I vault upright as my lids tear open, and I have to fist the comforter to steady myself. My eyes adjust to a lavish room. Dread dispatches through my system, flooding right up to my pores until I’m bloated with it. Until I think I might burst.
On my street corner, somebody took me.
My fingers wrap around the base of my throat. It burned, struggling for breath—I don’t remember screaming, but it’s sore. I press the hollow there until my erratic heartbeat vibrates the pads of my fingers and I almost choke.
I back up against the headboard, drawing the comforter close. The harder I try, the less I’m able to catch the small, fleeting breaths stuttering my chest. My tongue fills my mouth like a fat slug.
My surroundings ooze luxury and highbrow indifference. The room, with its dark-stained cherry wood floors and high ceilings, must be half of my apartment. It’s rich with burgundy velvet, gold silk, and intricate, carved moldings. The massive, four-poster bed I’m in sits beneath a white, gauzy canopy.
My brain struggles to connect the broken pieces of my thoughts. Those unforgiving arms I struggled against in a deserted street—they brought me to a place like this? And how? Was there a car, a second person? I fight the impossible explanation though it crushes me flatter by the second. Kidnapped.
Dread shades into fear. I’m certain my skin will split open, I’m shaking so violently. My hands rush to my body and touch silk. The slinky, red nightgown clashes with the room’s almost-plum interior. A sob hitches in my throat because I’m braless. I feel my body for signs of mishandling, lifting the sanguine fabric and running my fingers over matching lace underwear.
My vision sharpens with tears, and my head swims. Whatever was used to knock me out leaves a misted veil over my memory. Since before I was a teenager, nobody’s ever seen me completely naked. Not Frida, not my foster parents. Now a stranger has.
I swallow back what’s rising in my throat because crying will only slow me down. I need to think clearly.
It takes me a moment to ease out from between the sheets. My limbs move at their own lazy pace, separate from my brain. I should be sore from running for my life last night, but I never even had the chance. I glance at the door. Fear of what’s behind it sends me in the opposite direction to a large bay window. I climb onto the cushion, and my body thrills when the window gives way to my push. I peer over the sill into what appears to be the backyard. It’s a sharp drop without even so much as a ledge to balance on. I assess that I’m on maybe the third or fourth floor. Below, stone paths carve a maze between manicured green grass and trim rosebushes that bloom deep red. The lawn is expansive, like my room, and ends at a wall of large trees that continue until the horizon.
I take a lungful of fresh air and decide that the window is a last resort.
On the bare balls of my feet, I cross the room. My eyes furtively scan as I tiptoe. There’s a small sitting area between the window and a fireplace, one closed door, a set of French double doors, also closed, a desk, and nightstands that flank the bed. Because of its size, it takes me longer than it should to cross any room.
Everything in my chest evaporates when I touch the door handle, my throat painfully dry as I swallow. My blood churns through me as I apply pressure to the knob. It turns, and keeps turning. It doesn’t stop. I can hardly believe when I pull and the door slivers open.
It hits me then that I’m wearing an expensive negligee and sleeping in a heavenly bed in what appears to be a very large home. Could I possibly have jumped to conclusions? I’m still frozen with my fist curled around the knob when a man speaks.
“Are you decent?”
My mouth opens. Sense flees me. I scream.
An elderly man bustles into the room and closes the door behind him. “Dear, please, don’t scream. You’ll alarm the staff.” The man wrings his hands, his face reddening as he waits. “I’m sorry to startle you. Please, do not be afraid.”
I stop abruptly, my chest heaving. The man is hunched forward slightly, his eyes wide with concern. His thinning white hair is parted and combed to the side. He’s dressed in a suit and waistcoat that perfectly fit his small frame. I decide that I can take him.
“Who are you?” I ask.
“Archibald N. Hughes the Third. But you may call me Norman—that’s what the ‘N’ stands for.” He bows with a smile. “I’m the mansion’s butler.”
“Butler?” I repeat. “Where am I?”
“The mansion.” He waves as if I should know by my surroundings, but my eyes are trained on him. My hands attempt modesty, one splayed across the thin layer of silk covering my chest and the other tugging on the hem.
“No, where the hell am I? What city am I in? How did I get here?”
He purses his lips at me. “There’s no need to get hostile. I’m not here to hurt you.”
“You kidnapped me,” I shriek.
“I cannot comment on that,” he says resolutely, clasping his hands in front him. “What I can do is help situate you. This is your bedroom.”
My heart drops into my stomach. Mybedroom? Mine? “You didn’t tell me where I am.”
He hesitates before indicating the door furthest from us. “You have your own private bathroom,” he says and then glides his hand to the next set of doors, “and a closet full of the finest clothing available. As I said, you can call me Norman. I am at your beck and call.”
Spots cloud my vision. I walk backward, feeling behind me until I touch mattress. I lean against the bed’s edge. “I don’t understand,” I say. “I grew up in Fenndale. I live in New Rhone. My name is—” My eyes cut sharply to his. “I want to go home.”
His already mild expression softens. “Oh, dear. Don’t worry. As I said, I’m here to help, not hurt. You have a maid as well. She’s called Rosa. We’ll see to it that you’re comfortable during your stay.”
My cheeks flare with heat. “What stay? Why am I here? Did you bring me here?”
He straightens up as much as his aged back allows. “Now, do I look capable of such a thing? You’re here at the request of the Master of the House.”
“Who?”
“The Master of—”
“And that would be?”
“Sadly, I’m not at liberty to disclose that information. And neither is Rosa, though she doesn’t speak English well anyway.”
My eyes search the room helplessly.
“Are you hungry?” he asks. “You slept quite long.”
“I want to leave.”
“You cannot,” he returns gravely.
“So I’m-I’m what? A prisoner?”
He blinks slowly at me. “You cannot leave this house.”
I inhale up at the ceiling. “Why won’t you answer my questions?” I ask. My legs quiver, and Norman edges closer to me. I slap his forearm when he reaches out, and he withdraws.
“Perhaps you should lie down again. It would be my pleasure to bring you your breakfast in bed.”
He leaves, and somehow I get on the comforter, crossing my legs underneath me. I will myself to think. Norman said I was confined to the house but not the room. I look to the closed door. Last night someone was in this room, standing near the bed, watching. Waiting. It wasn’t Norman. It was a phantom, a shadow. It was a beast.
4
Norman returns to the room, fumbling with the knob and pushing the door open with his back. He spins around to reveal a tray weighed down by food. “Let’s try this again, Cataline,” he says.
“How do you know my name?”
“I wasn’t sure of your preference this morning, so I had Chef Michael make a variety of things. I also don’t know when you’ve last eaten.” He raises an amused eyebrow at me as he nears the bed. “Scrambled eggs, toast, bacon, sausage, pancakes, and a bowl of Shredded Mini-Wheats. The cereal I prepared myself,” he adds with a chuckle. He shows me the tray again and nods. “Well, go on. Sit back.”
I maneuver so my back is against the headboard, but I don’t let him out of my sight.