Page 30 of Sigma
Alone, I examine the room in more detail. I can see for miles in every direction: the vineyards extend almost out of sight, giving way in the far distance to orchards. A driveway winds through the vineyards and disappears over the hills, miles and miles long. At another window, I can see the castle—it’s something of a cross between a lord’s manor estate and a castle, there are no defensive walls or crenellations, but it’s certainly well more than a mere home. It’s absolutely massive, sprawling, with smaller towers here and there, gables and buttresses and secret balconies and hidden alcoves. It’s old, well-kept and obviously restored and modernized.
On the other side of the free-standing wooden wall is, as suspected, a bathroom, complete with a hammered-copper soaking tub, glassed-in shower, a porcelain pedestal sink framed by ladder shelves laden with male hygiene products. A toilet. A huge mirror in a gilded frame with a gothic pointed arch above the sink.
The exterior wall is all window, here as well, bathing the bathroom area in natural light. There being no other structure in view for miles, privacy is clearly not a concern.
Also hidden behind the free-standing wall is a surprisingly small closet containing rows of chinos and dress slacks on hangars, button-downs and polos all in solid colors, no patterns or prints; there are cubbies containing dress shoes and boots, hiking boots, riding boots, and sneakers. Another few cubbies containing jeans, another of gym shorts, and several cubbies containing neatly folded plain black and white T-shirts. Simple and organized.
I have no clean clothes, so I’m not sure I want to get clean if I just have to put on this same smelly outfit—the shower looks divine, however, with multiple nozzles spraying horizontally and a huge rainfall head in the ceiling.
I opt to peruse the books. There’s a history of the Visigothic occupation of Spain, a coffee table-sized book of photographs of Spanish Vineyards. A book of castle and cathedral architecture in Spain, Portugal, and France. A history of Moorish Spain.
Clearly, I’m in Spain, somewhere.
There are also paperback novels in English, Spanish, and Greek, ranging from Clive Cussler, Louis L’Amour, and Robert Ludlum to Lee Child, Dan Brown, and Brandon Sanderson. The assortment of languages is random, and these novels are dog-eared and well-read. Old favorites. Making the display of rarities and collector’s editions in the library either a collection by a bibliophile, or just for show.
There are also books on leadership, an English copy ofThe Art of War, an Italian copy of Machiavelli, and dictionaries in all three languages as well as English-Greek, English-Spanish, and Greek-Spanish dictionaries.
I flip through the histories, browse through the books of photographs, and eventually end up reading one of the Ludlum novels.
Kidnapped in the middle of the night, transported in a tiny dark cell in a boat across the ocean, brought by helicopter and limousine to an actual castle, locked in an actual tower like an actual damsel in literal distress…
And I’m reading a novel.
The sun is setting, lowering itself into the hills behind the vines, bathing the landscape in a gradient of red to pink, with hints of orange and dashes of purple.
I’m hungry, I smell, I’m bored, and there’s behind it all a constant simmering fear. It’s impossible to forget that I’m a prisoner. That I don’t know who my captor is, why he’s taken me, or what he wants.
Judging by the wealth on display here, I feel it safe to assume he’s not after money.
* * *
Darkness has fallen,and I’m still alone.
Then, I hear footsteps on the stair, the key in the lock, and the door opens.
He closes it behind himself. He has a wicker basket in one hand, piled high with packaged balls of fancy soap, bottles of shampoo and conditioner, bath oils, lotions, salt scrubs, candles.
He has a garment bag draped over his other arm, the key still clutched in his fist.
He moves past me without a word into the bathroom, depositing the basket of bath goods on the floor near the tub, and then hanging the garment bag from a hook on the wall near the entrance to the bathroom.
I lean in the opening, watching him.
He crosses to me, stops once again within my personal space, standing too close. “The journey here has not done your hygiene any favors, Corinna. You will be joining me for dinner within the hour, so please…prepare yourself.”
I hesitate, refusing to back away from him, to give him the sense that I’m afraid of him or intimidated by him—that I’m affected by him at all.
“And if I don’t?”
He regards me steadily, his body utterly still, only his eyes moving. “A hunger strike does you no good. If you wish to starve yourself, by all means, be my guest. You are a prisoner, yes, but you will be a prisoner in a gilded cage. If you choose to deprive yourself of the basic necessities which I am freely providing, such as the luxury of bathing, good meals, and a book to read? Well, by all means, suit yourself.” He smiles at me. “You are a practical, sensible girl, Corinna. Let’s not be petulant. It proves nothing to me, and only harms you.”
I huff. “I don’t understand the point of behaving as if this is some social thing between us. I’m your prisoner. I don’t even know your name.”
“The point is, I’m no barbarian. There is a purpose to this, which you need not concern yourself with at this time.”
“My fate is not my concern,” I say, my voice dry and sarcastic. “I see.”
He does the eyebrow quirk, a quick arch of one eyebrow which I think indicates amusement. “If you wish to go unbathed and stinking, you will do so in the dungeon. If you wish to remain in my quarters like a civilized human being, you will, at minimum, smell like one.”