“Did Chitra try to write something for you?” I asked.
“Of course not. She’s simply my chef.”
“Oh.” That was even more depressing. “So she’s just involved in all this for the money.”
“Her daughter is terribly sick, dear. I cover her medical expenses.”
I scoffed. “So it’s worth it. Murder.”
“Zoe’s death was not planned,” Roza said softly. “And, remember, she was never supposed to be here.”
I stared at her. She was the very picture of health: glowing skin, sparkling emerald eyes. Had she become more attractive since we’d been imprisoned?
“You’re enjoying this,” I said.
“No.” Roza closed her eyes. “I find violence rather crass. I would much rather discuss your manuscript, but we must have new pages in order to do that.”
“Right.”
Roza folded her hands on her lap. “So here’s my proposal, dear. You continue writing. You convince Wren to keep writing. And if all three of you finish your novels, I will let you go. And I will let you take your books with you.”
I laughed weakly. “Sure.”
A knowing smile alighted her face. “I’ve been planning an escape for a while, you know. When you tap into something greater than you, the force I mentioned—well, you learn to follow it, like a scent in the wind. That’s why I took the chance with you all. I knew my role as a facilitator of masterpieces was coming to an end. That this was the last book I would need. I’m realizing now that perhaps my last book has already been published: Maiden Pink.”
Taylor’s book.
“So it’s over?” I asked. “You’re stopping, just like that?”
“Truthfully, I’m getting rather tired of the fame.” She frowned. “I can’t even walk down the street without people stopping me, wanting to take selfies with me. It’s exhausting. Not to mention undignified.”
“But…” This new information didn’t compute. “If you’re going to let us go anyway, why do we need to finish our books here? Why not release us right now?”
“Because”—her eyes glittered—“you won’t finish them. You’ll leave here and never want to think of them again. And even if you did return to them later, they wouldn’t be what they are right now, with you writing from the very edge of a knife. They won’t be truly great.”
I opened my mouth and closed it.
In a strange way, I knew what she was saying.
“So.” Her lips curled, as if she could read my thoughts. “You will stay, and you will finish. And you will live. All right?”
“But… wait. You said this part of your life is coming to an end. What do you mean by that?” I struggled to work it out. “What could the next part possibly be?”
“Don’t worry yourself about that.” She smiled softly. “I’ll be just fine. Now, do we have a deal?”
After a few seconds, in which my mind settled on the truth, I nodded.
“Good.” She grinned, and I could almost hear the unsaid, tacked on word: Good girl.
But it meant nothing to me. This conversation had made it clear.
I knew Roza believed what she’d told me: that a great unseen Force told her what to do. But even if she had a grand plan to disappear, I couldn’t envision her unlocking our cell door and letting us go off with our novels. That was too generous, too kind. It seemed… un-Roza-like.
And there was one thing I did know about Roza, based on the works she’d chosen to nurture and launch into the world.
Roza abhorred a happy ending.
Excerpt from The Great Commission
Daphne stared with a mixture of shock and horror as Abigail—her sweet, supportive, innocent young friend—stepped through the doorway to the basement. Her face was as serene as an angel’s. She carried a tray.
Still, Daphne held out hope as she flew to the bars. “Help me! The key…”
Abigail bent down, leaving the cold food within Daphne’s reach. She then sat lightly on the stool that Dina had brought down to have a restful place from which to torture her.
“I’m afraid this is where you should be.” Abigail watched Daphne with open curiosity, like a spectator at a freak show.
“What are you talking about?” Daphne sputtered, her hands squeezing into fists.
Abigail primly folded her hands in her lap. “At first it was all fun and games, Daph, but then… it took you over. You became obsessed. It wasn’t healthy. And…” Her expression hardened. “… it wasn’t real.”
Wasn’t real? Abigail had been there as Daphne wrote reams about things she didn’t know, from people she’d never met. How could she experience those nights and think—what? That Daphne was making it all up?
“So you and Florence…，” Daphne started.
“Florence left a long time ago. That old cow.” Abigail shook her head, disgusted but somehow pleased. It was the same look that came over Dina’s face: a sudden joyful relief in taking off that veil of politeness, deference, kindness. That was the way of the world: if you were a woman, then you had a job to do, and that was to pretend to love everyone else walking all over your body, leaving imprints on your face. You were supposed to pretend to crave it, to beg for more. But down here in this dungeon… the normal rules didn’t apply. Down here, women could be as honest as they wanted.
“We’re trying to help you.” Abigail leaned forward. Daphne could tell it gave her a deep thrill to look down on her this way.
And in truth, it was impressive. Daphne had always thought Abigail was the weak one. But it turned out she’d just been biding her time.
“？‘We’？” Daphne asked, already knowing the answer.
“Well.” Abigail smirked. “Of course I had to inform poor Horace of what was going on. Neither of us expected you to continue to be so bullheaded, not after he burned your paintings.”
“Abigail.” Daphne clutched the bars. “If you think this was fake, could you bring me paper? And pencils? There’s no harm, is there, if it’s just my delusions?”
“Daphne.” Abigail tilted her head. “As soon as this damn storm passes, I promise that you’ll get the assistance you need.”
Abigail swearing—that might have been the most surprising part of all. Daphne pressed her lips together in a grim smile. And where was Abigail sleeping these nights? Was Horace another one of the poor lost sheep who needed her?
No matter. Daphne went to the dusty mattress and lay down, turning her face to the wall. She shouldn’t have asked for the paper. Lamia would scoff to see her beg like that.
“Just another day or two.” Abigail’s voice drifted to her. “And this will all be over. We’ll find a good place for you. A safe place.”
Daphne knew exactly what kind of place Abigail spoke of: scowling nurses, straps on the beds, constant distant screams.
Abigail’s skirts whispered against each other as she left. Daphne was hungry but too tired to make herself eat. Her whole body felt like it was stuffed with pebbles.
Keep up your strength. The words were strong, clear, as if spoken a mere foot or two away.