Chapter Eleven
My pulse quickens to a frightful pace as my captor crosses the threshold and shuts the doors behind him. I tuck my clammy hands behind my back so I can squeeze them together. So he won’t notice how they tremble.
The demon steps to the chair at the front of the room.
He reclines in it lazily, like a big cat.
I try not to think about my nightmares with lions or wolves, all the blood.
I’m sure he could end me with a wave of his hand.
I hate the way he looks at me, ink-dark eyes inscrutable, drumming his fingers on the arm of his chair.
He appears so bored, as if he’s a breath away from stifling a yawn.
I narrow my eyes at him, despite my vow to myself to behave.
The keys of a piano start, and I turn in surprise. There, seated at the instrument way in the back, is the butler, gloves set aside on his seat, his large hands almost dainty on the keys as he plays a lovely classical piece. He’s even better than Dina.
“You play?” I gape at him.
“Mr. Brown is a talented musician,” the demon drawls, bringing my attention back to him. He continues with a condescending sneer. “And you are supposed to be some sort of dancing virtuoso, no?”
I put on a smile and duck my head demurely. Fuck you and the hell horse you rode in on.
“I’m tired of waiting. Begin.” The last word pierces the air. He doesn’t appear uninterested now, his expression hardened in intensity.
This is an act, I remind myself, a performance. Dance as if it were any audience in front of you. The rhythm of the music fills me, and I rise up en relevé, pasting a pleasant yet coquettish smile on my face.
I dance for the demon, pretending he doesn’t scare me at all.
When I pirouette, he fades away, if only for a moment.
I try not to look at him, instead focusing on the movement, and within moments, I don’t have to try.
I lose myself in the steps, in the bright notes of the piano, in the way the music echoes around the empty room.
The slippers take away my fear, all my inhibitions.
When I’m done, I sweep down into a generous curtsey. There is no applause, there are no whistles. Sheer silence greets me. Even Mr. Brown doesn’t make a peep.
As I glance up from my prone position at the demon on his throne, my breath catches in my throat at the cold way he stares at me. I rise, the anticipation killing me.
“All that trouble to bring you here. For that?” Each of his words are slow and scathing. “The slippers are wasted on you.”
Face hot, I snap out, “Why don’t you dance in them then, if you think I’m so terrible?”
He rises from his seat so swiftly I swallow a fearful breath.
I bite my tongue as he looms ominously before me.
Leaning inches from my face, his eyes blaze, the black somehow going even darker, hotter.
Distaste—hatred—curls his upper lip. Silence stretches between us, just the rise and fall of my chest with my heart hammering within. What is he going to do?
He raises a hand, and I flinch, scared he’s going to crush my windpipe. Instead, he lifts my chin. Gently, which is almost more frightening than if he’d hit me. All I want to do is jerk away from his touch, but I don’t dare move a muscle. His fingers are a cool vise. “Do better tomorrow.”
“What?” Fear takes second priority; I can’t help but be offended.
“I expect perfection. You are wild, and clumsy, and you lack discipline,” he insults me, voice rough.
“You’re going to learn that here, day by day.
You’re going to dance for me until you’re sore, until you’re begging me to stop.
” He softens his tone, a whisper against my crawling skin, “I’m going to make you cry for it. ”
“I—” But no more words come from my lips—he’s rendered me speechless. And now he’s walking away, the ghost of his fingers still on my face.
Not only is he a monster, but he’s impossible to please. What’s the point of my dancing for him if he’s not going to like it? I curse at the doors as the demon slams them behind him. I knew he’d be hateful, but never did I think he’d be so insulting.
“Come on,” Mr. Brown’s coarse voice breaks my thoughts. “Back to your room.”
Together, we leave the ballroom, go through the first floor, up the grand, sweeping staircase, down the second-floor corridor, then up the narrow third-floor staircase, and finally to my room. My blood pumping hard every step of the way. My ego bruised.
The slippers are wasted on you. I clench my teeth. What an absolute bastard.
Before Mr. Brown lets me in the room, he says, “Whatever you’re after, he’s not going to help you get it. You stole from him, and he’ll never forgive you for that.”
“He’s a monster.”
“Well, that monster will never help you. Take my advice, give up on whatever it is you want from him. Forget it.”
My sister’s blue eyes flash through my mind. Give up?
Never.
I dance for the demon the next three nights with no more insults, although he maintains a cold contempt that has my blood boiling and my confusion growing simultaneously.
Each performance is as though he cannot bear the sight of me—which makes me wonder endlessly why he’s even keeping me.
I hold back on asking about Aven yet. He would never agree, the way he feels now.
I play the part, I do what he asks, and still, he hates me.
I can only hope that will change in time.
After this evening’s performance, which I think is my best so far, he sends me away with nothing more than an absentminded nod.
I am escorted back to my room by Mr. Brown, and shoved, rather unceremoniously, though not necessarily roughly, inside.
The door locks behind me and my scowl. He’s as unbothered as his employer, though in a different way entirely.
I walk forward, noticing there is warm milk with honey waiting for me, lavender-flecked shortbread cookies stacked on a tiny plate beside the giant mug, the fireplace crackling pleasantly, a clock has been set on the mantel.
I purse my lips and get undressed, hating how cozy it feels.
How comfortable I’ve grown here in my room in this short amount of time—no, not my room.
They even sent a bath up on the second night, which I could have cried for, it felt so good to get clean, though I was shocked he allowed me such a nicety.
Every day, I seem to be surprised by something.
Every day there are changes to the mansion, which I secretly delight in.
The dust lifted, the crannies cleared, the silver shined. I hate it. I hate that I don’t hate it.
Now, I pull on a fresh nightgown and climb into bed, letting the milk go cold, the shortbread ignored, just out of spite.
I think I’m too agitated to do much but toss and turn in the sheets, but I’m wrong, for exhaustion hits me the second I pull up the covers.
Sleep catches me quickly, and even while I dream, I know I am dreaming.
Even while the dream changes. I can’t move…
and yet, I am moving. My physical body still lies in the bed.
But in my mind, I am slinking through the shadows of an unfamiliar place.
I am in a dark house, I realize with a start.
I am moving though I cannot walk. I cannot lift a finger, cannot control myself at all.
No, something is steering me forward, my dream body as immobile as the real one.
Still, I somehow move. Curiously, I watch through stolen eyes as a door is pushed open, slowly. Quietly.
This is a robbery, I almost say out loud, though my lips cannot move. I can’t speak.
I stare at the elaborate candelabras and fine paintings, a box with jewels spilling out of it on a table near the bed, a diamond pendant, ruby bracelet.
Distracted with the dream sequence, I count a pile of pearls as I—we?
Me and my dream self?—pass. I get to fifteen, but there must be a hundred more.
I can’t see the pearl necklace anymore—we are moving.
Oh, I see. Hear the snoring. A couple, asleep in the bed, silk awnings, thick covers piled high, even in the stuffy heat of the room. No one has opened the windows. Someone has spread garlic paste on the sills, I can smell it somehow, even in this false reality.
A low rumble from my chest, only it’s not mine. A chuckle because of the garlic. It didn’t matter, did it? He still got in easily.
I stare in horror as a hand raises, lifting from the body that carries me with it. Not my hand.
A knife in it. Blade shining like the diamond pendant only feet away.
And around the wrist, bracelets of tattoos, dark and foreboding.
No, no, I whisper, but no words come out. This is not my body, not my voice to use. My protest goes unheard, soundless.
The knife arcs downward, toward the sleeping couple. Two broad strokes against their throats.
Blood spatters my face, warm and wet. Even into my mouth. I taste it.
This time, I scream, and it works.
I’m still screaming when I sit upright, in full control of my body. I’m in my bed, covers all a tangle.
It was only a nightmare.
I brush at my tired eyes, my heart still thundering, and there’s a knock. I call out a faint, hoarse yes? A moment later, Jinny wheels in the breakfast cart.
I stare at her hopefully. “Any books?” The other day they brought matches, perhaps today, finally, entertainment.
She smiles. “I’ve put your request in, Miss.”
That horrible beast. I know the request will be denied.
Lifting her head, she smooths her immaculate apron. “Mrs. Minthy ordered another bath for you, Miss, before your performance this evening. We’ll be bringing the tub up later, and I’ll be back to do your hair after.” She blushes. “I think I have a way with styling.”
“Thank you. I’d like that.” I try to sound casual when I tack on, “Would I be able to get some pins too? For my hair?”
“I’m sure that would be fine.”