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“Miss Faye," he says. "You look lovely."
"Thank you, uh...I'm sorry, I don't know your name," I say.
"My name is of no importance," he says. "You can follow me--dinner is waiting."
I glance down at my bare feet. "There were no shoes."
The butler chuckles. "We were instructed to leave you without shoes. Unfortunately, Mr. Solace tells us that you are a runner."
I roll my eyes. "In that case...lead the way, I guess."
I lift my chin and step past him. The gown whispers around my legs, and I focus on the sound, using it to steady my nerves.
"What is this place?" I ask.
"Mr. Solace's private residence," the butler says. "You should feel very lucky to be here; not many see this particular hallway."
"Why not?"
"This is where Mr. Solace keeps his most treasured pieces from the old world," the butler says. "Picasso, Mucha, Klimt...he's quite the collector."
My eyes widen as I look at the art. I'm not particularly educated, but even I know those names--and I thought a lot of this stuff was burned in the war. "It's amazing," I murmur.
"You'll find that, despite his line of work, Mr. Solace is a cultured and reasonable man," the butler says. He stops at a set of double doors, then opens one for me. "After you, Miss Faye."
The dining hall is all dark wood and low lights, a long table set for two. It's intimate--too intimate for comfort. But I sit, because what else am I going to do? Run? They'd catch me before I made it to the door.
"Nice choice," I comment, scanning the array of untouched dishes, the crystal glasses, the gleaming cutlery. This isn't just dinner; it's a display of power.
"Mr. Solace has good taste," he says, nodding towards the chair at the other end of the table before he backs out of the room.
"Is it poisoned?" I ask.
The butler gives me a wry smile. "Would I tell you if it was?"
I sigh. "I suppose not."
"Just take a seat," the butler says. "Mr. Solace will be here soon, and I promise he will answer all your questions."
"Sure he will," I mutter to myself, but I follow his instructions anyway. I sit with my hands folded in my lap, resisting the urge to touch anything. It's all a test, has to be.
I won't fail.
At least Vance doesn't make me wait long; he shows up just a few minutes later, entering through another door at the other side of the room. I look up to meet his piercing blue gaze from across the table, finding that he's smiling despite my expectations. He takes a casual seat at the table before he glances down at my untouched plate and red wine, at my hands folded in my lap.
"Well?" he says. "Not to your taste?"
I narrow my eyes at him. "Being captured and manhandled tends to ruin my appetite."
"It's good," he says. "I promise."
The silverware gleams against the white tablecloth like a signal, goading me to eat. But I can't. Not yet. Not while Vance Solace sits across from me, his eyes tracing every move I make—or don't make.
"Starving yourself won't help your cause," he adds, almost casual.
"Neither will poisoning myself," I shoot back.
He sighs and pushes back from the table, the chair scraping softly against the floor. It's a soft sound but it feels loud in the silence between us. He rounds the table with sure steps until he's at my side.
