“Turn right,” he said quietly when we were in the hall, confusingly allowing me a respectful distance.

I did as he said and followed the curve of the huge windows. I wanted to run my hands along the frames, wanted to ask about who built this place, but questions were for people whose opinions mattered and that was not me.

We stepped quickly. My shoes slid too easily over the carpet as if I were wearing two sticks of butter. My eyes ran over the paintings as we passed them. Everything was bright and primary, bold, strong shapes and thick, black lines. Orry could have painted them. I sniffed. The ache deepened.

The windows showed a bleak view. Close-to-black, night air pressed against the panes with a few garden lights dotting the ground below. I craved to feel it around me, chilling my shoulders and creating puffs of mist from my mouth. I shivered. I was trapped like the zoo animals, just in a fancier cage.

I stopped and turned my head to the guard. “How long have I been asleep?”

His eyes darted back and forth at the different cameras tuned to our movements and decided it was safe to answer. “About a day, Miss.”

The ‘Miss’ made me cringe. This fakeness was surely going to end. Soon, I’d be thrown against bars, my bones would crack on cold stone floors, and I’d be forced to give up information. I shook my head slightly. They’d have to kill me. The plans lay in my stomach like iron brambles. They might try to drag them from me and it would sting and cut, but I’d rather set myself on fire than tell them anything.

Joseph was a day away from me. It made me smile and frown at the same time. He would still be a long way in time and distance from Orry. I tripped as I thought of us, like the points of an enormous triangle. So. Far. Away. If neither of us made it back, Orry would never know us. He would forget me. The pain of that realization was crippling, and for a moment, I struggled to move.

I pulled my hand across my stomach, the scar bending inwards. You can do this. Keep walking.

I stomped forward.

“Enter the door on your right, Miss Rosa,” the guard said as he halted and waited for me to follow his directions.

I took a quick breath and placed my hand on the cool, brushed steel handle, trying not to be distracted by the silken beauty of the wooden paneling in front of my scared eyes.

Family. In Pau, the word meant very little. It was a threat wrapped in a warning: Don’t get too close.

I had it in my slippery fingers for what seemed like less than a grain of time.

But I’m still tied to it. These ropes get stronger with every added piece of twine, each life I’ve added to my own.

The door swung open with just the minute sound of the glossy timber stroking the strands of carpet. I stared down at my bare feet in my court shoes and scratched my arm nervously as I shuffled into the room, pushing against a solid wall of my own fear.

Someone clapped once, hard, like a textbook hitting a table. My eyes snapped up.

His stare pierced my skin like a needle, drawing out what little bravery I had managed to strap to my heart.

“Ah! Rosa Bianca! Finally you wake.” That voice like abused guitar strings rang out in a nearly empty room that smelled like talcum powder and fresh bread. My eyes swept across the large glass table. Its shining chrome legs polished like mirrors made my reflection even more narrow and bendy than normal. And at the head of it, Grant sat in a dining chair that looked as if it had been carved from a single piece of wood, seamless. His wheelchair lay folded in the corner and I arched an eyebrow, wondering how he got in the chair.

He cleared his throat, bringing my attention back to his needling eyes. I bowed my head.

“Superior Grant.” I wondered if I should curtsy or maybe… throw a chair at his smiling face, smash a window, and run. Grant’s smile was a twisted thing that cautioned me of the cruelty beneath, and it matched the painting behind him. A huge, gilded frame wrapped around a picture of Grant standing up proudly in military uniform without aid, his eyes searching the distance as if he were looking for more people to crush, just over the hill. My eyes moved up and down, comparing the painting to the real Grant, and he observed me silently. There was little difference, except for the legs. My mouth turned up inappropriately, and the table rattled as he gripped the edge.

My eyes passed over the glistening white plates, ringed with silver, the cutlery rattling slightly like they were scared of him too. The table was set for five people.

“Come. Sit by me. We have a lot to discuss,” Grant said, beckoning with his hand as a shiny, metal watch jangled from his thick wrist. I stared at the dark hairs caught in the band, my head to the side, feeling like my feet were glued to the ground.

I didn’t move.

He might as well have been beckoning me to walk over broken glass. The guard shut the door behind me, leaving us alone. I took a step backwards, my fingers searching for the door handle.

He frowned at my hesitance.

“Do I need to remind you what happens when you don’t do as you are told?” he said, leaning forward with both hands spread on the table. I watched the condensation form around his disproportionately muscular hands. I pitied the wheels of his chair.

I took a timid step forward, feeling hot and uncomfortable as I passed under the blasting air conditioning. “No, you don’t need to remind me, Sir,” I said through gritted teeth. I didn’t want to play this game. I wanted to smash the table with my fists and pull him from his chair.

One sturdy hand folded into a hard fist, and he hissed through barely open lips, “Then sit.” He pointed to the chair beside him, straight down.

I moved slowly as his eyes tracked me across the room like a motion detector, his mouth pursing at my bare feet squeaking against the leather of my shoes. My eyes went to the high, narrow window above the buffet. Nothing but black sky. Empty. Grant’s eyes were equally empty.

Below the window were photos of distinctively All Kind children of various ages. Some looked to be the same child, frames knocking against each other following the child’s growth. Others were of a baby with no follow-up pictures. I was curious, but I couldn’t spend time wondering. Grant’s eyes were ready to slice me to pieces.

He patted the chair to his left, and I sat down. Hands folded in my lap, eyes downcast, trying to play the part I thought he wanted.

“Rosa,” he croaked bitterly, my name a curse on his tongue. He tapped his fingers on the glass absently. “You’ve hurt your people,” he said in fake seriousness, “and you’ve hurt me.” He put his palm to where I suppose his heart would be if he had one. I tried to retreat into myself like a turtle to its shell before I reached out and slapped his face, holding onto my right hand with my left like it was not my own.

“Perhaps if you can tell me what you and your misguided friends are planning, there may be a chance of redemption for you.” His voice held very little feeling. I was a pebble in his shoe, annoying but easily dealt with.

I allowed myself to peek into his soul-stealing eyes. “No.” My lips formed the word and my heart stammered in my chest, telling me to take it back, to stop scrawling my death sentence all over the walls like it was nothing.

He leaned back and clasped his hands together, his moustache twitching slightly with irritation. I tried not to take pleasure in it and failed, my own lips rising into a smile.

“No?” he asked, his voice dark and dripping in the ink that would sign my execution.

“Never,” I said plainly. I may have promised to stay alive, but I wasn’t going to kill my friends to do it.

My eyes went to the floor, the safest place, and I noticed his chair legs were higher than mine by an inch or two. Red appeared in his cheeks and his forehead, instantly creasing like a dried riverbed. I winced, awaiting the force of his shouting. But then he took a deep breath and everything dissipated like blowing the steam off the top of a cup of coffee.