The fireplace offers no escape either—the chimney is too narrow, and I can feel heat radiating from somewhere deep in the walls. Probably connected to whatever magical heating system keeps this entire house comfortable despite the winter cold.
I sink into the chair beside the cold hearth, staring at the door that might as well be solid stone for all the good my lock-picking skills do against magical barriers. Hours pass in a haze of growing exhaustion and mounting desperation. Every shadow that shifts outside the window sets my nerves on edge. Everysound from the hallway beyond makes my heart race with hope that quickly sours into disappointment.
By the time pale dawn light begins filtering through the heavy curtains, I feel like I'm coming apart at the seams. Sleep never came—every time I closed my eyes, I was back in Madam Cordelia's brothel, listening to the sound of keys turning in locks and footsteps approaching down carpeted hallways.
Worse than the exhaustion is the strange sensation building in my chest. A pulling feeling, like something vital is being slowly tugged away from where it belongs. The bond. It has to be the bond, whatever twisted magic has apparently tied my fate to that arrogant bastard's.
The discomfort grows stronger as morning progresses, a persistent ache that settles beneath my breastbone and refuses to be ignored. It's not painful exactly, but wrong in a way that makes my skin crawl. Like wearing clothes that don't fit, or hearing music played slightly off-key.
The sound of footsteps in the hallway makes me spring to my feet, every muscle in my body coiled for action. Keys rattle against metal, and then the door swings open to reveal a sharp-featured woman carrying a breakfast tray. She's followed by a broad-shouldered man whose hand rests casually on the sword at his hip.
The guard. Of course Mihalis would post a guard.
"Good morning," the woman says, her tone professionally neutral despite the obvious disapproval in her eyes. "I'm Thera. I manage the household."
I don't wait for introductions. The moment there's space between them and the doorway, I bolt.
My bare feet find purchase on the marble floor as I sprint past them, the burgundy skirt tangling around my legs and forcing me to bunch it up with both hands. The hallway stretchesahead of me, branching in multiple directions like the maze it probably is.
I make it perhaps ten steps before powerful arms wrap around my waist, lifting me clean off the ground. The guard carries me back toward the room with the mechanical efficiency of someone who's dealt with escaping prisoners before.
"Now that was foolish," Thera observes as I'm deposited back in the chair with less ceremony than a sack of grain. "Do you think we'd leave that door open if we expected you to stay put?"
I glare at her, chest heaving from exertion and fury. "I'm not staying in this room."
"You are until the master says otherwise." She sets the breakfast tray on the small table beside my chair with deliberate precision. "Eat something. You look ready to collapse."
The food smells incredible despite my situation—fresh bread, some kind of eggs prepared with herbs I can't identify, fruit that gleams like jewels on the porcelain plate. My stomach clenches with hunger, but I refuse to give them the satisfaction of watching me eat their offerings like a grateful prisoner.
"There are clothes in the wardrobe," Thera continues, nodding toward the massive wooden armoire against the far wall. "More practical than what you're wearing now."
They leave without ceremony, the lock engaging behind them with that same soft click that's beginning to haunt my dreams. I stare at the tray for a long time before hunger finally wins out over pride. The bread is still warm, and the eggs taste like they came from some exotic bird.
The clothes in the wardrobe are simple but well-made—dark trousers that will actually allow me to move, a white shirt that fits well enough, and boots that look like they might survive some serious running. Everything is my size, which means someone took measurements while I was unconscious or they're very good at guessing.
I change quickly, grateful to be rid of the restrictive dress even if accepting their clothes feels like another small surrender. The trousers and boots will give me options I didn't have before. Now I just need to find an opportunity to use them.
It takes the rest of the day to find one.
The guard rotation changes every few hours, and eventually a pattern emerges. Late afternoon brings a shift where the hallway stays empty for perhaps ten minutes while the new guard receives his briefing. It's not much, but it's enough if I time it perfectly.
This time, I don't run blindly. I move with purpose, following the hallway away from the main staircase toward what I hope might be servants' quarters or a back entrance. The house is massive, full of branching corridors and rooms whose purpose I can only guess at. Everything is elegant and expensive, but there's a functional quality to the layout that suggests this place was built for security as much as comfort.
I'm just beginning to think I might actually find a way out when voices float from around the next corner. A woman's voice, gentle and patient, followed by the higher pitch of a child responding with obvious delight.
I freeze, pressing myself against the wall as footsteps approach. There's nowhere to run without making noise on the marble floor, nowhere to hide in the broad hallway. My only option is to stand here and hope they pass by quickly.
They round the corner before I can find a better hiding spot—a young woman with kind eyes and dark hair pulled back in a simple braid, followed by a small girl with black curls and something impossible folded against her back.
Wings. The child has wings.
"Oh!" The young woman—Ilyra stops short when she sees me. Her eyes widen with surprise and what might be concern. "You're—you shouldn't be?—"
But the little girl pushes past her, looking up at me with bright golden eyes that remind me achingly of her father's. This must be Mihalis's daughter. The one he'd kill anyone to protect.
"Are you the lady Dad brought home?" she asks with the blunt curiosity only children can manage. Her voice carries the slight lisp common to missing teeth, though her smile shows a full set of small white pearls. "Everyone thinks I didn’t hear them whispering. Dad never brings anyone here.”
I stare down at her, completely at a loss for words. She's beautiful in the way only children can be—all bright energy and fearless interest, with curls that catch the light from the enchanted sconces and wings that flutter slightly with excitement. There's something about her that immediately tugs at parts of my heart I've spent years learning to ignore.
