Page 10 of The Girl Beneath the Sea

If they followed us, then somewhere between the flower shop and the plywood storefronts, two escort vehicles either turned off and drove away, or my car managed to give them the slip somehow without going faster or swerving.

The route was planned by the embassy. The car came from the advance team. Havel checked the seat pockets and the water bottle, shut my door himself, and tapped the roof twice.

Here is the other thing I know about any rescue effort: men will be searching for the crown prince. Nobody will come for me.

That is a difference that I have understood since I was small. The crown prince is an asset.

But that is all I am. An asset. If I die, I will be a loss but no one will mourn me. Not really.

I am the only person I can rely on.

There is no day in here. There are no windows and the little caged bulb over the door burns continually. It is difficult to know how long I have been here.

Meals will be my clock. He brought food and water so I can expect that. I will count the gaps between them. It is not much of a calendar. It is mine.

There is a bucket with a lid in the far corner. I’m trying not to think about that.

The cuffs are the real problem. The metal has gone from rubbing to cutting.

I can feel my fingers getting numb and opening the water bottle is awkward.

I open the second bottle with my teeth and pour half of it down my chin, and then, because I cannot stand myself another hour, I spend the rest of it on my face. Palms together, chained, clumsy.

I get water on my eyes, my mouth, the back of my neck, into the collar of my ruined shirt. There is a bruise on my collarbone. However they got me from the car to this place, they weren’t gentle. One of my knees is aching.

I don’t know how long I have been in here. I think a day at least, perhaps more, depending on how long I was out, but I feel disgusting. I want a bath.

I would sign away a province for hot water and soap.

I keep looking for the cameras. The corners, the vent, the seam over the door. There is nothing there. The place is plain enough that there is nowhere to hide one.

Nobody is watching me. I have wondered my whole life what that would feel like, and now I know. It feels weird.

When I hear boots outside, I get up. Far too enthusiastically. I want him to come in here with me. I put that down. I knock on the inside of my own cell door. “Hello?”

The boots stop.

I wait with my forehead nearly against the steel, cuffed hands lifted. “Can you take the cuffs off?”

The boots move on.

I stand there a long moment. This is new. I have been watched, managed, herded, scripted, curated, and displayed. I have never once in my life been ignored. It stings more than the wrists do.

Hours later, I hear boots again. I put my mouth near the door seam and pitch my voice the way I was taught to pitch it into a banquet hall, level and carrying and bored.

“The cuffs are too tight. My hands are losing circulation. Whatever you are being paid to deliver, damaged goods are worth less.”

Silence. It is long enough that I think he has gone.

Then, I hear him say in a low, flat voice: “Not my problem.”

My heart does a hard shameless thing at the sound of his voice. I grit my teeth and try to ignore it. I need to focus.

The accent is definitely American. Not a huge surprise but I add it to the small list of things I know about him.

And…he answered.

It was possible he was told not to talk to me. That would be a sensible rule. If it was, then he broke it to refuse me.