Page 126 of Rage

His skin is untouched.

Rubbing his eyes and scratching his head, he stands from the bed to investigate the chambers he woke up in.

If it weren’t for the eerily strange place, he would’ve thought he was in some sort of fever dream, but as he makes it to the window and opens the drapes, the sprawling maze of hedges with the fire flower atop the fountain confirms it is absolutely real.

A draft crawls up his legs, and when he looks down, he realizes he is not wearing a lick of clothing.

Covering his middle portion, he ambles to the closet to find something to wear.

Surprisingly, pants and shirts all his size occupy the wardrobe.

As he pulls on a white shirt and black pants, he wonders who brought him here to this room and who took off all his clothes.

A hunger pang rumbles in his stomach, and he applies pressure, hoping it will lessen the pain until he can find some food.

The great oak doors to his room open with a creak and slam closed behind him with a hollow thud. His bare feet slap the cold, black stone of the manor stairs while he makes his way to the foyer for something to eat.

The vaulted ceiling looms high overhead in the grand foyer, adorned with chandeliers dripping black crystals that catch the dim light and fracture it into fleeting rainbows on the polishedmarble floor. The air here is thick, silent in a way that presses against his ears, making him acutely aware of his heartbeat.

An elderly man with a skeletal frame and a black suit that fits too well for comfort steps forward. His pale blue eyes linger on him for a moment longer than necessary before he speaks.

“Sir,” the man intones, his voice a low, gravelly echo in the cavernous space. “You are to remain on the west wing of the estate. Attempting to go elsewhere or leave will…not end well.”

“Who are you?” Steele queries, taking a cautious step back.

“I am Edmund, sir. The manor’s butler.”

Steel stiffens, his fingers curling into his palms. “Well, Edmund, I was only looking for food; I wasn’t trying to leave.”

Edmund’s lips curl into something resembling a smile but devoid of warmth. “I’ll show you back to your room and have something sent up.”

A flicker of movement at the top of the sweeping staircase leading to the east wing draws Steele’s gaze. His eyes rake across the massive foyer and the landing of the east wing. A portrait of a woman—young, delicate, with a cascade of sable locks—watches him from the shadows of her frame. Her eyes, dark blue and sharp, seemingly narrow on him before slipping back to looking straight ahead. “What’s up there?” he asks as he follows the man back toward the way he came.

“You’re forbidden from entering the east wing,” Edmund continues as though Steele hadn’t spoken. “It’s a matter of the utmost importance.”

Steele frowns. “Why?”

The butler tilts his head, considering him. “It’s not your concern. Shall I show you to your room?”

His every instinct tells him to turn around, to press back through those heavy doors, and to disappear into the forest he had come from. But the doors, massive and ancient, are alreadysealed shut. And he feels that the manor wouldn’t let him leave even if he tried.

“Fine,” Steele mutters, his voice barely above a growl.

The butler gestures with a thin hand. “Follow me.”

They ascend the grand staircase to the west, passing by heavy, embroidered tapestries that depict scenes of war and ruin. The house shifts as they move, its hallways bending in subtle ways that make no sense. When they reach the west wing, where Steele’s quarters lay, he can no longer tell how far he is from the foyer or even the hallway he originally came from.

At last, the butler stops in front of a door with iron fittings. “This is your room. Dinner is served promptly at eight in the main dining hall. I suggest you not be late.”

Steele steps inside again without another word, and the door slams shut behind him.

That was pointless.

His hunger still haunts him.

He sits on the bed and looks around the simple room, yet larger than any place he’d ever slept. The bed is canopied, its dark velvet curtains heavy and still. A fire crackles in the hearth, though he hadn’t seen anyone light it.

But something about the woman in the painting and the cold dismissal of the east wing gnaws at him.

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