’d mentioned sons. How could someone like that procreate? Who allowed such a thing?
At once, her mind whirled with the direction of her thoughts.
Like she’d chosen the wrong path, and it wished to cast her upon the correct one.
However well-meaning, it was disorienting, and Alora cursed and spat, trying with everything in her to grip onto any particular memory and pin it like she’d done with Lennox. She was gifted with eyes.
Merridon, she thought. Merridon. Merridon. Merridon.
“Bash,” she breathed, and slumped in relief. She knew him, Marshall Merridon’s son. But how well? The sensation his name brought upon her wasn’t so much contentment, but an excitable warmth, a vague agitation. Whatever that meant. Would he help her?
The doorknob across the room began to turn. Alora swung her head toward it as a tall figure, dressed in black, stepped into the room.
She stiffened. Her contracted mind recognized this person as an employee of Opulence and thus unable to be harmed.
The stuttering of her memories revealed she’d seen others like this before, even if she couldn’t recall any singular one with clarity.
She thought she might have had very bad experiences with such people.
But then she thought she might have had very good ones too.
How terribly confusing. She felt on the verge of tears.
“Miss Pennigrim,” began the figure, the voice distinctly male and rasping. “I’ve come to escort you to your new accommodations.”
An unwinding sensation occurred across her thighs. Alora rushed to stand so quickly, her vision blurred. She reached out to steady herself against the chaise at the same moment a gloved hand encircled her elbow.
Alora ripped her arm from his grasp. Her vision righted. “Where?”
“On the grounds. Same as us all. Come with me.”
She had to obey. It had been right there in the contract. Alora stared at her feet as they moved one in front of the other. It was a strange sensation, having no control.
“Do I know you?” She stared up into a masked face, the rest of him shadowed by the drape of his hood. Please. Let me know you.
But the figure shook his head, and Alora wilted. Embarrassingly, her eyes welled. She looked away.
Tears dripped from her downturned nose. She’d had a plan once, she thought.
Something to be rid of this evil place. Or at least to discredit it.
But she couldn’t remember any of it now.
She knew who she was at least. She knew she had a rabbit at home that would need feeding, a donkey in a stable who would miss her visits.
She knew from where she’d come from. That she loved tea and tomato and cheese sandwiches, an old baker and even older bookshop owner.
She followed the broad figure down the hall, now lit with gold sconces. Their flames enticed, the newly laid carpet beneath her feet crimson and plush and lined with twinkling lights. It made her want to turn back and see how it led to Door Twenty-five. But she’d been told to follow and so she did.
They stepped into the great hall, and the sight sent every memory Alora held of it into a flurry. She tried to grab at one, but it was as futile as catching a flake in a blizzard and just as dizzying. She exhaled long and slow.
The sound drew the attention of the masked man, who turned back to her briefly. But he did not stop, and so she didn’t either.
Then a woman marched toward them.
She had a deep groove between her eyebrows and a fierce downturn to her mouth.
Her shoes clipped against the veined marble but did not echo.
Alora thought she knew her. If nothing else, the uptick of scurrying memories in her head hinted at it.
She focused on that. It was a clue, at least, toward something forgotten.
“Madam Feebledire,” rasped the man ahead of her. He stopped, meaning Alora did too.
But then he surprised her by stepping back.
Alora glanced at her shoulder, now pressed against his arm.
A shock rattled through her, pleasant and light.
She didn’t move away. It was familiar to her, a hint of something more.
Intense memories whirled around her. A tornado of fear and anger, relief and desire.
But he’d said he didn’t know her.
“Madam Feebledire” echoed in her head, demanding her attention.
“I know you,” whispered Alora.
The arm against her stiffened. His pinky finger brushed her own.
“I’ll take her the remainder of the way. Master wishes to speak with you about an urgent matter.”
Her escort remained solid at her side. Alora glanced up at him, his attention riveted on the woman in front of them. She could see the line of his masked jaw and could feel indecision rolling off him like waves. Why does he hesitate?
It took the deepening of the groove between Madam Feebledire’s brows for him to finally step away. She moved toward Alora, pausing only when she passed near him. “Be wary of which road you choose, Captain.”
The woman voiced the warning quietly and through her teeth, but Alora heard it anyway.
She would not succumb to this strange entrapment of Merridon’s.
She would take any clue she could until something was able to be made from them.
This woman was a part of Opulence. Of management, Alora thought, considering she could command her escort with ease.
Alora knew her. She’d had many interactions with this woman before.
“Madam Feebledire,” she said, stepping forward to meet her. “I hear I’m to be made presentable. Where to next?”
Madam Feebledire’s lip lifted into a sneer. Yes, thought Alora. I remember that face.
“Only the best for our newest performer, I hear,” said the older woman, as if she’d just been made aware of the fact and didn’t enjoy the last-minute knowledge. She crooked a finger, and Alora had no real choice but to give into the motion. As much as she wanted to snub it. Or bite it.
Alora bothered with another look at the enshrouded man, standing stoic and oh-so-mysterious as he watched the pair of them make for the front of the mansion. She found herself wishing she could see beneath his hood.
Just a peek.
The doors opened without touch, and Alora blinked against the sunshine.
There was a nip in the air that hadn’t been there before; autumn rode close, almost upon them.
She followed Madam Feebledire down the stairs.
A topiary at their end drew her attention.
It was of a woman, pouring out desires. The topiary meant to represent Door Twenty-five.
Meant to represent her. Alora peered over her shoulder, as Madam Feebledire would not be stopped, and thought, It does look like me a little.
The resemblance was there, in the slope of the nose, the point of the chin.
It had been sculpted by someone gifted, to be sure; someone who knew her perhaps? Someone she had known?
Memories barreled behind her eyes. Okay. Someone I’ve met more than once.
A breeze swept the grounds as Alora followed Opulence Mansion’s management around the side of the building. It lifted Madam Feebledire’s hair, pulling more pieces from the tight bun at the top of her head.
“Damn this blasted wind. What has become of this place?”
Alora said nothing while Madam Feebledire patted her hair back into shape.
“Once we reach your accommodations, you’ll be seen to by one of our employees.
Now, don’t start thinking of yourself as some sort of commodity because of it.
It is only a temporary assignment. Once you’ve learned the routine, you’ll be in charge of your own appearance.
And you mustn’t allow it to lapse. Our performers are held to the highest standards of beauty.
You are meant to engage, entice—to cause members to wish for return night after night. Do you understand?”