The House of the Stone

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.

“I like this one,” the Countess says.

“So do I,” the doctor murmurs.

“Violet,” I whimper, so soft that they don’t hear me. I need Violet. She’s the only one who will understand.

ONCE THE DOCTOR AND THE COUNTESS ARE GONE, THE straps come off.

Frederic puts the leash back on, which at least means we’re leaving this terrible, beautiful room. My head aches. I hesitantly reach up and touch my skull. There is a tiny scar, the length of my fingernail, about four inches above my left temple.

“Take it away, Emile,” he says.

Emile is here. I didn’t notice him come in, but I’m so grateful Frederic won’t be taking me back to my cage that I almost start crying again. Almost.

And I want to go back to my cage. I hate that I do, but I do. I don’t understand this place, beauty mixed with horror. I’d rather be where things look the way they are.

But Emile doesn’t take me to the dungeon. We go up, up, up, back to the room that makes me nervous now, with its plush furnishings and fancy paintings and canopied bed.

“I will be staying with you tonight,” Emile says as he locks the door behind him and removes the leash.

I sink down onto the closest piece of furniture. I think it might be a table, I don’t know.

“What . . . happened . . . to me?” I gasp. I hold my head in my hands, as if I can squeeze the fake memory from it.

“You may shower if you wish.”

I look up at him. His blue eyes are earnest, but urgent. I don’t think this is a request.

I nod once. Force my shaking legs to hold my weight. Somehow make it across the soft carpet to the powder room.

There’s no door on it. I just want something to slam, something to close out the world and give me a tiny moment of peace.

I fall over the toilet and vomit until my throat is raw and there is nothing left to throw up. My mother’s skinless face repeats over and over in my mind.

It wasn’t real, I tell myself. I might say it out loud. Emile never comes in, but I feel his presence. I’m grateful he stays away. What a ridiculous thing to be grateful for.

I fall asleep on the cold tile floor.





Seven


WHEN I WAKE UP, I’M IN BED.

The soft, giant canopied bed. It feels as good as I thought it would, except that it reminds me of the medical chaise-bed.

“Good morning,” Emile says pleasantly.

He’s still in his lady-in-waiting dress, sitting up in one of the armchairs.

“Did you sleep like that?” I ask. My head is fuzzy.

“I did.”

It looks uncomfortable, which gives me a hollow sense of satisfaction.

“I’ll have breakfast brought up,” he says. “Why don’t you shower?”

My mouth tastes awful, like stale vomit. He walks to the wall by my bed and pulls on a long piece of fabric. I assume that means breakfast is on its way. I should feel hungry but I don’t. All I can think is what today will bring.

“What is she going to do to me now?” I ask.

Emile smiles such a fake, bright smile, I think I might throw up again. “Today you’re going out!”

My eyes narrow. Something is off. He whips off my covers and shoos me out of bed. “Get showered now. It’s going to be a big day!”

The fact that everything he says seems to contain several exclamation points only adds to my unease.

But I do want a shower.

And I certainly need one.

Emile stands guard while the water runs over my body, but a few glances in his direction confirm he’s doing his best not to focus on me. He appears to be very interested in a knot on the wooden doorframe.

I take a longer shower than my first one, and get the water as hot as I can make it. But there’s a cold inside me that won’t go away. Emile finally turns off the tap.