A ball of wadded up material pushes against my ribs. Criminy,it hurts. With all the discomfort going on, I’m surprised I even notice. Is itanother dirty blanket? I reach out to shove the material away and grasp thesilk liner of my mink cloak. How soft and lovely it feels. Thank you, butler atThe Revels. For bringing me my mink cloak when I was being kidnapped. It makesme dislike you slightly less for not stopping them, you bloody idiot.
I rub the silk lining with my thumb, as though it is the cureto all injuries, and find there’s a bulge within the cloak pocket. Could it be?Is the purse still there? I lift my hips a half-inch and use my good hand to yankthe cloak free of my weight. This is no easy task with my hands cuffed near mybelly.
Reaching into the cloak pocket, I catch a silken tassel andpull. My drawstring purse! I tucked it into the pocket yesterday after leavingthe mausoleum, worried I would lose Mama’s belongings. I’d completely forgottenthe purse was still inside my cloak. After setting it on my stomach, I removethe jewelry. Nothing has been lost, not even the tiny pearl earrings I grew tiredof wearing and slipped into the bag. And here are my lucky pebbles. Hopeblossoms inside me as I feel the cool, smooth stones in my palm. How can I hidethe purse? Surely Roy and Titus will want it.
My drawers have two pockets, just above the knee, concealed behindpanels of lace. They were designed to store emergency items of the femininekind, but I’ll use them today to smuggle treasure instead. I kiss Mama’s rubynecklace with my swollen lip and put it, and Grandmother’s bracelet, into thepocket on the right. The pearls, wedding set, and lucky pebbles go inside theleft one.
The cloak still smells of cedar shavings and potpourri, of mylife before this nightmare began. I pull a section of it up to my face and restmy battered chin on the soft folds of mink. How surreal that I am in thisstate. I stroke the fur, hugging the symbol of my past and trying not to weep,afraid that I’m not up to the challenges of the future. We travel for some timealong a country thoroughfare, and then turn onto a sloping road. Gravelcrunches under the wagon wheels.
“Sure would like to drive into the city,” Titus says. “I coulduse a drink.”
Roy snorts. “You and me both.”
What city? Where are we?
I hear the distant bustle of carriage wheels rolling downstreets, a train whistle, and a smithy at work with his hammer and anvil. Yetnew sounds capture my attention—twittering birds, wind gusting through treebranches, softly falling snow, and the mournful call of a mountain lion. Everytime I hear a big cat make that sound, it reminds me of a human baby crying forits mother. This notion destroys what little composure I possess. How couldMama leave me without some sort of protection? Didn’t she guess what Fatherwould do? Were there no provisions made in her will on my behalf?
Tears sting my eyes, and I summon a borrowed memory.Butterflies dance and float with brilliant color across a blue, cloudless sky.Like a gift from the gods to the world below.
When Tom was young, he saw these very monarchs—a cloud oforange and black flying across the sky—and years later transferred the image tome with a tender wave of emotion, saying I love you for the first time.They bring assurance on a deeper level than even my lucky stones can.
As the butterflies dance, my stinging eyes cool, and my brainbegins to calculate. Breathe and think, that’s it. What can you do to survive?
But the wagon takes a turn and gravity rolls me toward theright. My ears pop with increased altitude. I’m being taken into the wilderness?
Count to sixty, Hester. Good, now begin again.
It takes over an hour to reach the top of the mountain.Seventy-two minutes by my count. But the wagon went so slowly at times, I thinkI could have passed it on foot. We come to a lurching stop, and I hear thesqueak and groan of a pulley system lifting something heavy. A door? A gate ofsome kind?
“Enter in,” a man says.
Titus talks with him for a moment, and then drives the wagonthrough the entrance and parks it. The canvas is drawn away, and Roy pulls meupright, crushing my throbbing hand. I squirm in agony, close to fainting.
He puts his stinking mouth next to my face. “I’ll be back in afew weeks. You think on that.”
Titus fastens leg irons around my ankles and puts his hand onmy back, pushing me out of the wagon. “Ironwood Lunatic Asylum. Welcome to yournew kingdom, princess.”
21
Infernus.
Hell.
Whatdid he say? Where am I? No, no… I can’t have heard right. Titus and Royare playing a trick, that’s all. I’d rather die than be at Ironwood.
But what they tell me feels true, and I can’t escape thetestimony of my own senses. I pound at my ears and shake my head, trying toblock out reality. No, no. Not Ironwood, not that place. Yet I’msurrounded by half a dozen men. They chew tobacco, walk around Titus and Roy, andtalk about Faust’s newest patient—who is she? Is it I they speak about? No, no.It must be a joke. Blast you, Titus. You’re too cruel to laugh at me like this.After fearing the asylum most of my life, my brain can hardly process thepossibility I might actually be there. Didn’t Father say it would happen, thatI belonged at Ironwood?
One of the men brushes against the back of my dress. I whirlaround and slap at him. Don’t touch me, filth!
“Come on, princess spitfire,” Titus says. “Let’s go.”
He takes my arm, but I claw at him and fight like an animaldespite my shackles. Biting, butting against the guard with my head. I won’t goinside. You’ll have to kill me first.
Titus doesn’t punch like he did when I tried to escape. Theother guards are laughing, and he is the center of attention now. Roy tellsthem about my shenanigans on
