Page 28 of Daughter of a Monster

“Fine, fine.” Gideon drains the last of his drink. “I will take my leave too.” He crooks his elbow. “Allow me to escort you to your room, Not-Miss-Berkley. Maybe you can show me some of your moves on the way.” He winks.

“Actually.” Jericho clears his throat. His eyes flick to mine quickly. “There’s something I need to discuss with Miss—with Berkley. Would you mind staying a while?”

“Of course not.” I feel like I’m caught between the two.

“Are you afraid I’m going to take what’s yours again, brother?” He laughs and then holds up his hands at Jericho’s cold glare. “I’m leaving, I’m leaving. Until tomorrow, sweet dancer girl.” He bows, flourishing an imaginary hat.

Jericho clears his throat, his eyes burning a hole in Gideon’s back. “I’d like to apologize for my brother’s behavior. We’re an unconventional family. I do hope you'll forgive us.”

He doesn’t offer an explanation to Gideon’s outburst or address any of the things he said. There’s nothing I can do but sit and smile, attempting to assure him that there’s nothing to forgive.

“What I wished to talk to you about was Ette’s lesson today. When I walked in I noticed the routines you were using weren’t exactly…” he pauses, looking for the right word but I cut in instead.

“I can assure you that I will take a more structured approach in the future. I just wanted to set her at ease for the first lesson. Have some fun.”

Jericho nods gravely. “Very well then, but I’d prefer you took this seriously. I know things are a little strange around here but everything I’m doing is to give her the best possible life. Ette needs structure and routine. She needs to know the value of hard work, discipline, and determination.”

“I agree,” I say hesitantly. “But also, dance is an art form. It is meant to be performed with passion. You have to love dancing to keep doing it. And you cannot love something without passion.”

“Is that why you accepted this position? Because you stopped loving it?”

“No.” I lower my head, afraid that he will see the truth behind my eyes. “I love to dance. I just have the common sense to know I will never be great. As much as I love it, as you so clearly pointed out the other day, I don’t have the natural-born talent or skill to pursue it as a career. And as the saying goes, ‘those who can, do; those who can’t, teach’.”

He leans forward ever so slightly and I get caught in his gaze again. I wonder if he feels any of the same things as I do when our eyes meet. Does his breath hitch? Does his heart skip a beat?

“But you have passion. I saw it when you performed. None of the others had it in the same way you did. When you danced, you were free.”

chapter ten

BERKLEY

Sinking down into the water that fills the over-sized claw-foot bath, I allow it to cover everything but the circle of my face and my legs which hang over the sides. Both my big toes are black, one of the nails almost ready to fall off. It’s the price you pay.

I keep thinking of the way he looked at me. How soft his lips appeared. The sharpness of his jaw. The way he looks both worn and fresh, damaged yet not broken. He’d come so close to breaking his cold façade and I’d been trapped in his gaze, entranced. Until he cleared his throat and stood up, excusing himself from the table with nothing more than a curt goodnight.

And the strange revelation made by Gideon, could it be true?

Did Jericho really kill his own father when he was just a child?

Of course, I know it will only be a snippet of the truth, if it’s true at all. I know all too well how easy it is to take one aspect of a story and twist it into whatever truth you want. But for some unknown reason, it doesn’t worry me. I don’t feel any fear of Jericho Priest despite what his brother said. Gideon came across as somewhat unhinged. I doubt there is any truth to his drunken tales at all.

I haven’t seen either of the brothers since that first dinner. It’s like they’ve disappeared. No one offers an explanation for their absence and I feel as though it would be rude of me to ask. I am, after all, merely the dance tutor.

Even though I’ve only been here a matter of days, I’ve already developed a routine. I rise early, the sound of birdsong rousing me from sleep and slip down to the pool. It’s indoors with lush greenery surrounding it. The gym is off to one side, but I prefer the pool. It’s calming to swim back and forth. Every day I do twenty lengths. It’s not a lot, just enough to get my blood pumping. Breakfast is always loud and raucous in the kitchen, everyone but Miss Jones joining in on the conversation. The rest of my mornings are spent reading or wandering the grounds and my afternoons are taken with Ette’s lessons. It’s a quiet existence. Peaceful.

The bathroom has been painted black. Exposed copper pipes run along the walls giving off an industrial feel. Mrs Bellamy has shined them to within an inch of their life and they sparkle under the muted glow of the lamps.

Even with my ears under the water, I can hear the groaning of the pipes. They seem to play a tune, almost breathing. With the stillness of the nights, the Sanctuary comes alive. It has a language all of its own, haunting and melodic. And it’s while listening to this gentle tune that I fall asleep.

I start to dream but, of course, I don’t know that. For me, trapped in the nightmare of my mind, everything is real. Real and terrifying.

There’s a girl in a concrete cell. A single window above her lets in the moonlight. She’s sitting in its glow, her hair shining like a halo. It’s not until I get closer that I notice the twisted knots of rope around her hands. The rope is slack, allowing her a small freedom, but the ends are connected to a ring in the ceiling.

Her eyes are down, her hair covering her face. She recoils when I step closer, but it’s only as I try to speak that I realize she isn’t recoiling from me. She’s recoiling fromhim.

My father is there. He’s stroking her hair as tears fall down her cheeks. I don’t know why I didn’t see it before, but she’s naked. Her body is thin with hunger, the bones of her ribs exposed.

My father is talking, but I don’t hear his words. It’s like he’s been muted. But she hasn’t. I hear her whimpers, her pleading, her ragged breaths. She tries to pull away, but he grabs a fistful of her hair and jerks her back, leaning low to hiss in her ear.

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