Page 2

One,two, three, four.

One, two, three, four.

Tendu

Plié

Arabesque

Sauté

“Ow!” The ottoman flips over, clattering on the stone floor. I grab my toes, hopping on one foot. “Fuck!”

That hurt.

Dropping to the floor, I cross one leg over the other. Wiggling each toe, I inspect the damage. After the last few weeks of my life I’ve learned my body is tougher than I thought, but breaking my toes? That’s something I’m not sure I’d survive.

I can’t sleep. Not since I came here. Not for long at least. It’s too loud. The sound of the other girls is a faint hum, etched on the inside of my skull. Thecrying.The whispering. The hurt.

The beast.

Instead, I push the heavy pieces of furniture out of the way and create a little space. If I keep moving, I won't fall asleep. If I keep moving, no one can hurt me. If I dance, the noises in my head, in my heart, will fall still.

Awake, I barely remember what happened out in the woods, even less what happened before. The doctor in the hospital said he thought I’d been drugged. Maybe.

Or maybe that’s just how my brain works.

The only thing that’s ever locked firmly in my mind is what I learned in dance class andthe rules.My uncle had a fondness for them, even pinning them to the Manor wall so no one could forget. But the rules don’t seem to matter here. Not in this cold, barren place. Or if they do, they’re a different set of rules I haven’t been told.

I think I’m just waiting.

Satisfied my toes are still in one piece, I look up, catching myself in the huge floor-to-ceiling mirror propped against the wall. My hair is down now, no longer twisted into the tight, organized braids I used to wear. Instead, it spills loose, dark strands brushing over the slope of my clavicle.

I twist, checking to see if the bruises I woke up with in the hospital have faded. They’re ghosting along my ribs, still visible under my brown skin. They bloom like violets across warm-toned skin. The scars at my wrists are raised, ridged, stubborn. I lift my hair and find the healing mark behind my ear, the skin there slightly lighter, tight with new memory. Every mark tells a truth, even the ones I can’t remember. They don’t vanish–only settle deeper, like stories etched beneath the surface.

Shadows.

That’s what the Baron King’s loyal followers are called, Shadows.

Is that what I am now too?

I don’t think so. I’m destined to be a bride. A king’s bride. The Black Wedding must be soon, although I’ve lost track of days. There are no windows in this room. Even at the Manor daylight streamed in. We had time outside–mandatory. No one likes a sickly child. Here, the heavy, wooden door only opens when one of the men brings me a meal. They’re cloaked in darkness too. Silent, only their eyes and foreheads visible, the bottom half of their face obscured. I know they are one of the shadows, a Beta Rho. They leave the food on the end of the bed, taking the prior tray, eaten or not, and then leave, as silent as they came.

The only person I’ve seen, or spoken to, since arriving is the doctor from the hospital, Dr. Stallworth. He comes in to check on my injuries. To make sure I’m healing. He’s nice, but men often pretend to be. Right before they take.

The rest of the room is similarly utilitarian. The bathroom is spare, with basic toiletries. Nothing sharp. Nothing poisonous.

They know better.

The unused bed is small, but not uncomfortable–which is why I stay clear. An armchair with carved arms and legs, the match to the ottoman, sits in the corner. A closet, securely locked. The walls are bare other than one shelf filled with books. I pulled one out and the spine cracked, the brittle, musty pages turning to dust.

I stand, flexing my toes, straightening my spine.

This isn’t a place of life.

It’s nothing more than a chamber of death.

Tendu