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I scan the room with fresh eyes. Marie Antoinette’s bed, Monet’sPoppieson the wall.
“And… I’m back in Boston, right?”
She nods. “Back? You’re from here, are you?”
My mouth forms a tight line. “Unfortunately.”
Orna doesn’t press the issue.
I glance out the window, clapping eyes on one of the men who patrol the perimeter. “Who are they?”
“The Henchmen. All my second and third cousins, so I forget that they can look a little scary. Don’t worry, you’ll get used to them and they’ll be part of the furniture soon enough.” Then, she scans the room and lets out a loud sigh. “Right, well, let’s make your hopefully short stay with us more comfortable.” She leaps to her feet and disappears inside the dressing room. “No clothes?” she says, reappearing in the doorway. I shake my head. “Fucking hell. All right, I’ll get you everything you need—in fact, I’ll put a good dent in Lorcan’s Amex as a big ‘fuck you’. And you must be starving, poor thing.”
Right on cue, my stomach growls like an angry stray dog. But I shake my head, remembering what Lorcan said to me last night as his weight pinned me to the bed.You eat when I tell you to eat.
“I’m not hungry.”
Orna dismisses me with a sweep of her hand. “Nonsense. I’ll be back with food.”
As friendly as she is, she still locks the door behind her. I pin my ear to the wooden frame, straining to listen to her movements. Down the stairs. Across some more floorboards. And then there’s a beep, beep, beeping, sound, as if she’s tapping in a pin. A whirring noise—some sort of mechanism, I’d guess—and then the hiss of a door opening.
My heart sinks.
It’s going to be impossible to get out of here.
Left alone with nothing but hundreds of antiques once more, I hash over the conversation with Orna. In a way I feel lighter; her anger towards Lorcan seemed genuine. At least I know that this isn’t the norm around here. Maybe gaining her trust will help me escape?
It feels like only a few minutes pass when Orna comes back with a huge tray of spaghetti and a stack of books tucked under her arm. She sets them down on the bedside table. “Hopefully these will keep you entertained,” she says. “And please eat. Don’t starve yourself for a man.”
But I’m not starving myselfforLorcan, butbecauseof Lorcan. I’m sending him a message. He can lock me in a gilded cage, along with his other artifacts, but he’ll never have control over me.
When Orna comes back a few hours later, I’m curled up on the window seat, three chapters in toPride and Prejudice.She takes away the cold tray of food by the door and replaces it with another meal. The smell drifts across the room, making my mouth water and my stomach growl in protest, but I refuse to bring even a morsel to my lips.
I will not give in to the Devil.
Another sunset framed by the bay window. When the last of the golden rays disappear behind the towering hedges, I close the book and curl up on the bed, weak with hunger.
Poppy
I dream I’m running down a long corridor. It’s a never-ending tunnel lined with the world’s most revered paintings.Mona Lisa.The Starry Night.The Girl with the Pearl Earring. In any other world, I’d stop and admire them, drink in every brushstroke and color. But fine art is the last thing on my mind. I keep running, my legs heavy and my chest burning, towards the small door at the end of the corridor.
Freedom.
But the floorboards are old and creaky, groaning under the weight of every desperate stride. They get more and more worn the closer I get to the door, until they fall away under my feet, revealing a burning fire underneath me. I keep running but the floor keeps falling until there’s nothing left. I’m so close, so goddamn close to the door but I’m not going to make it. I curl my fingers around the frame of the closest painting to stop myself from falling. Picasso’sWeeping Woman. Her haunted face stares at me, mirroring my own horrified expression. But she’s melting. The kaleidoscope of colors blurs into one, dripping into the pits of Hell below.
I’m dangling, then I’m falling. Falling into the raging fire below.
Welcome to hell,the Devil’s voice says,I told you you’d be meeting me here.
I wake up screaming, my lungs burning.
I’m back in Marie Antoinette’s ridiculously ornate bed and a room stuffed with precious things. For a brief moment, they give me comfort.
“Bad dream?”
Another yelp escapes my lips as I whip around to follow the voice. The Devil himself is sitting on the window seat, watching me.
Immediately I know he’s not drunk today. His curls are slicked back behind his ears, revealing his sharp cheekbones and jaw. His navy suit is neatly pressed, an elaborately folded, emerald green handkerchief poking out from his breast pocket. Those eyes aren’t glassy and wild today either. They are tinged with amusement.
