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Peeking between my slitted eyelids, I ignore every single question running through my head and concentrate on the very immediate need to slake my thirst as I press the cool lip of the bottle against my dry and cracked lips. I drink greedily, not caring that ribbons of water slide down my chin and neck.
“Easy. You’ll make yourself sick,” the girl advises. “Take slow sips. Let the water soothe you, not choke you.” Her delicate fingers press against the back of my hand, urging me to slow down. Something tells me to listen, to trust her. I sip at the water, meeting her hazel gaze warily.
“How long have I been down here?” I eventually ask.
“Almost a day. Konrad brought you down here yesterday morning.”
“I don’t remember…”
“No. You were out cold,” she says softly. There’s sympathy in her gaze. I latch onto it, desperate to understand why I’m here in this cell, who she is and why she’s brought me water and food.
“What do they mean to do to me?”
The girl chews on her lip. Indecision crossing her features. “I— I don’t know.”
She’s lying. The way her eyes flick away, avoiding my gaze, tells me as much. She knows exactly what’s going to happen to me. “Please…” I whisper.
She shakes her head, removing the bottle of water from my hand and handing me a thickly sliced sandwich filled with ham and salad. The delicious smell of bread and honey-cured meat hits my nose. “You should eat.”
“Who are you?” I ask, ignoring the rumble of hunger in my stomach and the saliva pooling in my mouth. The sandwich is pressed between my fingers, but I refuse to take a bite until she answers me. She gnaws on her bottom lip, looking over her shoulder briefly before turning back to face me. Her eyes tell me what her words can’t. We’re not alone. I swallow hard, framing the question differently. “What’s your name?”
She relaxes a little, some of the tension leaving her shoulders. “My name is Nala.”
“Nala?” I ask, my eyes trailing over her face. She’s pretty. With rosy cheeks, wide hazel eyes and long blonde hair that’s tied back off her face in a low ponytail. She’s wearing a black dress with a white pinafore. A maid’s uniform.
“That’s an unusual name…”
“It is,” she agrees with a gentle nod.
“I’m Christy,” I whisper. “Will you help me?”
“I am helping you,” she replies, cupping my hand that’s holding onto the sandwich and urging me to take a bite. “Please, eat.”
My eyes flick to the sandwich and the sudden, overwhelming urge to fill my empty stomach takes over my need to escape; after all, I won’t get very far if I don’t have the energy to move. Taking a bite, I chew gratefully, trying and failing to hide the sounds of my appreciation. She watches me eat half the sandwich before speaking again.
“That’s better.”
“Will you unlock my ankles?” I ask.
“I can’t do that. I’m so sorry.”
“Why? You don’t look like you’re happy about me being here.”
“You can’t leave. No one leaves.”
“I waskidnapped. Please, I just want to go home. You’ll help me, won’t you?”
Her eyes widen and my need to question her reaction dissolves on my lips as she shakes her head. “Finish the sandwich. You’ll need your strength.”
“My strength?” They way she says it is layered with meaning. “What do you mean by that?”
“Konrad will come for you soon.”
“Nala!” An older male voice snaps.
She stiffens, and we both look over her shoulder at the man standing in the open doorway, an old-fashioned gas lamp held aloft in front of him. It casts his features in shadows and light, the lines and wrinkles on his face distorted, making him look ancient, decrepit. When he lowers the gas lamp, the shadows recede to reveal a man that looks to be in his early seventies. Thinning, white hair covers his balding head, and liver spots dot the skin of his hands and face. He has a white goatee beard and, surprisingly kind, watery blue eyes.
“Who are you?” I snap, unable to reel in my temper. The girl before me is a child. He’s an elderly man who should know better.
