gathered, Nathaniel Matthews is the only doctor here at the “Palace,” which means he holds more power than he’s willing to admit.
With the astringent scent of the antimicrobial cream permeating the room, and my nose, I press my case: “You keep the lot of them alive. What more sway could you possibly need?”
“Around here? Being Godwin would be a good start.”
At his name, my heart hardens to stone.
Godwin may have left hours ago, but I can still feel his hot breath on the back of my neck and his unsympathetic fingers grazing my spine. Each tug of glass from my flesh sharpened my hatred while each demeaning insult hurled my way . . . Well, those made me ache. To return the favor tenfold; to treat him with the same callous ambivalence that he so easily bestowed upon me.
Sticks and stones may break my bones, but words can never hurt me.
Clearly, Godwin has failed to master even the most rudimentary basics of humanity.
“He’s vile.”
A sink turns on nearby, the water flowing at a trickle. “He’s . . . troubled.”
“Troubled implies he’s redeemable, and I think it’s safe to say that Godwin is long past being saved.” My lips press flat. “Only a monster takes advantage of the indefensible.”
Dr. Matthews clears his throat. “He wasn’t—”
“And you’re defending him.”
“Hold on now, I’m not defending him.”
I keep my hands firmly planted on my thighs and my face turned forward—heedless of the fact that Matthews’ voice, and the rush of water from the faucet, comes from beyond my right shoulder. “Aren’t you?”
“Of course not!”
“He made me bleed.”
“Between the glass and the fire, your skin was . . . is quite raw.”
“And that excuses him for manhandling me?”
I tilt my head, hold my breath, and wait.
The sink turns off, followed by the distinct sound of a towel rubbing briskly against skin, as if the good surgeon is determined to buy himself time. But his hesitation stretches on, and on, until he’s left with no choice but to ditch the rag. It lands with a wet thwack on a counter. Even then, he says nothing.
You cannot beat the best, Dr. Matthews.
“I suppose . . .” Ducking my head, I draw my shoulders inward and drop my voice to a husky murmur. “I suppose working for Holyrood takes precedence over your care for a patient.”
“I don’t . . . I’m not one for . . . That is to say—fuck.”
Smothering a victorious grin, I layer on another dose of self-pity for good measure. “I barely escaped with my life.”
“Except you lived!” Agitated footsteps shuffle past before returning a second later. “You’re alive.”
“Without my sight,” I whisper in a painstakingly aching voice, dialed all the way to ten to pull on every one of his heartstrings. “I’m alone, Dr. Matthews, totally and completely alone. I don’t even know what this place is, never mind how I’ll—”
“Ightham Mote.”
The hospital gown crinkles beneath my fingertips. “Sorry?”
“You’re at Ightham Mote,” he says, “but we call it the Palace. You won’t find it anywhere on a map. Or rather, you would. Everyone thinks we’re an insane asylum.”
I nearly laugh at the irony.
Godwin, the snake, absolutely deserves to be locked away.
Gritting my teeth at the visceral memory of his impersonal, cruel touch, I dip my chin to my chest and ignore the aching pull of flesh stretching across my nape and shoulders. Dr. Matthews was all too kind to point out that he’d removed ninety-seven shards of glass from my back—all of which I heard drop into a metal basin.
Ping. Ping. Ping.
I’ll hear that sound for the rest of my life—nestled beside the long-ago memories of my mother’s screams, minutes before Margaret dragged me from my bedroom window.
I was born in fire and nearly died in its fiery embrace too.
Resolve stiffens my spine. “You’ll take me to the queen.”
A rush of air bursts from Dr. Matthews’ lips. “Godwin gave me strict orders to keep you here.”
“I’ll scream.”
“Miss Carrigan, this is out of my—”
“I’ll scream until you’re forced to sedate me, and when the medicine wears off, I’ll wake screaming again.” If expression had sound, then his jaw just came unhinged. Before he can protest, I add, “I’m about to become your worst nightmare, Doctor. Don’t think I won’t.”
A beat passes, and then yet another.
My stomach twists with anxiety and frustration, a cocktail of panic that I remember all too well from years spent talking to men who’d rather stick their hands down my knickers than pretend, for even a second, that I was