Chapter Twenty-Six
Iron bars have been bolted in front of the pale purple door to my room. They’re rough-hewn and ugly, particularly monstrous
against the feminine backdrop of my chambers. The wall has cracked in the places they were attached, like it was all done
hastily, but they’re solid, and I suppose that’s what counts.
I hurl my body against the door a few times in an attempt to dislodge them, but they stay as immovable as granite, leaving
me with nothing but bruised confidence and an equally bruised shoulder.
The diamond-paned window won’t break, no matter how many objects I smash against it. Eventually, I’m not even throwing them
as a means of escape, but because I can’t quiet this raging storm inside of me and it feels better to scream my voice hoarse
and destroy these beautiful objects than to lie down in bed and wait for my own death.
My floral teapot shatters against the window. I use every bit of my strength on my tiaras, which ricochet and leave dislodged
gems scattered across the carpet like raindrops. I break the glass shelves they once laid upon with a single mighty swing
of a rack from my wardrobe, wielded like a sword.
I look down at my broken left hand, disgusted at the sight of my wedding rings. My fingers are bruised and swollen, but I pull and pull, ignoring the screaming pain until they’re finally off. In one fluid motion, I toss them into the fire.
I stare at the pearl ring on my index finger a beat longer, breathing heavily. How strange it is to look back at my six-year-old
self with so much ire. How could someone so small have wrought this much horror? How could I have steered my entire life on
a collision course with disaster and not even known it?
A shower of sparks goes up as I toss it into the fire as well, but it doesn’t make me feel any better.
I rage until I’m damp with sweat and my voice is entirely gone, and then I lie amid the broken glass and stare up at the ceiling
so long I start to see fuzzy shapes in the darkness.
The guards knocked me unconscious before they locked me in here, so I do not know what has happened to Emmett, my sister,
or any of the others.
I have to grapple with the possibility that they are all dead. Well, except for Lydia. Bram will not have us deny him his
final show.
For two days, I live in the wreckage I have made. I’m forced to wear shoes at all times because of the broken glass on the
carpet.
I try to reach within me, to find that magical latch that unlocks the door back to England, but I can’t do it. It’s like it’s
been scooped out of me.
I wonder if Bram has some magic preventing me from reaching it, or if I’m just a failure.
I have the sad realization that if I was able to open the door from the dungeons, Mor could have as well. The bars were merely
for show. She chose to stay in that dungeon for her son.
On the third day, Eloree arrives as the first pale pink of dawn peeks over the distant hills. Behind her are two other lady’s maids, who carry a large leather trunk between them.
A guard pulls out a key, but before he unlocks the bars, he looks at me and says, “If you try to run, we’ll kill her.” And
gestures to Eloree.
“I won’t run.” My voice is a mere whisper, still ruined from all my screaming.
He unlocks the door and the three maids shuffle in silently.
The trunk crunches on the scattered glass as they set it on the floor, but their faces remain stony. It’s only Eloree who
looks around the room, shock evident in her overlarge eyes.
“How is Lydia?” I rasp.
Eloree presses her pale lips together. “Worried about you,” she answers.
But she is alive.
“And the others?” I ask.
Eloree runs a comb through my tangled hair, her eyes flitting down to the floor, then back to mine in the mercury glass mirror.
“I do not know.”
For silent hours, Eloree and her assistants work on me. There’s much to do.
Eloree combs out each strand of my hair until my wild curls are a ball of frizz. Then she rubs a lotion that smells of an
herb garden onto her hands and distributes it through my scalp and down the strands with gentle pressure. She uses a curling
tong until each of my natural, wild curls has been re-formed into a perfect, cascading ringlet.
Her two assistants kneel at my feet, each one taking a hand. They scrub the dungeon dirt from under my nails, then cut and file until they resemble ten perfectly shiny crescent moons. I resist the urge to wiggle my fingers, which feel bare without my rings.
I am nothing better than a paper doll, blank and compliant as Eloree and the others slip my dressing gown off my shoulders,
exposing my bare torso.
They rub oils that smell of honeycomb and violets into the skin of my arms and neck and collarbone. They do my legs next until
every inch of me is glowing.
Eloree unscrews a pot of something white and cold and dabs it on the dark circles under my eyes. “Close,” she says gently,
then applies the rest to my swollen eyelids. She smears a pink salve on my lips and cheeks, bringing their sallow color back
to life.
The tips of her fingers are cool and gentle against my angry skin, and it hits me that she will likely be the last person
to ever touch me with kindness.
My stomach twists as I try my best not to think of the others. Eloree is being so gentle with me, and it would be rude to
cry off all her hard work. I won’t have my final actions be those of disrespect.
I’m numb as they guide me gently by my elbows to stand, and then methodically lace and button me into a gown.
It isn’t until they’re done that I glance in the mirror and realize what I’m wearing. It’s constructed of layers and layers
of whisper-thin, white, Swiss-dot tulle. Wide off-the-shoulder sleeves connect into a gentle V at the center of my chest.
The waist is nipped in and tied with a grosgrain ribbon and the full skirts are embellished with intricate embroidery of wildflowers,
white thread on white fabric.
“His Majesty selected it himself,” Eloree explains gently.
But I already knew that, just by looking at it.
It’s not the exact same, but it’s the closest copy Bram could make in the Otherworld of my Pact Parade gown. I look almost exactly as I did the day we met. Well, I suppose it was the day I met him. He’d known me for long before that.
The only difference is my long, unbound hair and the golden tiara Eloree places atop it.
I look like a princess from a storybook.
And I am equally doomed.
I press my lips together and try to blink away the stinging feeling in my eyes. “Thank you, Eloree,” I say. “You did beautiful
work.”
I look to the others, half cowering behind her. “I didn’t even ask your names,” I say with regret.
“Enid and Aspen, ma’am,” the taller one answers meekly.
“Thank you, Enid and Aspen.” I nod in their direction. “I apologize for my rudeness. You didn’t catch me on my best day.”
Eloree’s green eyes well with tears, and she turns from me quickly, so I don’t see them spill. “It’s been an honor, ma’am,”
she says, then hurries out the door.
I’m afraid waiting will be its own form of torture, but the moment Eloree leaves, two large guards step into the room. One
holds a delicate glass vial containing a few drops of silvery liquid. “We’ll force you if you don’t take it willingly,” the
guard says in a tired sort of way that implies he’d really rather not.
I keep my face blank as I extend my hand. He drops the vial into my palm. I’m surprised to find it’s ice cold.
I don’t hesitate as I uncork the vial and pour it right down my aching throat. I’m unconscious before I hit the floor.