The House Of The Stone Part 6

"I have said it before, your ladyship. Dr. Blythe isn't the genius he pretends to be."

"Dr. Blythe is not your concern." The Countess's voice is cold. "This surrogate is. All of our previous attempts have failed because those surrogates simply did not have the mental fort.i.tude to withstand the procedures. This one does. I'm sure of it."

"What happ-" I don't realize the words are out of my mouth until pain sears my skull.

"A very difficult learner," the doctor says with a chuckle.

He actually chuckles.

Oh, Violet, I think. I hope, wherever you are, this is not happening to you, too.

The Countess and Dr. Falme make strange parts in my hair, and I hate the feel of their hands on my scalp. I don't know what they're doing or why, because aren't they supposed to be interested in other parts of my body?

The doctor makes notes using numbers that don't make sense, like "Quadrant five, line twenty-seven, three inches?"

Always like a question. Like he's asking himself.

"Can we try one time?" the Countess asks.

"So soon, my lady?"

"I want to see how it reacts."

The doctor smiles indulgently. I clamp my mouth shut. I have no idea what reaction she wants. I won't give her any, if I can help it.

The doctor pulls on one of the hanging lights, which stretches down like it's on a spring. There isn't a glowglobe inside-instead it looks like a helmet with golden hooks all around it. And it's coming right at my head.

There's nothing I can do as the helmet settles around my skull. The hooks pinch when they catch on my skin.

"Where shall we start, my lady?" the doctor asks.

There's a pause while the Countess thinks.

"Not too young. Ten maybe? No, seven. Seven is perfect."

In an instant, there is a sharp sting in my neck and in three seconds, I can't feel my head anymore. It's gone completely numb. Which is honestly a relief. I don't want to feel anything.

I hear a buzzing sound, like the drills the dentists used on us at Southgate-pretty much everyone has to get serious work done on their teeth when they arrive. It's a sound that sets me on edge, that makes my skin p.r.i.c.kle and every hair on my body stand up.

The buzzing gets louder as the drill or needle or whatever it is gets closer. I don't feel it go in. Suddenly I'm just . . . gone.

My mother is humming while she brushes my hair. I don't tell her how good it feels, how I've wanted this for so long. She was always so concerned with Sable, getting Sable ready to be a surrogate. She never had time for me. But Sable's test came back negative.

I sit in front of the cracked mirror in her bedroom and look at my reflection. Mother thinks I'm pretty. I don't care about being pretty. I want to finish my math homework. But pretty makes her happy.

"There, now," she says. "That's nice, isn't it?"

I beam at her in the mirror. She looks at me and smiles.

Then all the skin melts off her face.

Someone is screaming. They should stop screaming; my mother hates loud noises.

My chest begins to ache, and I realize the person screaming is me.

My mother is gone. Her bedroom has vanished. I'm still in the medical room.

I force my lips closed, my chest heaving. Bile rises in my throat but I swallow it down.

It wasn't real, I tell myself. That didn't happen.

But I can't stop shaking. I can't make that horrible image go away.

A single tear escapes and runs down my cheek. I blink before any more run free.

"I like this one," the Countess says.

"So do I," the doctor murmurs.

"Violet," I whimper, so soft that they don't hear me. I need Violet. She's the only one who will understand.

ONCE THE DOCTOR AND THE COUNTESS ARE GONE, THE straps come off.

Frederic puts the leash back on, which at least means we're leaving this terrible, beautiful room. My head aches. I hesitantly reach up and touch my skull. There is a tiny scar, the length of my fingernail, about four inches above my left temple.

"Take it away, Emile," he says.

Emile is here. I didn't notice him come in, but I'm so grateful Frederic won't be taking me back to my cage that I almost start crying again. Almost.

And I want to go back to my cage. I hate that I do, but I do. I don't understand this place, beauty mixed with horror. I'd rather be where things look the way they are.

But Emile doesn't take me to the dungeon. We go up, up, up, back to the room that makes me nervous now, with its plush furnishings and fancy paintings and canopied bed.

"I will be staying with you tonight," Emile says as he locks the door behind him and removes the leash.

I sink down onto the closest piece of furniture. I think it might be a table, I don't know.

"What . . . happened . . . to me?" I gasp. I hold my head in my hands, as if I can squeeze the fake memory from it.

"You may shower if you wish."

I look up at him. His blue eyes are earnest, but urgent. I don't think this is a request.

I nod once. Force my shaking legs to hold my weight. Somehow make it across the soft carpet to the powder room.

There's no door on it. I just want something to slam, something to close out the world and give me a tiny moment of peace.

I fall over the toilet and vomit until my throat is raw and there is nothing left to throw up. My mother's skinless face repeats over and over in my mind.

It wasn't real, I tell myself. I might say it out loud. Emile never comes in, but I feel his presence. I'm grateful he stays away. What a ridiculous thing to be grateful for.

I fall asleep on the cold tile floor.

Seven.

WHEN I WAKE UP, I'M IN BED.

The soft, giant canopied bed. It feels as good as I thought it would, except that it reminds me of the medical chaise-bed.

"Good morning," Emile says pleasantly.

He's still in his lady-in-waiting dress, sitting up in one of the armchairs.

"Did you sleep like that?" I ask. My head is fuzzy.

"I did."

It looks uncomfortable, which gives me a hollow sense of satisfaction.

"I'll have breakfast brought up," he says. "Why don't you shower?"

My mouth tastes awful, like stale vomit. He walks to the wall by my bed and pulls on a long piece of fabric. I a.s.sume that means breakfast is on its way. I should feel hungry but I don't. All I can think is what today will bring.

"What is she going to do to me now?" I ask.

Emile smiles such a fake, bright smile, I think I might throw up again. "Today you're going out!"

My eyes narrow. Something is off. He whips off my covers and shoos me out of bed. "Get showered now. It's going to be a big day!"

The fact that everything he says seems to contain several exclamation points only adds to my unease.

But I do want a shower.

And I certainly need one.

Emile stands guard while the water runs over my body, but a few glances in his direction confirm he's doing his best not to focus on me. He appears to be very interested in a knot on the wooden doorframe.

I take a longer shower than my first one, and get the water as hot as I can make it. But there's a cold inside me that won't go away. Emile finally turns off the tap.

"Now let's get you ready," he says cheerfully.

"Stop it!" I shout. "Stop acting like we're going on some fun adventure. Stop sounding so irritatingly chipper. Do you know what they did to me yesterday? Do you get it?"

Emile is in front of me in a second, his mouth so close to mine at first I think he might kiss me.

"Of course I know," he hisses. "I know a great deal more than you do. Do you know how many surrogates I've seen pa.s.s through this house? Ten. One for every year I have worked here. I a.s.sume you have noticed by now that there are no other women in this palace. Just you and the Countess. The doctor's appointments serve a purpose, but the equipment that Frederic creates? That is just fun for her. You are the target on which she can focus all her rage. All her hatred. So follow my lead. When I act happy, it is because you have at least the slimmest, slightest chance of being happy today."

I am stunned into silence. Emile turns away and I follow him without thinking, wrapping a towel around my body and standing numbly in front of a closet full of dresses I don't want to wear. Emile talks to himself, musing about this fabric or that. All the dresses he handles are black. That does not make me think "Happy Day."

Ten surrogates have lived in this room before me. And how many others before that?

"Ah," Emile says. "This will be perfect."

He holds out a long black dress with an accordion skirt and lace top. I don't even glance at myself in the mirror when he sits me at the vanity to attack my face and hair again. I don't trust mirrors anymore.

The food arrives. Cinnamon rolls and hot coffee and fresh peaches. This time I eat everything.

Emile finally p.r.o.nounces me finished, then steps back to admire his work.

"You really are beautiful," he says.

I stare at him. I don't know what he expects me to say to that.

We sit in silence for a while.

"Would you like to know where you're going?" he asks.

"No," I lie.

His mouth twitches.

The door opens and the Countess walks in. I can't help it-I jump to my feet. I don't know if I'm preparing to run or fight or if I just feel more confident standing.

Frederic is right behind her, carrying some black lace in one hand and-my stomach drops-that horrible jewel-encrusted helmet thing from the wall of torture. The Countess sees me looking at it and smiles.

"I can have five Regimentals come in and beat you b.l.o.o.d.y and Frederic will fix you up as good as new," she says. "And you will still wear everything I want you to wear. But that will make us late, and I despise being late. So be a good girl and stand still."

The memory of my mother's face, melted and distorted, keeps my feet glued to the ground. Frederic fastens the black lace to the crown of my head and pulls it over my face like a veil. My stomach turns as he gently places the helmet over my head.

But it's not a helmet, really.

It's a muzzle.

It pushes my jaw shut, leaving s.p.a.ce only for my eyes. But there must be some kind of visor on it, because the last thing I see before Frederic pulls it down is the Countess's gleeful expression.

"Oh, Frederic," she says as everything goes dark, "it's perfect."

ONCE AGAIN, I'M LED ON THE LEASH THROUGH THE PALACE, unable to see, waving my hands in front of me like an idiot.

Every time I catch myself doing it I stop, but it's deeply instinctual. I hear the whispers again, this time commenting on the horrible muzzle.