The White Swan.
Locked in her little cage, all the way up on the ninetieth floor.
Pale light leaked through the curtains. She’d slept. The tea had worked.
Her blurry gaze found the clock. 7:47.
Slowly, she sat up, waiting for the room to spin. It didn’t.
Today was the day. The Becoming and then The Feast of the Fallen. There was no way to prepare, but she was ready to be finished with both.
Slipping out of bed, she once again checked the door. Still locked. She busied herself with a few sequences of sit ups and pushups. Once her blood was pumping, she showered. This time she wasted no time on luxuriating on the amenities meant to distract her. She kept her eye on the open bathroom door at all times and her ears attuned to all sounds.
She dressed quickly, tucking the locket back into her front pocket where it would stay hidden. Then she waited.
The room appeared smaller in daylight. Less shadows and more of a gilded cage than a palace.
The fruit on the table caught her eye. She’d been ignoring little, nauseating waves of hunger since waking.
Don’t.
The tea had been fine, but that didn’t change her policy. Trust no one.
Filling a glass with water from the tap, she drank it standing at the window. Daylight had transformed the view. What had been darkness and rippling moonlight was now a stretch of grey-blue water extending to the distant horizon. Coastlines curved at her left and right. An island. It had to be. The realization only made her feel more trapped.
Tipping her head against the glass, she squinted. Off in the distance, Islands scattered across the water like stepping stones for giants.
She sighed. The waiting was killing her.
Swiping the schedule off the table, she reviewed it for the hundredth time. Breakfast would be served at nine. Her eyes darted to the clock. 8:53. Seven minutes. A useless reprieve wasted on a flightless bird.
She tried something she’d never done before. Dropping to the floor, she faced the windows, folded her legs, and shut her eyes. She wasn’t sure how one knew if they were meditating or not, but as her brain obsessed over trying to do so, six minutes passed.
At 8:59, the electronic chirp of the lock disengaging, and Daisy shot off the floor—ready to get the hell out of this ivory cage.
The door swung open. Every muscle in her body coiled and tensed in fight or flight.
“Good morning, miss.” Another man in a white uniform, dressed just like the ones from yesterday. He moved directly to the food cart. “I hope you slept well.”
Without responding, she crossed to the door only to come up short as another man appeared.
“Good morning, miss,” the second man greeted, blocking her exit. “I’ve come to escort you to the morning feast.”
Breakfast.
She’d assumed it would be delivered to the room. But this was better. This meant leaving. “I’m ready.”
He hospitably waved her forward, so flawless suspicion spiked inside of her. She reluctantly stepped into the white corridors and then looked back, unclear where to go. Every distrustful part of her itching to run.
Pristine white carpet stretched over white marble. “This way, please.” He led her down a labyrinth of ivory corridors, endless and identical, differentiated only by the various swan paintings.
Daisy followed in silence, doing her best to memorize turns, though she doubted she could find her way back alone. Other doors opened as they passed, other white-gloved men emerging with other women in tow. Each one joining the procession like naive little lambs off to slaughter.
Was this how it happened? Was this how droves of women disappeared each year? In silent consent?
The women came in all ages, all shapes, but their clothes told similar stories. Threadbare fabrics and cheap blends, faded from time and too many washes.
They’re all like me, Daisy realized. Working-class. Salt of the earth after it had been scraped thin. Resolute. She recognized the desperation in their eyes, set with equal stubbornness, the kind someone developed when quitting wasn’t an option.
