My twin, however, does not like to discuss what will happen in four years, when I’ll be dead and he’ll have five years of life in him. I wonder what he’s doing now and if he’s okay. I wonder how long it will take me to break free of this place, or at least communicate to him that I’m alive. But somewhere, in a place in my heart that’s darker than that awful basement, I worry that my corpse will become part of Housemaster Vaughn’s research, and my brother will never even know what’s happened to me.
For that, I am not sorry that Linden Ashby is off somewhere being sad because of something I said at dinner.
It’s been so hard to keep track of the days in this mansion, when they all look the same, when I’m nothing more than Linden’s prisoner. I’ve never been apart from my brother for so long; from the time we were tod-dlers, our mother fit my hand in his and told us to stay together. And we did. We were together on our walks to school, clinging to each other in case of dangers lurking in the ruins of an old building, in the shadow of an abandoned car. We were together on our walks to work, and our voices kept each other company at night, in a dark house once filled with our parents’ presence. Before now I’d never been away from him a day in my life.
I thought that as twins we would always be able to reach each other, that from far away I would still hear his voice as clearly as I heard him in the next room of our house. We would talk to each other as we moved about the rooms—him in the kitchen, me in the living room—to keep the silence of our parents’ deaths away.
“Rowan,” I whisper. But the sound doesn’t travel farther than my bedroom. The cord between us is severed.
“I’m alive. Don’t give up on me.”
As though in answer, there’s a soft knock at the door.
I know it’s not Cecily because it’s not followed by a question or a demand. Deirdre doesn’t knock, and it wouldn’t be Gabriel at this hour. “Who is it?”
The door cracks open and I see Jenna’s gray eyes.
“Can I come in?” she asks in her wispy voice.
I sit up on the bed and nod. She purses her lips in the closest I’ve seen her come to a smile, and takes a seat on the edge of my mattress.
“I saw the way Governor Linden looked at you when you brought up the orange grove,” she says. “Why?”
My instincts caution me to be wary of this somber bride, but I’m in just the right stage of grief to pull down my defenses—to lower the mast, I suppose Gabriel would say, and allow myself to drift into uncertain waters. And she seems so timid and harmless in her white nightgown that’s like mine, with her long dark hair in a veil around her shoulders. Something about all this makes me want to see her as a sister, as a confidant.
“It’s because of Rose,” I say. “He fell in love with her in the orange grove. That was her favorite place, and he hasn’t been able to stand it since she became sick.”
“Really?” she says. “How do you know that?”
“Rose told me,” I say, and I stop myself from adding that Rose told me all sorts of things about our husband.
I want to keep some of his frailties to myself, such as the infection that nearly killed him as a boy and that caused him to lose several teeth, hence the gold ones. These things make him seem less menacing somehow. Like someone I can overpower or outsmart when the time is right.
“So that’s why he looked so sad,” she says, picking lint off her hemline.
“That’s what I wanted,” I say. “He had no right to bring us here, and I guess he’ll never realize that. So I wanted to hurt him like he hurt me.”
Jenna looks at her lap, and her lip quirks in what I think will be a smile or a laugh, but her eyes well with tears and her voice is broken when she says, “My sisters were in that van.”
Her skin pales, and mine flourishes with gooseflesh as her little sobs wrack the bed. The room is colder, and the nightmare is growing into so much more than I thought it could be. It only gets worse in this mansion of sweet smells and extra bright gardens. I think of the gunshots that have haunted me since I arrived. How many of those were Jenna’s sisters, and which ones? The first shot? The fifth? The sixth?
I’m too stunned to speak.
“When you brought up the orange grove, I didn’t know what it was, but I saw that it was hurting him,” she sobs, swipes her nose with her fist. “And I wanted him to hurt, so I agreed with you. He has no idea, does he? What he’s taken away?”
“No,” I agree softly. I offer her Gabriel’s handkerchief, which I’ve been keeping in my pillowcase, but she shakes her head, apparently hating this place too much to even blow her nose on its cloths.
“I only have two years left,” she says. “There’s nothing for me out there now, and maybe I’m trapped here, but I won’t let him have his way with me. I don’t care if he murders me, he won’t have me.”
I think of her cold stiff body being pushed into a basement laboratory. I think of Housemaster Vaughn dissecting his daughters-in-law one by one.
I’m not sure what to say, because I do understand her anger. I am a good liar, but lies won’t help me here. Jenna is a girl who has no illusions about what will happen to her; she knows it will never be okay. Am I the one in denial?
“What if you could get out?” I say. “Would you?”