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I jolt as the door to the cellar creaks open. The lantern light comes on, illuminating the charcoal darkness that blinds me when I’m alone. I shiver. Since the man they call the beast, boss, or Mr. Molotov locked me in here earlier, I’ve seen no one else and know not what to expect from his return. I don’t know if he’s a man of his word and that I will remain unharmed until my father decides my fate at the end of the thirty days, or whether his beastly nature will seek to destroy me before then. Gulping, I try to ready myself. The memory of what he did to my father chills me. It angers me, as well as terrifies me. I doubt I’ll be able to withstand such brutality.
Footsteps hammer the wooden stairs, and a large shadow consumes the cold, damp cellar. I can hear my breath. It rattles along with the hammering of my pulse. Backing up into the small cell, I try to hide within the shadows, but it’s useless. My cheeks shake with the building tears. My body rocks from the sheer force of my blood. Everything goes silent, and I release a breath when I see a lanky youth, about eighteen or twenty. He’s smiling at me, and I don’t know if that’s a good sign. But it’s a hell of a lot of relief to see it’s not the beast.
The closer the youth comes, I can see he’s holding a plate. The smell of cooked red meat wets my lips.
“Boss says you should eat something,” he says.
Eyeing the cut of beef and potatoes and the chunk of bread on the plate, I swallow before shaking my head. “It might be poisoned. I don’t want it.” My voice doesn’t sound like mine. It’s dry from the suffocation of this unventilated cell.
The youth shakes his head. “I assure you, miss, ‘tis not poisoned. The boss took it off his own plate,” he says.
I look up at him, my lips turned down in disbelief. Why would he give me some of his food? He doesn’t care whether I live or die.
The youth grins. “All right,” he says, sitting on the floor before my cell. “I’ll show ye.” He breaks off a piece of the bread and the meat with his fingers before popping one of the potatoes in his mouth. “Now you can see for yeself if I die,” he says.
My stomach rumbles as I watch him munching. The food looks so delicious, I can’t help myself. Death would be a blessing in disguise. The youth grins as he sees me watching his mouth, biting my lips. “Ye want it?” he asks, pushing it through the slot wide enough for the plate.
I grab it with both hands and dig in. He hands me the glass he’s been sipping on and when I put it to my lips, I taste wine. Wine? The beast must have given me the wrong glass. Still, I gulp some of it down in a rush, grateful as it breaks apart the dryness in my throat.
“Aye. Slow down. Ye might end up tossing up the contents if you eat too fast,” he says.
My stuffed mouth stops forcing the food down for a moment as I look at him. He looks back at me and shakes his head. “Shame you’re down here. I hear what you did for your old man. Say, I think you’re one of those lucky people, beautiful on the inside and the outside,” he says before leaning forward. “Although don’t tell my missus. She’d be heartbroken, see?” he says, gripping his chest.
“I’d hardly say I’m lucky,” I say with a mouthful.
“Aye.” He grins. “I guess you’re right.”
The door to the cellar opens again, and the youth jumps to his feet, dusting off his pants and straightening himself. I push the food aside, wondering if the kid lied to me and stole the food to bring it here. Why else would he be so jumpy?
He sighs when the person appears before us. “Ah, Carlson. Say, you gave me the jumps there.” He grins. “I was just giving her the food the boss…”
“Very well.” Carlson silences him. “You may go now.”
“Aye.” The youth nods before tipping his cloth hat at him and hurrying out of the cellar.
The man before me is older. The skin around his face is looser, though it doesn’t necessarily drag. He’s a handsome man, stern though. His white curled wig is heavily starched. He stands with his chest out and his shoulders high, wearing a frilled collared shirt, a purple jacket that hangs from the back of his knees, closing upward onto his belly, with gold details, and high grey trousers.
The large keys jingle in his hand when he unlocks the cell door. “Follow me,” he says, walking off.
My eyes widen, and my mind tells me to run, but I don’t. I want to fight, but I don’t do that either. Doing any of those things might make things bad for my father. So, I follow him. Lanterns light the long hallway, and I can tell by the windows in the nearby rooms that it’s dark out. In the more illuminated space, I see that one of his eyes is completely grey, as if he’s lost it. Trembling, I climb the stairs with him.
“Where are we going?” I muster up the courage to ask.
“To your room, Miss Primrose,” he answers bluntly.
Before I can tell him that he’s obviously made a mistake, he pauses before double doors and swings them open. Deep reds and pinks paper the walls. A four-poster bed sits in the centre. He steps aside and allows me entry.
“I don’t understand…” I look at him.
“Mr. Molotov wanted to make sure you were comfortable,” he says.
He appears impatient that I’m still standing outside, frightened of the room, so I accept his offer of entry. I see myself in the mirror in the far corner next to the bed. The bed, mind you, is far bigger than my own at home. My hair is filled with cobwebs. My face is smudged with dirt. My white nightdress is no longer white. It’s blackened, along with my feet.
“Ma’am.” I hear a voice from the other far corner of the room, and I jump, spinning around.
“This is Gloria. She will be your lady maid while you’re here,” Carlson says.
Gloria smiles, and I stumble over my words. “B-but why? There’s been some…”
