The House Of The Stone Part 5

She smiles. There's a dimple in one cheek, which gives her a mocking impression of sweetness. "You never can tell at the Auction what a surrogate will be like. Some years I have been terribly disappointed. But I saw you and I just knew. Especially after that little show at dinner last night. I hope I have just showed you how serious I am about playing by the rules."

"I only took three bites," I insist.

She smirks. "Yes, you did. As you might have noticed, you still have your tongue. But I did not appreciate your att.i.tude. Didn't you like that nice hot shower yesterday? Wouldn't you like more showers like that? Wouldn't you like a soft bed to sleep on?"

I don't answer, because I don't want to admit that I would.

There is a gleam in the Countess's eyes that makes my stomach crawl. They travel up and down my body slowly, resting for an uncomfortably long moment on my stomach. "You are so thin," she says. "But I think we can make you thinner. My mother always said, an accomplishment without struggle is no accomplishment at all."

The Countess grabs my face in one giant hand, her fingers digging into my cheeks so hard my skin starts to cut against my teeth. She forces my head back again, holding my forehead with her other hand so that my jaw is wrenched open. I don't know what she's looking at in my mouth, but with every ounce of strength I have I yank my head to the side and sink my teeth into her thumb.

She yowls and I delight in the sound for half a breath before my head slams into the wall behind me. Sparks explode in front of my eyes, the taste of blood filling my mouth.

"Frederic!" she screeches.

The door flies open as Frederic hurries into the room. "My lady, what has happened?"

"It bit me, Frederic," the Countess says, pouting like a little girl, but with a gleam in her eyes. I have an uneasy sense that she's enjoying this. Frederic makes a tutting sound as he examines her hand.

"Don't you worry, my lady," he says. He takes out a bottle of the same ointment Emile used on my foot and applies a small amount. The cut vanishes. Frederic kisses her hand. "All better."

"Thank you, my sweet," the Countess says.

"Shall we punish it?" Frederic asks.

I wrap my arms across my chest, as if that would somehow protect me. The manacles clang against the chains binding me.

The Countess pretends to think for a moment, but I am spared her answer by Emile rus.h.i.+ng back into the room.

"My lady," he says. "An urgent message has just arrived. The Electress requests your presence at the Royal Palace at once."

A hint of annoyance flashes across the Countess's face, and she glances at the torture wall. Then she sighs.

"Childish imbecile," she mutters. "Frederic, have the car brought around and send William and Bernard to my chambers. Something in my colors." She gazes at me longingly. "And tell the doctor to be ready when I return."

My insides shrivel at the word doctor.

Frederic is already gone, but the Countess stops at the door.

"It stays where it is, Emile," she says, a warning in her voice.

He bows. "Yes, my lady."

It's only after she has gone that I realize I'm shaking. Shaking so hard my teeth chatter and my vision goes blurry. I sink back against the wall and slide to the hard, cold floor. My head throbs. I can still taste the Countess's blood in my mouth.

I don't even see Emile until I smell his flowery scent. He wipes the blood from my mouth gently.

"I cannot give you a blanket or fresh clothes or food," he says softly. "But I can give you a pillow for a while."

I nod furiously, and keep nodding as his hands press lightly against my shoulders. He moves me closer to the floor until my head hits something warm. His thigh.

He smooths my hair back from my face and I suddenly remember Violet's first night in Southgate, after she'd spent all day trying to turn that stupid block yellow. I heard her crying and snuck into her room and rocked her back and forth, and she told me about Hazel and Ochre and her father, and how now she'd left her mother with one less family member and she just wanted to go home.

I never thought I'd look back at Southgate and think of it as home. But I want to go home.

I lie on the cold ground and try and conjure up every good memory I have about Violet. Hearing her play the cello for the first time. The look on her face when she bit into a lemon, even though I told her not to. Begging me to play Halma with her and Lily because sometimes, though she'd never admit it, she just loves winning. Brus.h.i.+ng out her hair at night. Laughing together.

I so desperately wish she were here now. She always knew exactly what to say to make me feel better. I want to tell her about this awful palace. And maybe she will hug me and tell me everything will be okay. Even if it won't.

"What is going to happen to me?" I whisper to Emile.

I'm not expecting a response. And I don't get one.

Six.

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 s.h.i.+ny instruments of torture, these chains are old. But st.u.r.dy. 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 ma.s.sive 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 b.u.t.t 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 c.o.c.ks 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 ladys.h.i.+p," 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 s.h.i.+pped 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 d.u.c.h.ess 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 s.h.i.+fts, 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.