Page 4 of The Little Shop of Curiosities Cursed Object 1, The Music Box

He pushes the heel of his palm to my chin forcefully, clamping my jaws together so I can’t bite, and then leans in and presses his ruined mouth to mine in a cruel parody of a lover’s kiss. The scent of rotting flesh makes me gag.

He pulls back, and I wish my hands were free so I could scrub the disgusting feel of him from my lips. Instead, I watch as he marches to the door and opens it. Hobbs and Cooper wheel in a surgical trolley and transfer me to it, once again strapping me in place. I don’t fight them; there’s no point, and I’m certainly not going to give Whyte the satisfaction of seeing me break. Let him perform his surgery, let him take my life. If he thinks that will be the end of me, he’s wrong. I will come for him, and there will be nowhere on earth or in hell that will keep him from my wrath.

I’m wheeled down a long corridor into another part of the building I’ve never seen. The room is large, with tiled walls and small windows to let in the light.

It’s been so long since I’ve seen the daylight, since I’ve felt the sun on my face or the rain against my skin. Maybe…maybe soon. Maybe once it’s over. Death is not the end. I know this for certain. There are far more things between heaven and earth then small, cruel men like Whyte can possibly hope to understand.

But I do. I’ve seen it. I’ve held power in the palm of my hands and I will again. Of that I have no doubt.

They move me from the trolley to a surgical table of some sort and restrain me. I tilt my head to the side and see a table which holds a vast array of unpleasant-looking silver implements: wicked-looking screws and drills, knives, pincers, and saws. Jars filled with some sort of liquid are lined up with their lids beside them as if waiting for specimens to be deposited in them.

“Shall we begin?” Dr Whyte steps up to the table, picks up a bottle labelled Ether, and soaks a folded muslin in the liquid. “Now, I would have preferred you were awake to experience every moment, but I must bow to the needs of science. I can’t have you writhing in pain, I wouldn’t want to damage sections of your brain as I remove it, but I also want to observe it while you are still breathing. Imagine that? To study a living brain. No, I need you alive but incapacitated. So don’t worry. As much as I might wish otherwise, you won’t feel a thing.”

“I’ll remember that when your time comes,” I hiss.

He chuckles a hollow, mirthless sound. “Still so full of bravado, even at the very end. I’m going to very much enjoy studying your mind.”

He presses the cloth to my mouth and nose. The scent is sharp and bitter, burning my nostrils and throat. Immediately, the room begins to spin, and I feel sick as my mouth floods with saliva.

Suddenly, the cloth is pulled away, and I try to suck in clean air. I’m dizzy and my eyes are blurry, but I hear the door bang open and Dr Whyte’s voice.

“Who the hell are you? You have no business here,” he exclaims in outrage.

My head lolls to the side and I blink rapidly trying to fight the disorientation and the desperate need to close my eyes and sleep. There are men in the room, three strangers. Two are police constables, easily identified by their uniforms, but the third man, with a furious expression, who stands stiffly between them is familiar. My mind screams that I know who this man is, but I’m spiralling into darkness and confusion.

“I have come for Cordelia. You are to release her into my custody at once,” the man barks, his voice filled with barely concealed rage.

“You have no authority,” Dr Whyte replies. “I am her physician. She was placed directly in my care by her father, and therefore, I hold all necessary control over her treatment. In this matter there is no higher authority than mine. I have determined she is not capable of functioning in society. She is a danger to herself and others, so you will leave at once. You are interrupting a very important medical procedure.”

“No,” the man says flatly.

“No?” Dr Whyte repeats, and it is clear he’s not used to having his authority questioned.

“I have here a signed release from her majesty, Queen Victoria, bearing the royal seal,” the man states. “So there is an authority higher than yours.”

“Impossible,” Dr Whyte hisses. He snatches the document from the man’s outstretched hand and begins to read. “How did you get this?”

“You’re not the only one with friends in high places, Dr Whyte. Now release her to me immediately.”

“Who are you?” Dr Whyte growls.

“My name is Cornelius Crawshanks,” the man says coolly. “And I’ve come for my sister.”

1

My eyes snap open, my heart pounding hard in my chest and my breath panting out in short, sharp bursts.

For a moment, I’m disorientated, not sure where or—more worryingly—who I am. The last vestiges of the dream fade from my mind. It had felt so real, but the more I try to remember, the more I find the details slipping further from my grasp until all I can recall are intense emotions.

Fear. Hopelessness. Impotent fury.

Despite the cold air of the room, my body feels clammy and uncomfortable. Sweat has pooled in the hollow of my throat and along the length of my spine. I try to draw in slow, measured breaths as my heart rate begins to settle. Everything I’d felt only a moment ago is now also fading, and I can’t quite recall what had ripped me from my sleep.

There’s a brief flash of an image in my mind, gone as quickly as it appeared. A man’s face… there something was wrong with his mouth.

Drawing in a shaky breath, I reach up, relieved to find my hair is still there, although I’m not sure why it wouldn’t be. My wrists ache like they’ve been bound, and I look down, expecting to see them bruised.

What had I been dreaming about?