Stolen Heir - Sophie Lark Page 0,54

Now that I’m working on this other thing, I think what I did before was stupid. And not very good.”

“Good enough for him to use, though,” I say.

“Yeah,” she says. “Parts of it, anyway.”

She wraps her thin arms around her legs, hugging her thighs against her chest. Her flexibility is unnerving. So is her fragility. No wonder so many people take advantage of her. Her family. This director. And me, of course.

Nothing about Nessa exudes strength.

She’s not intimidating.

But she is . . . intriguing.

She’s a piece of music that gets stuck in your head, repeating over and over.

The more you hear it, the more it lodges in your brain.

Most people become predictable, the longer you watch them.

Nessa Griffin is the opposite. I thought I knew exactly who she was—a sheltered little princess. A dancer living in a fantasy world.

But she’s much cleverer than I gave her credit for. She’s creative, perceptive.

And genuinely kind.

I learn that the next day, when I spy on her yet again. I see her slip back up to the attic, to retrieve this mysterious dress on which she’s so fixated.

It’s black and silver, definitely old-fashioned. Maybe from one of those Gilded Age costume balls, like the Vanderbilts used to throw. I didn’t know the dress existed. The attic is packed with boxes, more added by every family that lived in this house, and almost none ever removed.

I watch Nessa bring the dress back to her room. She airs it out, making sure it’s clean of every speck of dust.

Then she lays it out on the bed and waits.

When Klara comes in with the dinner tray, Nessa rushes over to her.

There’s no sound from the camera, but I can see the expressions on their faces clearly enough.

Klara shakes her head, not wanting to get in trouble.

Nessa assures her it’s alright, that I’ve given permission.

Still not believing, Klara touches the skirt of the dress. Then she hugs Nessa.

Out of all the things Nessa could have asked me for, she wanted that dress. But not for herself. She wanted to give it as a gift.

I should fire Klara. It’s obvious the two girls have grown close. It’s too risky for Nessa’s jailer to be her friend.

Still, as I watch them laughing and gently touching the dress, I don’t want to do it.

Maybe later. Not today.

18

Nessa

I’m losing track of how long I’ve been at Mikolaj’s house.

Days slip by so fast when you don’t have any schedule, or anything planned.

I have no idea what’s going on in the real world. I don’t have a TV, a phone, or a computer. World War Three could have started, and I’d have no idea.

I’m in a place without dates or times. It could be 1890 or 2020, or something in between.

You’d think that I’d be obsessing about my family constantly. At first, I was—I knew they’d be looking for me. Worried, terrified, thinking I was dead. I missed them. God, I missed them. I’d never gone that long without speaking to my mom, not to mention Riona, Callum, and Dad. Aida, too! We usually text twenty times a day, even if it’s just cat memes.

Now I feel like I’ve slipped into another world. They’re much farther away than the other side of the city.

I’m not dreaming about them at night anymore.

My dreams are much darker than that. I wake up in the morning flushed and sweating. Too embarrassed to even admit where my mind has wandered in the night . . .

In the day I think about the strangers living in this house with me. I wonder about Klara, what her life was like in Poland. What her family’s like. I wonder about the rest of the men in this house—why Andrei spends so much time roaming around the grounds, and whether Marcel has a crush on Klara, as I suspect he does.

The only person I don’t wonder about is Jonas, because I find him deeply creepy. I hate the way he watches me whenever we cross paths in the house. He’s worse than Mikolaj, because at least Mikolaj is genuine—he genuinely hates me. Jonas pretends to be friendly. He’s always smiling and trying to make conversation. His smiles are as fake as his cologne.

Today he corners me in the kitchen. I’m looking for Klara, but she’s not there.

“What do you need?” Jonas says, leaning up against the fridge so I can’t pass.

“Nothing,” I say.

“Come on.” He grins. “You must need something, or else why would you come in here? What is it? What’s