It was, I would later understand, the most honest room in the palace. It was also the most terrifying.
The walls were a single, seamless mirror, running floor to ceiling. Not paneled, not segmented; the whole room was one solid curve of argent, a silver that absorbed every color and gave nothing back except the truth. The floor was mirrored too, though the surface was brushed so finely it held only a ghost of a reflection, a memory of whatever had stood on it.
At the center of the room: a low bench, wide enough for one person to sit, dark as a vein in marble.
He walked me in.
The door behind us vanished. It became a patch of pure silver, indistinguishable from the wall.
He let go of my hand.
“Baby girl, you know that the bond demands I punish you.”
I nodded. I did know it.
He moved to stand behind me, then brought his hands to my shoulders and lifted my hair away from my neck.
The first button at the back of the dress opened with a single flick. The second, the third, the fourth—each one slower, more ceremonial. The fabric loosened, slid down the line of my body.
He peeled it off, deliberate, and let it fall to the floor.
He left my shoes on.
He did not touch the rest of me, not at first. He reached into a pocket—of the coat, of the world, I couldn’t say—and drew out a length of soft silver cord. It looked like silk, but when he brought it to my wrists, it went cool and electric at the touch.
He bound my wrists together, palm to palm, with three exact turns of the cord. The knot sat on the inside of my wrist, invisible in the reflection, but I could feel it in the bones.
He brought my arms forward, then lifted my hands until they framed the gold on my forearms, the sigils burning bright through the skin.
He set me on the bench, my naked thighs pressed to the cold surface, my feet flat to the mirrored floor. He stood behind me, his hands at my shoulders, then slid them down until his fingers just bracketed my upper arms.
In the mirror, I could see myself—nude, bound, shoes on, hair a wild fall over one shoulder, eyes too wide, lips parted, color high at the cheeks.
He spoke, not a whisper this time, not Daddy, not the gallery voice. It was a new voice, private, meant for me alone.
“You will not look away until I am satisfied.”
I nodded, once. I could not speak.
He brought a hand to my chin, held it, not hard, but absolute. He tilted my face so that I could see every detail in the mirror.
He said, “You know why you are here.”
I nodded again.
“Say it.”
My throat was dry.
“I broke the contract,” I said.
“You lied about your work. You minimized yourself.”
My eyes went wet.
He pressed his thumb to the corner of my mouth, soft, then down the line of my throat.
“This is the throat,” he said, “that wrote the sentence.”
