The Writing Retreat(90)
“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.
Daphne sat up. So Lamia was there after all.
You knew they would all betray you in the end. Lamia’s voice was calm. Now everything is laid bare. And when I show you the ultimate Truth, you must be ready.
Daphne didn’t trust herself to make a reply that wouldn’t sound short-tempered. So instead she just went to the tray and started to eat.
Chapter 34
The next surprise occurred four days later. In the interim, the days melted into each other: write, eat, sleep, repeat. My scalp itched constantly and I wondered if I’d picked up fleas. I fell asleep at random times on the futon and dreamed that the sound of Wren’s and Keira’s typing was the thrumming of rain against a roof.
As Roza had predicted, my writing was the most vivid it had ever been. Scenes unfurled like flowers, one after the other. And as the possibility of escape seemed more and more remote, I clung to the book like a life jacket.
On Thursday afternoon, Taylor came in to collect Wren.
“You’re up, princess.” She tossed both the handcuffs and a wet rag through the bars.
Wren picked up the rag and gently wiped at her face, then her armpits. I never could’ve imagined seeing her like this: greasy, hollow-eyed, almost feral looking. The deep scrapes on her cheek still looked raw and angry, despite the antibiotic ointment. There would certainly be scars.
But this was life now. I’d met with Roza alone for a second time the night before and had listened to her helpful feedback on Daphne and Lamia. Say what you would about Roza, she was an excellent editor. The thought made me want to start laughing and never stop.
“Don’t let her know you’ve been crying,” Taylor called as Wren threw back the rag. “It’ll piss her off.”
“Okay.” Wren put her hands behind her back and I picked up the handcuffs. Keira watched both of us, forlorn. She’d spoken less and less, and she’d stopped talking about escape altogether. The meals had gotten smaller—maybe Chitra didn’t have enough food—and it was making us even more listless.
Wren stood hunched in the low space, so different from her queenly, straight-backed posture. The knobs of her vertebrae stuck out of the back of her neck.
“It’s okay,” I whispered. I wanted to hug her, pull her to me like a child, but Taylor wouldn’t like that. Handcuffed, Wren went to the door. Keira and I pressed our hands against the back wall, as was the rule, until we heard the iron door click shut.