It is then that Issac and Clara emerge from the shadowed arcade. They move with a silent synchronicity that speaks of their decades working in tandem. They are the architects of this peace. The master crafters of my collection.
Issac is tall, gaunt, his face a placid mask of perpetual serenity. The castration was not my doing, it was a condition of his service to a previous Master, a man with less finesse, but it makes him perfect for his role. He is devoid of base impulse, a clean, empty vessel through which my will is enacted. He is patience incarnate.
Clara is shorter, sturdier, with sharp, intelligent eyes that miss nothing. She was once a pet herself, long ago, for another keeper, before age and a sharp mind graduated her to trainer. She understands the journey from both sides. She is the firm hand, the disciplinarian, the one who teaches the boundaries.
They stop before me and bow their heads slightly. “Master,” Clara says. “Welcome home. We are glad to see you returned safely.”
“The world is full of threats, Clara. But few that can touch us here,” I reply, my hand still resting on Felice’s head. “How have they been?”
“Obedient. Content,” Issac answers, his voice a soft, reedy thing.
“Good.” I let my gaze sweep over my three beautiful creatures. They are perfect, but perfection is not a destination; it is a continuous pursuit. “It’s time we began preparations for the fourth.”
There is a slight, almost imperceptible shift in their posture. Clara’s eyebrows lift a fraction. “The auction isn’t for another few years.”
“I am aware of her age, Clara,” I say, my voice mild but leaving no room for question. “I did not say we were receiving her tomorrow. I said we begin preparations. I like to be organised. A work of art cannot be rushed. It requires foresight. Preparation of the canvas. Selection of the tools.”
I step away from Felice who immediately sinks to her knees, watching me with rapt attention. I walk toward the arcade, out of range for my pets to hear, and my two trainers fall into step beside me.
“This one will be different,” I continue, looking out at the endless grey expanse of the ocean. “The others were blank slates, beautiful clay to be moulded. This one will have a certain arrogance bred into her bones. It will need to be stripped away, not just broken down.”
I turn to face them. “You will need to break her in differently. You will manage her differently. Her conditioning must be more profound, her dependence more absolute.”
Clara is watching me, her head cocked. She is calculating, already running scenarios. “You have a specific end goal in mind for this one, Master?”
A slow smile touches my lips. It is not a pleasant smile. It is the smile of a man anticipating a long-denied feast. “I do. I want to craft a different kind of petto my other three. Let’s see how deep the damage can go before the light truly vanishes. We can explore the exquisite boundary between absolute submission and the flicker of a spirit that knows it was once meant for more. That way I will own not just her body, but her corruption.”
The air seems to grow still, even the sea’s roar feels muted. Issac simply nods, as if I had asked him to prepare a new room with a specific shade of paint. Clara’s sharp eyes gleam with a dark understanding. She is not shocked, she is intrigued. This is a new challenge. A masterpiece, and we will build it together.
“It will require a revised methodology,” she says, her voice clinical. “A different initial approach. More psychological deconstruction before the physical conditioning begins in earnest.”
“Precisely that.” I say, and the anticipation is a thrum in my veins. This is what I need. Not just the vengeance for Ines, not just the guardianship of Ezra, but this: the creative, cruel act of reshaping a soul. It is the purest expression of my power. The best way to channel the chaos inside me.
They bow again, deeper this time, and retreat back into the shadows of the arcade, already speaking in low, quick tones to each other. The architects returning to their drawing board.
I am left alone in the Cloister. My three pets remain, but they are part of the scenery now, beautiful fixtures. My mind is already years in the future, in a room not yet built, looking into the eyes of a girl who does not yet know she is destined to become my magnum opus.
I walk to the edge of the flagstones, right to the point where the courtyard ends and the cliff face drops away into nothing. The wind pulls at my clothes, the spray from the waves far below mists my face. I spread my arms, embracing the void.
This is peace. This is power.
Poor little Grace Ratcliffe has no idea what destiny has install for her. But with her body, with her flesh I will sate this vengeance; this anger, this everything.
Two weeks left until auction
They announce the walk as if it were a sacrament.
The door silently opens. No creak, no apology, and the air from the hallway comes in with a moderated chill, a breath rehearsed and approved. My room has been white for so long the colour has entered my bones; even my shadow seems bleached.
I keep my back straight on the chair so the camera catches my vertebrae like beads, like penance.
I am always being watched and never seen.
“Walk?” I repeat, as if there were a choice, as if “no” could be anything but a confession they would love to hear.
“A little air is good for your colour,” Mrs Vale says, as if I haven’t been locked inside these past four years.
I rise as if on strings. When I stand, they do not touch me. When they do, it is the kind of touch one offers a fragile vase that must not be marred. A hand hovering near the elbow, a respectful distance like a moat. They would bubble-wrap my breath if they could, keep my exhale crisp for the day I go up on the block.
