Chapter 7

The housekeeper's name was Elena. She had a face like a pinched lemon and eyes that said she'd happily poison Harper's soup.

"This way," she snapped.

She led Harper up the grand staircase, past the second floor, up a narrow, winding flight of stairs to the third floor. This was the servants' quarters, or maybe the attic.

She opened a door at the end of the hall.

"Here."

The room was small. Round. It was inside one of the turrets. The walls were bare stone. There was a single bed, a small sink, and a window.

The window had iron bars on it.

"It's a cell," Harper said.

"It's what you deserve," Elena spat. She grabbed Harper's backpack from her shoulder. "Mr. Burke says no contraband."

"Hey!"

She dumped the contents onto the floor. Harper's few clothes, a toothbrush, a book on neuroanatomy. And her leather roll.

Elena kicked the leather roll. "What is this? Drug paraphernalia?"

"Don't touch that."

Harper's voice dropped an octave. She stepped forward.

Elena sneered and bent down to pick it up. "I'm throwing this trash out."

Harper moved.

She didn't think about it. She grabbed Elena's wrist, her thumb pressing into the Taiyuan point. She applied just enough pressure to send a shockwave of pain up Elena's radial nerve.

Elena shrieked and dropped the roll. She clutched her arm, staring at Harper in horror.

"You... you witch!"

"Leave it," Harper said, her chest heaving. "Get out."

Elena backed away, fear warring with anger in her eyes. "I'm telling Mr. Burke! You're going to regret this!"

She slammed the door. Harper heard the lock click from the outside.

She was locked in.

Harper sank to the floor, gathering her tools. They were safe.

She looked around the room. It was a birdcage. A gilded, stone birdcage.

Harper went to the window. The rain was lashing against the glass. She looked at the bars. They were old iron, set deep into the stone. But...

She squinted. The spacing. It was about six inches.

Most people couldn't fit their head through that. But Harper wasn't most people. She had hyper-mobility. It was a genetic quirk of the Solis line, enhanced by years of yoga and contortion training for the circus.

She could dislocate her shoulders. She could compress her ribcage.

If she could get out, she could climb down the ivy. The wall wasn't that high here.

Harper checked the door. Locked solid.

She looked at the window again. It was madness. It was dangerous.

But she couldn't stay here. Not with Finn. Not with the memories.

Harper waited until the house went quiet. Until the lights in the garden dimmed.

She stripped off the sequined bodysuit and put on her dark leggings and a tight black t-shirt. She tied her hair back.

She approached the window.

"Sorry, Finn," she whispered. "I don't do cages."