I’m starting to pick up some of the bridge words as well—for example, when she points to the coffee and says, “To się nazywa kawa,” I’m pretty sure it means “That’s called coffee.”
In fact, the more comfortable Klara gets, the more she starts directing full sentences at me, just out of friendliness, not expecting me to understand it.
As she pulls open the heavy crimson drapes, she says, “Jaki Piękny dzień,” which I think is something like, “It’s a beautiful day.” Or maybe, “It’s sunny today.” I’ll figure it out as I hear more.
I notice Klara isn’t missing any bits of her fingers, and she doesn’t have any tattoos like Mikolaj’s men—none that are visible, anyway. I don’t think she’s Braterstwo herself. She just works for them.
I’m not stupid enough to think that means she’s on my side. Klara is kind, but we’re still strangers. I can’t expect her to help me.
I do expect to leave this room today, however. Mikolaj promised that if I kept eating, I could wander around the rest of the house. Everywhere but the west wing.
So after I finish, I tell Klara, “I want to go outside today.”
Klara nods, but points toward the bathroom first.
Right. I’m supposed to shower and change clothes.
The bedroom contains the giant claw-foot tub that Klara used to bathe me last night. The bathroom is much more modern, with a standing glass shower and double sinks. I rinse off quickly, then pick a clean outfit from the chest of drawers.
I pull out a white t-shirt and gray sweatshorts, like something you’d be assigned to wear in gym class. There are other fancier clothes, but I don’t want to draw attention, especially from Mikolaj’s men.
Klara picks up my dirty clothes off the floor, wrinkling her nose because they’ve gotten pretty filthy over the last few days, even though I haven’t worn them out of the room.
“Umyję je,” she says.
I’m hoping that means, “I need to wash these,” not, “I’m chucking these in the trash.”
“Don’t throw them away!” I beg her. “I need that bodysuit. For dancing.”
I point to the leotard and do a quick first to second position with my arms, to show her that I want to wear it when I practice.
Klara nods her head.
“Rozumiem.” I understand.
Klara insists on blow-drying my hair again, and styling it. She does a sort of half-up, half-down thing with braids around the crown of the head. It looks nice but takes way too long when I’m impatient to start exploring. She tries to paint my face again, but I push away the makeup bag. I never agreed to put on a full-face every day.
I hop off the chair, determined to get out of this room. As I pad toward the door in sock feet, I almost expect it to be locked again. But it opens easily. I’m able to walk out in the hallway, unescorted.
This time I look into every room as I pass.
Like most old mansions, there dozens of rooms, each with its own odd purpose. I see a music room with a giant Steinway in its center, the lid partially raised, and the legs elaborately carved with flora and marquetry. The next room contains several old easels and a wall of framed landscapes, which might have been painted by a previous occupant. Then three or four more bedrooms, each decorated in a different jewel tone. Mine is the “red room,” while the others are done in shades of emerald, sapphire, and golden yellow. Then several sitting rooms and studies, and a small library.
Most of the rooms still have the original wallpaper, peeling in some spots and water damaged in others. The majority of the furniture is original too—elaborate cabinets, upholstered armchairs and chaises, mother-of-pearl end tables, gilded mirrors, and Tiffany lamps.
My mother would kill to walk around in here. Our house is modern, but she loves historical decor. I’m sure she could tell me the names of the furniture designers, and probably the painters of the art on the walls.
Thinking about my mom makes my heart clench up. I can almost feel her fingers, tucking a stray piece of hair behind my ear. What is she doing right now? Is she thinking about me, too? Is she afraid? Is she crying? Does she know I’m still alive, because mothers always know somehow?
I shake my head to clear it.
I can’t do this. I can’t wallow in self-pity. I have to explore the house and grounds. I have to make some kind of plan.
So I go through every room. I mean to be strategic, but I soon get lost in aesthetics once more.
I don’t like to admit it, but this place is fascinating. I could spend hours in each of the rooms. The interiors are so intricate. It’s layer after layer of pattern: painted friezes and woven rugs, murals and door surrounds. There isn’t a single mirror or cupboard that isn’t carved and ornamented in some way.
I almost don’t look out the windows at all, but when I do, I notice something very interesting: through the towering oaks and maples, and the even taller ash trees, I see the corner of a building. A skyscraper. It’s not one I know by sight—nothing as distinctive as the Tribune Tower, or the Willis Tower. But I’m quite certain that I’m still in Chicago.
That knowledge gives me hope. Hope that family will track me down before too many more days slip by.
Or I could escape.
I know I have this damned bracelet around my ankle. But it’s not invincible, and neither is the Beast. If I can get off the grounds, I’ll be right in the city. I’ll be able to get to a phone, or a police station.
With that thought in mind, I head down the staircase once more to the main floor. I want to explore the grounds.
I find my way back to the formal dining room, and the ballroom. I don’t go inside either, having seen them well enough last night. On the other side of the ballroom is the grand lobby and the front door, which is twelve feet high and looks like it requires a winch to open. It’s locked and latched—there’s no going out that way.
I see Jonas walking toward the billiards room, and I duck into the nearest niche, not wanting him to see me. I’ve already passed two other soldiers, but they ignored me, obviously instructed that I’m allowed to walk around the house.
I don’t think Jonas would be so courteous. He seems to enjoy harassing me almost as much as his boss does.
Once he’s passed by, I find my way back to the glassed-in conservatory. It’s much hotter by day than by night. Still, my skin feels chilled as I pass the bench where Mikolaj was sitting. It’s empty now. I’m alone, unless he’s hiding somewhere else in all these plants.
Unlike that night, the back door is unlocked. I can turn the knob and step outside for the first time in a week.
The fresh air feels like one hundred percent pure oxygen. It rushes into my lungs, clean and fragrant, giving me an instant high. I’d gotten used to the dusty dankness of the house. Now I’m intoxicated by the breeze on my face, and the grass under my feet. I strip off my socks so I can walk around barefoot, feeling the springy earth against my arches and toes.
I’m inside a walled garden. I’ve been to famous gardens in England and France. Even they couldn’t match the pure density of this place. It’s thickly green, everywhere I look. The stone walls are covered in ivy and clematis, the flowerbeds carpeted with blooms. Shaggy hedges, rose bushes, and maple trees crowd together, with barely space to walk down the cobbled paths. I hear water flowing over fountains. I know from the top-down view out my window that this garden contains dozens of sculptures and baths, but they’re hidden in the labyrinth of plants.