“I am dressed,” Jo protested.
“She requests that you wear this.”
“I know what she wants.” Jo walked over to the dress, grabbing the hanger and running her hands over the thin silk. “She wants to humiliate me.”
In her entire existence, Jo didn’t think she’d ever worn something so extravagantly impractical. And she meant herentireexistence, because Jo was fairly certain that even as a demigod, she had worn more utilitarian garb. This, however, struck a balance between “female escort” and “got in a fight with a pair of scissors and lost.” Jo didn’t take issue with either in concept, but neither washer.
“She requests that—”
“I heard you the first time.” Jo held up the dress by its spaghetti straps. “Did she say where the rest of it was?”
“This is the dress that she has requested.”
Jo sighed, clearly getting nowhere with the man. She was beginning to suspect that his sentience was an illusion and he really was one of Pan’s machinations. Regardless, she had no interest in tormenting a creature who was likely as much of a prisoner as she was.
“Did she say what would happen if I didn’t wear this?”
There was a long pause, and Jo was expecting yet another variant of the same expressionless mantra. But he surprised her. “In my experience, if one must inquire, one doesn’t want to know.”
Snow’s words rang clearly in Jo’s ears—there’s no point in fighting, yet. So she’d wear a revealing dress. She’d let Pan have this battle for the sake of the war. Her friends were counting on her and the sooner all this ended, the better.
“Could you turn around, please?”
The man obliged as he had before—first with his head, then shoulders.
Jo stripped down, shivering as her bare skin met the air. Surely it couldn’t be that much colder than Snow’s room, could it? It felt downright frigid and she felt the tingle of an icy phantom finger run down her spine. Perhaps it was just the feeling of being so vulnerable in Pan’s lair getting under her skin.
The dress didn’t offer much in the way of feeling less vulnerable. Jo’s arms were completely bare, as was her back, and most of her front, given the drooping V of the neckline. Its hem sat high on her thigh, just barely low enough to ensure everything was covered.
Straightening her shoulders, Jo stole a second to compose herself. This whole thing was to break her down, make her feel off-kilter. It didn’t matter if she walked into the room naked. Pan wasn’t the one in control of Jo’s feelings, and Jo was determined to show her that.
“All right, let’s go.”
The man’s head spun, no doubt verifying that she had put on the dress as it promptly swiveled back forward. “This way, please.”
He opened the door and, once more, it was not connected to the hallway Jo had used to enter. The marionette motioned for Jo to step through, but made no effort to do so himself. A strange sort of magic pulsed from the room beyond and Jo had every suspicion that it was not a place the man could go, even if he wanted to—and even if he were able to act on his own desires (which Jo was beginning to doubt).
Jo stepped into the dining room alone.
“Well, this looks more like what I was expecting,” Jo muttered under her breath.
The room was a dreamscape of part-medieval hall, part-Versailles palace. The floor was the same dark wood as the closet’s shelving. It, too, was polished to a mirror-shine and reflected the ornate chandeliers that hung in a row of three on the ceiling. Where Jo expected most chandeliers to be electric (magic, perhaps, in this age) or candle lit, these were neither. In an odd reverse, they dripped glowing orbs of light that occasionally fell, disappearing before they made contact with the table below.
The table could’ve easily sat eight—perhaps ten. But there were only two chairs with place settings, one at each end.
“I’m so glad to hear it,” Pan said from where she was perched at the far end of the table. She was seated on the wide top of the wingback chair, her feet swinging happily and bouncing off the tufted navy velvet. “I want you to be happy here. Wantusto be happy here.”
Jo made no comment, heading directly for the chair at the opposite head of the table.
“I see you’re wearing the dress. It looks nice on you.”
Still, Jo said nothing. The sooner this was over, the better. Jo would give Pan no encouragement if she could avoid it. The last thing she wanted was to give the woman the impression that she was actually enjoying herself.
Jo inspected the silverware as she sat. It was ornate, gold, and carved in a similar pattern as the moldings throughout the walls and ceiling of the room. Jo squinted at the walls, trying to make out the paintings that hung in the heavy, gilded frames. But every time she got her focus, they seemed to shift like a mirage. In a way, never being able to make out an image was far more unnerving than seeing something disturbing.
She examined her plate.Eat and get it over with, Jo thought, willing the empty space to fill with food.
Movement drew her attention back to Pan.
