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I don’t.

I gave him my word. Whether I regret it or not, he upheld his end of the bargain.

He sent my father home.

My throat aches from holding back tears. Every step I take deeper into the castle carries me farther from the life I know. I wipe my damp palms against my coat, lower my head, then follow him.

The stairs lead us upward. Before long, I lose all sense of direction.

One corridor gives way to another. Each branches into two more until I can no longer remember which direction we came from. Doors line both sides, some narrow and plain, others so large and intricately carved that I can’t imagine what could possibly be behind them. Massive pendulum clocks stand in recessed alcoves. Their steady ticking follows us from one hallway to the next. Candelabras along the walls provide just enough light to see where we’re going.

He carries a candle in one hand. Its flame throws shadows across the stone walls, faded rugs and furniture as we pass. I try to memorize the path, but after the fourth or fifth turn, I give up.

Left.

Right.

Another staircase.

A long corridor.

Another turn.

Left again.

I have no idea where I am.

Without him, I’d never find my way out.

I don’t realize I’ve moved closer until I find myself staring at the back of his dark coat. Only a few feet separate us now. Wood smoke clings faintly to his clothes, mixed with jasmine. Whenever he turns a corner, I’m right behind him.

I hate that.

I hate needing to stay close to the man who put me here. But I don’t know this castle. I don’t know where any of these corridors lead or how many floors we’ve climbed. If he disappeared around one of these corners, I wouldn’t know whether to keep going or turn back.

So I stay close.

By the time he finally stops, I swear we’ve been walking for half an hour.

He pushes open a door and steps aside. I hesitate before crossing the threshold. The room beyond is larger than our entire cottage.

A massive four-poster bed takes up one side, its dark wooden frame draped with heavy curtains tied back at each corner. A fire crackles behind an ornate iron grate. Thick rugs cover much of the stone floor. Bookshelves stretch from floor to ceiling along one wall, packed tightly with leather-bound volumes. A writing desk sits beside a tall window overlooking the mountains.

A pair of upholstered chairs faces the fireplace. An armoire stands against the opposite wall. Through another doorway, I can see a private bathing room with a claw-foot tub, copper fixtures and enough space to hold every room in my father’s cottage twice over.

It’s beautiful.

I know that.

I can see what a room like this must be worth.

But all I see is a cage.

I turn toward him. There are a dozen things I want to ask. How long does he intend to keep me here? Will I ever see my father again? If I change my mind, does any of that matter?

I open my mouth.

The door is already swinging shut.