Chapter Three Golden Cage

CHAPTER THREE

Golden Cage

THE FIRST RAYS of sunlight paint the horizon in shades of scarlet and tangerine, electric against the deep blue skies. I hasten down the quiet alley, the chirping of waking birds barely audible over my racing heart.

"Do not look for me—my men will make sure you get instructions soon," Dahlia said right before her guard put the sack over my head again, ensuring I wouldn't know my whereabouts. I suspect he made extra rounds with the carriage before finally letting me out a few blocks away from home.

What will I tell Anaella? I cannot possibly tell her the truth . . . she'll never understand. I'm not sure I understand. How will I explain where I've been? Did she suffer through the night without me?

I close my bandaged palm; the cut is still raw and painful, but no blood seeps through the white cloth. I never expected that binding myself with a Talent would require so much blood. But then again, I was never meant to have such a powerful Talent—an Elite Talent. This gem is for a true lady, for the aristocracy of Lutèce, who possess the oldest, most powerful Talents.

"Which jewelry would you like? A necklace? Earrings?" Dahlia's voice still rings in my mind.

"Can you attach it to my ring? "

The memory of Dahlia's full lips twisting into a smile surfaces as I close my eyes. " So sentimental. "

I shiver, pushing the image away, and stare at the ruby resting on my finger—the price of my soul. The pulse of energy from the gem creates goosebumps over my skin, unfamiliar yet exhilarating.

Morning dew sparkles on the weeds pushing their way through the cobblestones. Even the gray walls look refreshed, bathed in golden hues that mask their decay. For a moment, I'm a child again, watching the rising world through hopeful eyes. But the lightness in my step fades when I reach the wooden door to our shop.

The ruby shimmers in the light as my hand freezes on the doorknob. It seems too big for my thin fingers. I take the ring off, stuffing it into my pocket. The door creaks as I step inside.

"Cleo?" my sister calls.

The weakness of her voice sends a wave of guilt through me. I rush into the back room to apologize for abandoning her last night, but she's not alone.

I halt at the sight of the man sitting by her side, a woman in a white robe standing over his shoulder, holding a stethoscope. A doctor? Confusion furrows my brow—was Anaella's cough so bad a neighbor called for one?

"I thought you left me," Anaella says. She's joking, I know. Her eyes are half open, her skin flushed and covered with cold sweat, but still, she smiles at me.

"Miss Finley?" the man asks, blinking from behind a pair of thick glasses.

"Yes, and you are . . . ?"

"I'm Dr. Banks, and this is Nurse Dupont. We've been awaiting your arrival."

My jaw drops. I've heard of Dr. Banks before—a miracle worker with the Healing Talent to identify all illnesses at a mere glance and the skill to treat even the most apparently futile cases. His patients are either fabulously rich or so hopeless that they are willing to sell their inheritance, their family, or their soul. But I already sold mine. I have nothing of value to give him. No way to pay for his services.

"Your sister needs around-the-clock care," Dr. Banks says. "I prescribed a mixture of herbs, and Nurse Dupont will administer a weekly cupping therapy. The young mademoiselle also requires plenty of fluids, fresh foods, and sunlight."

I want to ask him for a diagnosis, but crippling dread tightens my throat. The blood Anaella has been coughing has already made me fear the worst. If I'm right, I do not want her to have to hear his answer.

He takes a bottle from his leather bag and places it in my hand. "I will be back in a few days to check on her, but if anything changes, Nurse Dupont knows how to reach me."

"Thank you," I blurt, and he tips his head slightly, revealing a shining sapphire on his earlobe, gleaming through his black curls. A second later, he's out the door.

"I will go prepare hot water," the nurse says, turning to the kitchenette.

Anaella lifts her brow. "I don't know how you managed it. When you didn't come home last night I started worrying."

"I'm so sorry I was out so long." I drop to my knees by her side. "I . . ."

"A secret boyfriend?" Anaella chuckles, her laughter turning into a cough. I hold her hand until she calms, careful to keep my other hand, the wounded one, by my side.

"Where is your ring?" my sister asks.

"My ring?"

Worry creases her brow, and my stomach twists. Even ridden with illness, my sister is so beautiful with her dark locks and hopeful eyes. How I hate keeping things from her. But as much as I want to share the burden, I cannot mention the deal I made, the price I was willing to pay—lying, cheating, stealing. No, I will not expose her to the dark underbelly of Lutèce. Not until she's strong enough.

"I sold it." The lie comes out of my lips too easily .

She pushes herself up on her elbows, the strain making her tremble. "Cleo, it's—"

"One of the only things left from Father. I know . . . But you are more important, Ann."

"If you would just listen to my ideas, we could sell my designs or—"

"I got a job."

It's not a complete lie. After all, I will be working in the opera house soon, and . . . serving Dahlia. Still, a bitter taste fills my mouth. "That's where I was last night. I sold my ring to this lady, and she offered me a job."

"Oh, Cleo, that's wonderful! What will you be doing?"

A fit of coughing overtakes Anaella and spares me from answering. The nurse hurries back into the room carrying a stack of clean towels and a large basin filled with steaming water, which she leaves by my sister's side to moisten the air.

"No more talking. You need to sleep," she says firmly to Anaella, pulling me up by the arm and grabbing the bottle of medicine from my hand.

I take a step back as Nurse Dupont applies a tincture to Anaella's chest. She moves with the efficiency that can only come from having a Talent. Her golden hair is tied into a tight bun; her white robe has many pockets containing bottles and syringes that clank together when she moves. Yet each gesture is as gentle as a spring breeze. I find comfort in the softness with which she tucks Anaella's covers.

I lean against the desk for support. My sister's designs are still scattered all over it, but Father's book is now sitting at the top. I hold it up. It's small, not much larger than my palm, filled with all the patterns and fabric choices Father used to bring Mother's old sketch designs to life. It's a guide—made especially for Anaella and me as a way to ignite the spark of fashion within us from a young age. Now it's a reminder of all I have lost. Yet my fingers tighten around it as the nurse turns to me, leading us to the front of the store.

"She will need all of my attention in the coming days," she says.

"I don't have money to pay you," I whisper. "I don't know who— "

"Lady Sibille took care of everything."

I freeze for a mere moment. Of course, this is Dahlia's doing. She promised to care for Anaella. To change our lives.

"I shall stay here in the extra bed with your sister until she's well again. And Dr. Banks will be visiting every few days."

"Extra bed?" The only free bed in the house is mine.

The nurse ignores me and draws out a letter from her robe. "This is for you."

I take the crisp envelope, fingers numb as I break the wax seal.

No time to rest, my little nightingale. Your sister is well taken care of, and we have work to do. Hurry up and go to your new estate. You know the way.

Love, D.

I turn the page over, but there is nothing else.

I'm supposed to leave already? It's all too soon. And what about Anaella? Dahlia can't expect me to leave her behind. My throat tightens as I look again over the words, wishing for an explanation to appear.

"Anaella is to stay here," the nurse says, as though reading my mind. "Lady Sibille gave clear instructions."

I bite my tongue, fighting against the anger that sets in my bones at the thought of leaving my sister. This wasn't a part of the deal. Or was it? I didn't ask many questions. Perhaps I have only myself to blame. But Dahlia should have been more upfront. At the same time, the nurse standing before me is proof of her power, of how she can change our lives. And as I glance at my sister breathing softly, more quietly than she has in weeks, after only one treatment, I'm filled with a sense of endless gratitude I cannot deny.

Nurse Dupont's blue eyes soften as she reads my face. "I'll take good care of her," she says. And I believe her .

I nod. The question that's been on my mind since I saw the doctor springs to my lips. "Did the doctor give a diagnosis?" I drop my voice, making sure Anaella can't hear us.

"Winter fever," she answers, just as low. "But she will heal. I never lose patients."

I close my eyes, my chest lighter by a thousand bricks. Winter fever is not a joke, but it is like music to my ears. Not consumption. She will heal.

The idea of leaving her to face it without me is physically painful, but that's what I get for putting my fate into the hands of criminals. Dahlia's reach still frightens me—how she knew about my family, my home, how quickly she managed to get a doctor and a nurse to make my sister their top priority. I have a feeling she could bring my ruin just as easily. Yet I know I have no choice. I'm doing this for Anaella.

"Don't disturb her." The nurse grabs my arm as I turn toward the back room. "She'll be out for hours after what I gave her, and she needs the rest."

My lips tremble. Now I don't even get to say goodbye.

I fight against the tears pulling at the corners of my eyes. "Tell her I'll be back as soon as I can, and . . . that I have to work."

"I will," the nurse says as I linger at the doorway.

I don't want to leave. I don't know when I'll next sleep in my own bed. The stuffy shop might be in ruins, but it's the only place I have to call home, the only place that connects me to my parents. And with Anaella left behind, I'll be leaving half of my heart with her.

I wipe a stray tear as I hold Father's book closer to my chest. I need to be stronger. "Thank you," I say, before stepping outside.

The walk to the other side of town passes in a blur as the city wakes from its slumber. Placing the ring back on my finger, I stare at its deep-red haze. I want to enjoy the sun on my face and the knowledge that Anaella is in good hands. Yet all I can think of is the price I agreed to pay to achieve that. Does Dahlia expect me to stay separated from my sister?

I should have found out more before accepting her deal, but somehow I doubt that would have changed the terms. I can still sense Dahlia's warmth around me, her perfume making me dizzy as she leaned in to whisper in my ear. There was such softness to her voice, yet at the same time it was full of so much power and command. I wish I had that type of strength and poise, but against her I stood no chance.

The polished streets sparkle in the morning light, but as I turn the corner my gaze focuses only on the estate looming right ahead. My new home.

Ivy climbs between the arching windows, while sculpted eagles perch on each side of the massive gates. They glare at me as I make my way between the rosebushes lining the path to the front door. Just yesterday Lady Adley stood upon these stairs, yelling at her coachman and judging my poor clothes. I look even worse now, with the stains of blood on my skirt and lack of sleep evident on my face. No one will ever believe I belong here.

I clutch Father's book more tightly; its presence is comforting in the face of the unknown future that awaits inside these walls. Taking a deep breath, I stuff the book into the pocket sewn into my skirt's side seam and take a hesitant step toward the stairs.

The door swings open before I can make it to the entrance. "Lady Adley, we've been expecting you!" A young maid curtsies before me.

"Adley? No, I—"

"We were all so worried when we heard about your accident." The maid steps aside as I climb the short steps to the entrance. "Those bandits should all face judgment for their sins."

"The bandits . . ."

"Oh, my lady, you are in shock. We are just so blessed that only your clothes and luggage were harmed."

The foyer spins around me as I walk inside, pressure building in my chest. Dahlia did not prepare me for her web of lies. Am I supposed to hold Lady Adley's title as well as her Talent? Did she simply relinquish it? How can I possibly take her place? I'm not a Dame. No more than the maid.

"If you'll follow me, I have already drawn you a bath."

"A bath . . ."

"Yes, my lady." The maid bows her head, a posture of reverence and respect I don't deserve. She is young, perhaps sixteen, with an array of freckles covering her smooth skin and a white band holding up her fiery red locks.

On my own, I could have found myself in her shoes—without Anaella or Father's legacy to keep afloat, I likely would have been working a menial job for room and board, just like her. Is she Talentless? Perhaps she's a third child of irresponsible parents, forced to watch as her mother and father passed their gems to her older siblings, leaving her without a magical inheritance? Or maybe her abilities are best suited to caring for others, and living in a manor while doing it is not a bad deal.

I nod awkwardly, trying to seem dignified, as we climb the grand staircase.

When I snuck into this estate the day before, my frantic heart and shaking legs took over. I never imagined I'd see this place again. But now it is mine. The fine detailing covering the golden frames of the paintings, the light reflecting from the spotless marble, the symmetrical formation of round bushes and neat flower patches outside the window. All mine.

"What is your name?" I ask as we walk along a corridor overlooking the gardens.

"Pauline LaRue, my lady."

"Beautiful name," I say, before clearing my throat. "I'm Cleodora. But you can call me Cleo." She bats her eyes in surprise. Are ladies not supposed to befriend their maids?

Pauline just smiles politely. "You must be exhausted after your travels, Lady Adley."

I keep my mouth shut for fear of incriminating myself as Pauline leads me to a set of rooms on the second floor, connected through a series of open arched doors: a study laden with leather-bound books, a sitting area overlooking the garden, a massive bedchamber draped in pink, and a pearl-white washing room.

I force myself not to gape at the swan-like golden faucets, the marble tub, the rose petals floating over the steaming water.

"Hopefully the temperature is to your liking," Pauline says, reaching to untie the back of my dress.

"I can do it," I say.

"That's my job, my la—"

I grab her hand when she touches the dress, and she freezes. "I'll do it."

"Of course. I'll go prepare a dress for you." Pauline curtsies before shuffling out of the room.

Leaning against the sink, I feel the cold touch of the marble stabilizing my spinning head. Sending my maid away is certainly not the way to keep up appearances, nor is washing by myself, but the words flew out before I could think.

The steam rising from the bath clouds the air, and I stumble toward the window, cracking it open. Even the window frames are plated in gold. As I step away from it, a wave of nausea overtakes me. I do not belong here. Especially while my ill sister sleeps in the back room of a dusty shop.

I pull at my dress as the fabric sticks to my sweating skin and the book in my pocket bumps against my thigh. I can't let the maid see it. Not when all my luggage was supposedly stolen by "bandits." But where can I hide it? I'm not even sure why I brought it. It was an instinct. A need to have a piece of home with me.

Pauline knocks on the door far too soon. "May I come in?"

"One moment!" My eyes fall on a nearby set of drawers and I dash toward it, springing the bottom one open and stuffing the book under a large stack of fresh towels. I shove it shut before quickly fiddling with the back of my dress, letting it drop to the floor. My undergarments swiftly follow and a moment later, I step into the bath, careful to keep my bandaged palm dry .

The thick bubbles offer a safe cover, and the scent of roses is overwhelming. As if sinking into a cloud, I melt into the water's embrace. "Come in," I say.

Pauline peeks into the room. "I have prepared a dress for you, my lady. Is there anything else I can do for you?" Her smile is genuine and kind. If I weren't the lady of this house, I could imagine her being my friend.

I start shaking my head, but stop. As much as I may want privacy, I must be convincing in my new role. "Actually . . . I was wondering if I could ask you a few questions."

"Of course. I'm at your service." Pauline reaches inside one of the golden cupboards and takes out a soft sponge. "To help your skin glow, my lady." She takes a step toward me but stops, clearly unsure after I sent her away before.

I need to act my part better. I give her a tiny nod and she immediately sits on a stool by my side, scrubbing my arms.

"How long have you worked for Lady Adley?"

"Less than two years. Though I have the most seniority among the staff."

"Aren't you slightly young?"

"The lady had strict rules and expectations, and no patience for older, slower workers." She hesitates, a blush blooming on her cheeks. "We were all surprised by your arrival. Lady Adley has always been private when it comes to her family. But she must be very fond of you."

"Me? Oh yes. We were close. When I was younger." The lies scorch my mouth like burning pebbles. "I'm very grateful to her."

I fall silent, pretending to occupy myself with untangling a massive knot in my hair. The memory of Lady Adley's pout and her beak-like nose wrinkling in disapproval at our only short meeting fills my head. That old woman would never have approved of someone like me, let alone willingly given me the keys to her kingdom.

"How much did my cousin tell you about me?" I ask.

"Not much. It all happened so quickly." Pauline pulls at the hem of her long sleeve. "She returned home after the performance last night in an especially bad mood, shouting about leaving the city. Come morning, a letter full of her instructions was waiting for us in the lounge, and she was gone. I believe the prospect of watching someone young take her place on stage was just too much for her. She never could allow anyone else to shine." Her palm flies to cover her mouth. "Please forgive me, I did not mean any offense."

"Don't worry about it," I mumble. "So, how did you know it was me at the door?"

Pauline wipes her hands on her apron before taking out a worn photograph from her pocket, and I immediately stop fighting the tangled mess at the back of my head. It's faded at the edges, and ripped at the upper corner, but I recognize it at once. Father spent an entire week's earnings to have it taken just last year—he said it was a special gift for my birthday. I'm wearing a new dress Father had sewn for the occasion and smiling at the camera. My face is wide and open, unfearful. I haven't smiled that way since. How on earth did Dahlia get her hands on it?

"This was among the instructions," Pauline says, eyeing my bandaged palm. "She said she had sent you her gem a few weeks ago, and her lawyer came in at first light to confirm all the legal aspects of naming you the new owner of the estate and confirming the succession matters of the Talent and accompanying title."

Succession matters. Of course. The Elite bestow their titles along with their Talents upon their heirs. I should've known that.

"But then when the messenger boy came with the news about your travel party . . ." Thankfully, Pauline seems oblivious to my turmoil. "Never mind that, you are here now. Please, let me." She returns the photo to the safety of her pocket before her skilled fingers weave through my hair to untie the stubborn knots.

"Thank you," I manage once she's done.

"It's my job," she says, reaching for the bottom drawer holding the towels .

And Father's book.

My body stiffens.

The air locks in my lungs as Pauline hovers over the drawer, the seconds stretching. Then she turns to me with a smile, holding a large mint towel, and my breath returns.

"Here you go, my lady," she says.

I try my best not to glance toward the washing room when Pauline leads me back to the pink bedchamber. I sit silently by the white and gold vanity as she styles my hair into an elaborate updo, then applies blush to my cheeks and sprays me with perfume. By the time she's done and leaves to fetch a gown, I feel like a pampered sacrificial offering—a tribute of a soul in exchange for riches.

"I believe I found a dress that might fit you." Pauline draws my attention back as she returns, carrying a garment in her outstretched arms. "I have to apologize—it's from last season, but I'll make sure to arrange a meeting with the modiste first thing tomorrow."

She keeps talking, but I'm overtaken by the silver silk in her hands. It flows in layers, catching the light in a prism of colors with each tiny movement. Father would have called it a work of art—a reflection of a glossy lake under the bright moon.

"May I?" Pauline reaches for my bathrobe.

I nod, keeping silent as she helps me into a set of heavy undergarments before putting on the dress, tying the sash around my waist with a beaded bow. The fabric gathers high around my neck, caressing my skin with softness.

Stepping away from the vanity, I walk to the large mirror standing by the corner. I might be a fraud, but when I stare into my porcelainlike reflection, heat rises to my cheeks, adding natural blush, as my heart beats faster with excitement. I look like a lady.

Pauline's reflection smiles behind me in the mirror. "Absolutely beautiful."

"I . . . "

"Oh, you don't like it." Her face drops at my hesitation, and a moment later she's already moving. "I'll go search for another one! Don't you worry, I'm sure there—"

"It's perfect," I say, and she pauses by the door. "Just . . . finer than what I'm used to wearing while at home."

"Only the best for you, my lady."

A knock on the door makes us both jump. Pauline bows her head awkwardly to me before opening it to another young maid, who can't be more than twelve years old.

The girl curtsies deeply, almost falling over herself. "Sorry to interrupt, my lady." Her gaze sweeps over me quickly before dropping back to the floor. Her eyes are wide like a frightened deer's. "Madame is here."

"Already?" Pauline's face whitens. "I'm afraid we must hurry. I'm so sorry, my lady. Please forgive me. I was assured your lesson would be later this afternoon."

"Lesson?"

"Madame is waiting for you in the music room. I will show you the way at once."

I risk one last peek toward the washing room before following her. I will have to move Father's book later.

We cross the living quarters and return to the main corridor, walk back down the massive stairway, and make our way through a set of arched doors. Servants gawk at me as we pass. They drop their glances before I catch them staring, yet I can feel their eyes lingering on my back, trying to assess the new lady of the estate.

Pauline slows down by a closed door of a corner room, right at the edge of the house. "After you, my lady."

I nod, and she opens the door for me.

"You are late," a woman calls as soon as I step inside.