"That is enough," he says. His voice is not unkind, but it is firm. It is a command. "Grief is a necessary biological process, Elodie, but wallowing is inefficient. We have a schedule."
I sniff, wiping my nose with the back of my hand, feeling small and pathetic. "A schedule? You just told me my life is over."
"I told you youroldlife is over," he corrects, reaching into his pocket for a pristine white handkerchief. He hands it to me. "Your new life is just beginning. And in this life, we do not face the day with red eyes and a runny nose. Fix your face."
I take the cloth. It is monogrammed with his initials—A.G.—embroidered in silver thread. I dab at my eyes, the silk cool against my inflamed skin. The shock of the betrayal is starting to settle into a cold, heavy stone in my stomach. My father signed the order. My mother made the call. They didn't want a daughter; they wanted a legacy. And when the legacy cracked, they tried to throw it away.
"What now?" I ask, my voice hollow. I feel scraped empty.
"Now," Alaric says, checking his watch again, "we tour your new home. If you are to be a resident of the Hallowed Halls, you must understand the geography of your cage."
He walks to a wardrobe built into the mahogany paneling of the room. He opens it, revealing a row of clothes. Not hospital gowns.Realclothes. He pulls out a dress—a simple, elegant thing made of soft grey wool, with long sleeves and a high neck.It looks expensive. It looks like something a librarian with a trust fund would wear.
"Put this on," he says, tossing it onto the bed. "And these." He places a pair of soft ballet flats on the floor. No laces. Of course.
"Where did you get these?" I ask, staring at the dress.
"I had your measurements taken while you were sedated," he answers without a hint of shame. He turns his back to me, facing the door. "You have two minutes. If you aren't dressed by then, I will dress you myself. And I think we both know I would enjoy that far too much."
The threat—or the promise—hangs in the air. I don't argue. I don't have the energy to fight him right now. I feel like a ghost inhabiting a stranger's body. I strip off his oversized shirt, the air of the room biting at my skin, and pull the grey dress on. It fits perfectly. It hugs my waist and flares slightly at the hips. The wool is soft, not itchy. It covers me from neck to wrists to knees. It is modest, clinical, and austere. I step into the shoes. They are silent on the rug.
"I'm ready," I whisper.
Alaric turns. His eyes sweep over me, assessing the fit. He nods, satisfied. "Appropriate," he decides. "Come."
He opens the heavy oak door of his suite, and for the first time, I step out into the asylum proper.
I expected a hospital. I expected linoleum floors, flickering fluorescent lights, and the smell of bleach masking the stench of urine. I expected screaming.
I did not expect a museum.
The corridor outside his suite is wide enough to drive a car through. The floors are checkered black and white marble, polished to a mirror shine that reflects our silhouettes as we walk. The walls are paneled in dark wood, hung with oil paintings in gilded frames—landscapes, mostly. Stormy seas. Dark forests. Nothing cheerful.
Crystal chandeliers hang from the ceiling, casting a warm, diffuse light that softens the shadows but does not banish them. The air smells of beeswax, fresh lilies, and money. Old, quiet money.
"This is the West Wing," Alaric explains, his voice echoing slightly in the vast space. He walks beside me, not touching me, but close enough that I can feel the heat of his body. "Administrative offices and high-security recovery."
"It’s quiet," I note. "Too quiet."
"Noise is a symptom of chaos," he replies. "Here, we cultivate order. My patients are not the raving lunatics you see in movies, Elodie. They are the elite. The broken heirs, the inconvenient wives, the brilliant minds that snapped under the pressure of their own genius. They pay fifty thousand dollars a month for discretion and silence."
Fifty thousand. My father paid that to get rid of me. The thought stings, but the pain is duller now.
We pass a set of double doors. Through the glass, I see a nurse’s station. It looks more like a concierge desk at a five-star hotel. The nurses are wearing crisp navy blue uniforms, not scrubs. They are beautiful, severe, and efficient. When they see Alaric, they stop what they are doing and stand up. They don't smile. They nod respectfully. It is the greeting given to a general, or a cult leader.
"Dr. Graves," one of them says softly as we pass.
Alaric ignores her. He is focused on me. "Keep walking," he murmurs. "Eyes forward. Curiosity is a vulnerability."
We reach a large rotunda at the end of the hall. To the left, a set of glass doors leads to a garden. To the right, an archway opens into a massive common room.
"The Atrium," Alaric announces. "This is where patients with Level 2 clearance are allowed to socialize."
He guides me toward the archway. I stop at the threshold, taking it in. The room is beautiful. Floor-to-ceiling windows look out over the rainy grounds. There are velvet sofas, chess tables, and bookshelves lining the walls. A fireplace crackles at the far end, the flames behind a locked glass screen.
There are about a dozen people in the room. They are like statues.
A woman in a silk dressing gown is staring out the window, her hand pressed to the glass. A young man, no older than twenty, is sitting at a chess board, moving pieces against an invisible opponent. An older man is reading a newspaper that is upside down.
