Chapter 1: The glass cell

Wren 

“Swallow it, Wren. We don’t have all night.”

Julian’s voice slid across the damp stone like something polished and empty. Nothing of the rot around us touched it.

I kept my tongue flat against the floor of my mouth. My teeth chattered on their own. The leather around my wrists had already chewed the skin raw; I thrashed harder, heels slamming the iron legs of the cot until the whole frame shuddered.

“Look at her,” Lyra whispered from the doorway. She never stepped inside the glass after dark. The oil lamp in her hand threw wild shapes across the silk of her gown and the sweat-slick walls of Ashford Manor.

“She’s slipping further tonight. The fever in her eyes is worse.”

“She’s fine. She’s resisting.” Julian’s fingers dug into the hinge of my jaw and forced it open.

“Down.”

I made a wet, choking sound and let the heavy white pill land at the back of my throat. My eyes rolled toward the vaulted ceiling. A ragged laugh scraped out of me. I threw my head back hard enough that he had to pin my shoulders.

“There,” he breathed. His thumb brushed a tear from my cheek with a kind of tender disgust that made my skin crawl. “Good girl. Sleep now.”

They stood over me for three long minutes while I forced my chest into a shallow, broken rhythm. Drool ran from the corner of my mouth. I had to look shattered. A girl losing her mind in the dark of the Cotswolds, buried inside an estate that time had forgotten.

The iron bolt slammed. Their footsteps faded Julian’s deliberate stride, the soft drag of Lyra’s skirts until the winter wind outside swallowed them.

The second the oak door clicked shut, the tremor left my limbs.

I sat up, skin burning, and tucked my head between my knees. Two fingers pressed deep into the side of my throat. The gag reflex I had spent three weeks perfecting answered at once. Bile rose. The undissolved pill tumbled into my palm, still bitter and whole.

I wiped my mouth on my sleeve and stared at the little white stone. Not tonight.

I slipped it into the tear in the mattress with the others. My mind was clear. Cold and sharp as iron left in snow.

The air smelled of wet earth and old moss. Ashford Manor was no home. It was a cage wrapped in fog and velvet. They believed the fog had settled in my head. They believed the nightly dose at seven was slowly eating the girl who still remembered the night the master of the house died.

I slid off the cot. Bare feet silent on the icy flags. The glass cell sat in the middle of the subterranean study like a modern obscenity inside a three-hundred-year-old stone. Thick panes on three sides so they could watch me unravel from the leather chairs by the fire.

They made me mad. A mad girl’s word could never hang a lord.

I pressed my forehead to the cool glass. The fire had sunk to red embers, painting everything in bloody gloom. On the mahogany desk ten feet away, Julian’s brass key ring caught the last light. Forgotten or left there on purpose, to see whether the animal in the cage would reach.

My heart beat like a trapped bird. Stay quiet and the dose would climb until my heart simply stopped. Reach for the keys and fail, and they would put me under the lake where no one would hear the screaming.

A floorboard creaked above.

I melted back into the shadow of the cot, hands already trembling again.

The oak door at the top of the stairs opened. A thin blade of yellow light cut across the stone. Footsteps came down uneven, dragging.

A figure stepped out of the stairwell holding a tallow candle. Mud covered his face. Hair plastered to a pale forehead. Eyes too clear, too frantic.

Thomas. The groom’s boy they said drowned three days ago.

He pressed a muddy hand to the glass, leaving a dark smear. His breath fogged the pane between us.

“Wren,” he rasped. River water and blood on his breath. “Stop pretending. They know you’re spitting the pills.”

Ice poured through me. The mask dropped. “What?”

“They know.” His eyes flicked to the dark stairwell. “The doctor put something in the water this morning. Not the pills. The water.”

My gaze snapped to the clay pitcher on the stool. I had drunk half of it an hour ago.

A shadow detached itself from the doorway behind him. Silver flashed in the ember light. A heavy, muffled thud.

Thomas’s eyes rolled. He crumpled against the glass in a streak of fresh blood. Julian stood over him, brass-headed cane resting lightly in his hand.

He stepped across the boy’s body, adjusted his cuffs, and looked straight at me. Not angry. Disappointed.

“Drink your water, Wren,” he said softly, pointing the cane at the pitcher. “Or we do this the hard way.”