Funny how appearances influence our attitude.
When Alice and Anne walked around me to inspect their work, I felt like Daphne Draymoore once again—an heiress to an old family, a princess locked up in a tower by an evil mind. And maybe I’d get my chance to escape.
“Too bad we cannot do anything about her hair,” Alice said, and the other woman shrugged.
“Do you think the monster cares? I heard he’s tearing them all in half.”
They cackled.
A cold shudder ran down my spine.
Am I being prepared as an offering to some monster? What was Vexley’s friend planning for me? The warning of the woman in the refectory sounded terrifying. I swallowed hard.
“Here, your old shoes,” Alice tossed my boots before me, and I slipped them on, struggling to keep my face cold and impassive.
“Now hurry. Doctor Vexley and the Grandmaster are waiting for you.”
The Grandmaster? Like in some secret society? I listened to their chatter, hoping they’d say more, but they didn’t.
Pale moonlight filled the empty corridors as we walked to the doctor’s office. All the other patients were alreadyconfined to their quarters, and the damp walls echoed with distant sobs and wailing.
“Come on, inside you go.” Alice cracked the door open and shoved me inside.
“Pity for that dress, Anne,” she said as she closed the door behind me.
My blood froze.
I had pulled Death from that tarot deck.
Maybe the reading showed the terrible truth. She was right about my past and present, after all.
Vexley’s office didn’t look that threatening in the warm light of the fireplace and the dozens of candles.
It smelled of tobacco, ink, and something sickly sweet—like the aftertaste of medicine meant to keep you pliant.
The golden light flickered off the polished wood, glinting against the decanter of amber liquid, the sharp edges of surgical instruments neatly arranged on a side table, and the ledger Vexley held open.
Sweet Mary and Joseph, what were these two planning for me?
Across from me sat Vexley, drumming his fingers against his desk—a patient spider in its web.
The man who’d met me in the refectory stood beside him.
The angel of death.
He was leaning against the fireplace, one hand resting lightly on the handle of his ivory-topped cane, watching me as though I were an experiment he was unsure would survive.
His clothes were immaculate—a deep midnight coat, gloves that concealed his hands, the glint of gold at his cufflinks.
His eyes unsettled me. Too cold. Too knowing. The kind of gaze that cataloged and measured, that assessed a soul’s worth before discarding it.
The silence stretched, the only sound the distant ticking of the grandfather clock in the corner.
“Are you sure you want her to try? I’m very positive that Jeremiah—” Vexley started.
The man the nurse had called Grandmaster scoffed. “Jeremiah won’t make it through the entry hall. You remember what happened to the last one?”
My jaw clenched, but I said nothing.
