The House of the Stone (5 page)

I
MUST HAVE DOZED OFF BECAUSE WHEN
I
OPEN
MY EYES
, Emile is gone.

The light in the room is different. Darker. Richer. Afternoon, I'd guess. My bones ache as I push myself up into a sitting position. My stomach growls. I hug my knees to my chest.

And wait.

I can't hear anything except the occasional chirp of a bird or buzz of an insect from outside. But the noise is so faint I think I might be imagining it.

I meticulously examine the chains that tether me, every link, the screws that keep them bolted to the wall, the manacles around my wrists. I search for a weakness. There isn't
one. Unlike the shiny instruments of torture, these chains are old. But sturdy. I wonder how many surrogates have been tied to this wall before me.

Then I wish I hadn't thought that because it just makes my chest sink and my stomach pinch, and it doesn't really matter anyway. I'm here now.

When I can't stand the silence anymore, I begin to sing quietly—the stupid Marsh song Lily sang on the train to the Auction.

“
Come all ye fair and tender ladies . . .
”

I sing the whole song, making up the words where I've forgotten them. Then I sing it again. And again.

I'm on my fourteenth time singing it when the door opens. Immediately, my body is alert, my sore muscles tensing.

Frederic walks in, accompanied by four footmen. I hug my knees tighter.

He carries a folded piece of fabric in his hand and it makes me ache with longing.

Please
, I think,
let that be for me.

“Stand up,” he says. I obey without hesitation. “If you fight or run or move at all, you won't get this.”

He holds up the fabric, which unfolds into a robe. I nod once, curtly.

“Good.”

Two footmen approach and unshackle me. I didn't realize how much the metal hurt my wrists until it's gone.

“Remove her dress,” Frederic instructs. I try to fight the whimper in my throat. Frederic grins as the zipper is yanked down my back, and before the dress is even all the way off,
I'm reaching for the robe.

Frederic holds it out and I grab it before he can take it away, afraid this might just be another trick. I slip the robe on over my shoulders, grateful for the warmth and protection it provides. Immediately, I feel stronger. More like myself.

I'm so preoccupied that I don't see the leash until it's fastened around my neck.

The worst part is, I don't have the energy to fight. And even if I did, they might take my robe away.

“Come,” he says, tugging on the leash like I'm a dog. We file out of the dungeon, two footmen in front, two behind. I cross my fingers and hope against hope that we're going back to that beautiful room I went to yesterday. I remember the bed, so soft and plush.

We walk up some stairs and turn down a corridor I haven't seen before, not that I've seen much of this palace. It is lined with mirrors in all shapes and sizes, some as small as a postage stamp, others nearly reaching from floor to ceiling. Interspersed between them are bouquets of flowers, irises and roses and hydrangeas and sunflowers and daisies. They feel wrong here, too cheerful for this evil place. I catch a glimpse of myself in an oval mirror with a copper frame and shudder. I look as small and weak and scared as I feel. I'm grateful when we leave this hall behind and head up another set of stairs. We reach a pale wooden door, and Frederic opens it while the footmen stay behind.

Frederic leads me into the room, jerking unnecessarily on the leash.

It's a medical room.

The muscles in my thighs tighten as saliva coats my mouth.

No. I can't be here so soon.

It's by far the most opulent medical room I've seen. Much nicer than the tiny clinic where I was diagnosed, and even nicer than the pristine facilities at Southgate. It almost reminds me of the fancy bedroom from last night—the medical bed is plush and upholstered in white velvet with gold trim, so it looks more like a chaise lounge. Ornate lighting fixtures hang down from the ceiling, with glowglobes attached so that they radiate a warm light. The walls are painted a friendly peach color, and there are paintings similar to the ones that lined our dormitory halls at Southgate. Smudges of color, landscapes, muted tones. There is an overstuffed armchair with a matching footstool in one corner, a mahogany rolltop desk, and a leather sofa. It looks like a very design-conscious mad scientist's lab.

Except for the tray of silver instruments beside the chaise-bed.

But what really grabs my attention is the windows. There are two of them, big arching ones with billowing white curtains and I get my first glimpse of the world outside this palace's walls, or part of it at least, and it's so beautiful it makes me want to cry.

Roses must be trained on a trellis on the outer wall because I can see their leaves, rich green, slithering up the window frames, and in some places I even get a glimpse of a late-blooming flower. Beyond that is a fraction of what must be an immense garden—a multi-tiered fountain, a wooden bench, several large bushy trees, and a stone path
disappearing out of sight. And surrounding it all in the distance, a massive spike-topped wall, like the one I saw from the bedroom. It must circle the entire palace.

And the sun. I can't see it directly, but I know where it is, off to the left, its rich golden light pouring over the trees and the fountain and the path. I can't believe I ever took sunlight for granted.

There's another tug on my leash.

I swear, I will make it my life's mission to see that, one day, Frederic knows what it feels like to be on the other end of this thing.

“Lay down,” he says, pointing to the bed. I climb up onto it and then, oh! I can't be angry because it is
so
soft, and warm, and comfortable, and I've never felt anything like this. My aching legs and sore back and pounding head melt into it. It's better than Emile's magical fix-it cream.

But even as my body relaxes and my eyes begin to close, there a
snap-snap-snapping
sound, as straps appear from the sides of the bed and secure themselves over my forehead, my chest, and my waist, leaving only my legs free. Then those are hiked up as two stirrups shoot out of the edge of the bed, and my feet are strapped securely inside them. One part of my gown falls open, leaving my entire leg, including my upper thigh and my left butt cheek, exposed.

I close my eyes and swallow. I don't know whether I want to scream or throw up or both.

I am Raven Stirling
, I remind myself.
They cannot own me.

But the words feel weak inside my head.

I force my eyes open and look out the window. A bird
lands on the windowsill. It has brilliant yellow feathers around its eyes. It cocks its head, like it's studying me. Then it flies away.

I have never envied another living creature so much.

The door opens.

Frederic is flipping through some papers on the desk, but sinks into a bow as my second (or first, really, I think it's a tie) least-favorite person in this palace enters the room.

But the Countess isn't alone. Of course not. This is a medical room.

“Your ladyship,” Frederic says. “Dr. Falme.”

The doctor wears the usual white lab coat and beige slacks. But he isn't like the other doctors I've seen, either the crotchety old ones who get shipped off to diagnose surrogates in the Marsh clinics, or the opiate addicts like Dr. Steele, who work in the holding facilities.

It's not just that we look like we could be related—same skin tone, same eyes, same hair color. It's that he's
young
. I'd guess maybe his late twenties. And he is incredibly handsome.

Not like that boy I saw at the dinner, the Duchess of the Lake's son, whatever his stupid royal name was. That guy was pressed and perfect in a way that felt artificial. Sort of like his personality—shallow.

This doctor is maybe as tall as me, but with long, curly dark hair that falls to his jawline and deep dimples in both cheeks that pop as he smiles at Frederic. Then he turns his gaze on me and I think maybe that smile isn't so appealing after all.

“So,” he says. “This is Lot 192.”

I futilely wriggle my arms. “My name is Raven Stirling, you bast—”

I don't even get to finish cursing at him. Lightning zips across my forehead as sparks explode in my vision. The pain is dizzying. It's here and then it's gone.

“It's not learning very quickly,” the Countess says. My body convulses in the aftermath, held steady only by the straps. “But it certainly has a lot of fight in it.”

“Ah, but that is just what we were looking for, isn't it, my lady?”

Suddenly, the bed shifts, sinking back so that I am tilted at a forty-five-degree angle. I can't see the windows anymore. And my open legs are sticking up in the air, exposing me for anyone to see.

Not that anyone has taken any notice of my body—not the Regimentals or the footmen or Emile or this beautiful, scary doctor. I can't feel the lightning pain anymore and it leaves me with the same fear I had last night, that it's scarier not to feel it.

“So,” the doctor says, walking over to me, but not looking me in the eyes. “Where shall we start?”

He reaches out and I wish I could move away, or move at all, but his fingers are on my scalp, probing my skull. They are gentle but focused, looking for something but I don't know what.

“Not through the mouth again,” the Countess says. She's looking at the papers Frederic was poring over earlier.

“No,” the doctor murmurs. “You're sure we can't shave its head?”

I bite the inside of my cheek so hard it almost bleeds. I
don't know what sets off the lightning, but I don't want to feel it again.

“You know we can't,” the Countess says impatiently. “What would people say? I can't have an ugly surrogate, no matter how practical. And this one is too promising to screw up like last time. We'll simply have to be more precise in our calculations. The Electress must see results. That is the only way to maintain our alliance. We cannot take any chances now that the House of the Lake has a surrogate.”

She's talking about Violet.

“I have said it before, your ladyship. Dr. Blythe isn't the genius he pretends to be.”

“Dr. Blythe is not your concern.” The Countess's voice is cold. “This surrogate is. All of our previous attempts have failed because those surrogates simply did not have the mental fortitude to withstand the procedures. This one does. I'm sure of it.”

“What happ—” I don't realize the words are out of my mouth until pain sears my skull.

“A very difficult learner,” the doctor says with a chuckle.

He actually
chuckles.

Oh, Violet
, I think.
I hope, wherever you are, this is not happening to you, too.

The Countess and Dr. Falme make strange parts in my hair, and I hate the feel of their hands on my scalp. I don't know what they're doing or why, because aren't they supposed to be interested in other parts of my body?

The doctor makes notes using numbers that don't make sense, like “Quadrant five, line twenty-seven, three inches?”

Always like a question. Like he's asking himself.

“Can we try one time?” the Countess asks.

“So soon, my lady?”

“I want to see how it reacts.”

The doctor smiles indulgently. I clamp my mouth shut. I have no idea what reaction she wants. I won't give her any, if I can help it.

The doctor pulls on one of the hanging lights, which stretches down like it's on a spring. There isn't a glowglobe inside—instead it looks like a helmet with golden hooks all around it. And it's coming right at my head.

There's nothing I can do as the helmet settles around my skull. The hooks pinch when they catch on my skin.

“Where shall we start, my lady?” the doctor asks.

There's a pause while the Countess thinks.

“Not too young. Ten maybe? No, seven. Seven is perfect.”

In an instant, there is a sharp sting in my neck and in three seconds, I can't feel my head anymore. It's gone completely numb. Which is honestly a relief. I don't want to feel anything.

I hear a buzzing sound, like the drills the dentists used on us at Southgate—pretty much everyone has to get serious work done on their teeth when they arrive. It's a sound that sets me on edge, that makes my skin prickle and every hair on my body stand up.

The buzzing gets louder as the drill or needle or whatever it is gets closer. I don't feel it go in. Suddenly I'm just . . . gone.

My mother is humming while she brushes my
hair. I don't tell her how good it feels, how I've wanted this for so long. She was always so concerned with Sable, getting Sable ready to be a surrogate. She never had time for me. But Sable's test came back negative.

I sit in front of the cracked mirror in her bedroom and look at my reflection. Mother thinks I'm pretty. I don't care about being pretty. I want to finish my math homework. But pretty makes her happy.

“There, now,” she says. “That's nice, isn't it?”

I beam at her in the mirror. She looks at me and smiles.

Then all the skin melts off her face.

Someone is screaming. They should stop screaming; my mother hates loud noises.

My chest begins to ache, and I realize the person screaming is me.

My mother is gone. Her bedroom has vanished. I'm still in the medical room.

I force my lips closed, my chest heaving. Bile rises in my throat but I swallow it down.

It wasn't real
, I tell myself.
That didn't happen.

But I can't stop shaking. I can't make that horrible image go away.

A single tear escapes and runs down my cheek. I blink before any more run free.