her job for a stranger?
I spend a lot of time looking out the window. The windows are six feet high, tall and rectangular, with arched tops. The beveled glass is striped with strips of lead, and they don’t open. Even if they did, it’s three very tall stories down to the ground.
The windows are set in stone walls more than a foot thick. It’s like being locked in the tower of a castle.
I have my own bathroom, at least, so I can pee and shower and brush my teeth.
The first time I walked in there and saw a toothbrush, floss, hairbrush, and comb lined up next to the sink, all brand new and untouched, it gave me a shiver of dread. My abduction was planned out ahead of time. I can only imagine what other plots are spinning around in my captor’s deranged mind.
I still don’t even know his name.
I was so horrified when we met that I didn’t even ask him.
In my mind, I’ve been calling him the Beast. Because that’s what he is to me—a rabid dog that lost its master. Now he’s trying to bite anyone he can reach.
I don’t eat any of the food on the trays.
At first, it’s because my stomach is churning with stress, and I don’t have any appetite.
By the second day, it’s become a form of protest.
I have no intention of playing along with the Beast’s psychopathic plot. I won’t be his little pet locked up in this room. If he thinks he’s going to keep me here for weeks or months, only to kill me in the end, I’d rather starve right now just to ruin his plans.
I still drink water out of the bathroom sink—I don’t have quite enough nerve to face the torture of dehydration. But I’m pretty confident I can go a long time without eating. Calorie restriction and ballet go hand-in-hand. I know what it’s like to feel hungry, and I’m used to ignoring it.
It makes me tired. But that’s fine. I don’t have anything to do in this damned room anyway. There are no books. No paper in the writing desk. The only way to spend my time is window-gazing.
I have no barre, but I can still practice pliés, tendus, dégagés, rond de jambe a terre, frappés, adages, and even grand battement. I don’t dare practice any serious jumps or cross-floor exercises, because of the ancient rugs on the floor. I don’t want to trip and sprain an ankle.
The rest of the time I sit in the window seat, looking down at the walled garden. I see fountains and statues down there. Gazebos and pretty bench seats. It’s all overgrown—apparently the Beast doesn’t pay for a gardener. But the asters are blooming, and the snapdragons, and Russian sage. The purple blooms are brilliant against the red leaves. The longer I’m trapped inside, the more desperate I am to sit down there, smelling the flowers and the grass, instead of being locked in this dim and dusty room.
By the fourth day, the maid tries to encourage me to eat. She gestures at the tray of tomato soup and bacon sandwiches, saying something in Polish.
I shake my head.
“No thanks,” I say. “I’m not hungry.”
I want to ask her for some books, but the stubborn part of me won’t ask my captors for anything. Instead, I try to remember the best parts of all my favorite novels, especially the ones I loved when I was little. The walled garden reminds me of the one in The Secret Garden. I think about Mary Lennox. She was only a child, and she already had an iron will. She wouldn’t cave in over a bowl of soup, no matter how good it smelled. She’d throw it against the wall.
On the fifth day, the maid doesn’t bring me any breakfast or lunch. Instead, she comes in the afternoon carrying a green silk dress in a garment bag. She starts filling the huge claw-foot tub with hot water, gesturing for me to get undressed.
“Absolutely not,” I say, crossing my arms over my chest.
I’ve been putting on my same dirty clothes after every shower, refusing to wear anything out of the wardrobe.
The maid sighs and leaves the room, returning a few minutes later with a burly, black-haired man at her side.
I recognize him. He’s the asshole who pretended like he was going to fix my car, then jabbed me in the arm instead. The thought of him putting those big, meaty, hairy hands on me