Page 36 of Her Cruel Empire
The door.
What’sbehindthat door? A prisoner? Someone Eva is torturing for information? A victim of her business dealings?
What if…what ifI’mgoing to find myself behind that door when these thirty days are up?
The walls feel like they’re closing in. I need air.Space. Somewhere that doesn’t smell like Eva’s perfume and ancient secrets. I grab the burgundy coat—it’s gorgeous and fits perfectly—and head outside before I can talk myself out of it.
The castle grounds stretch before me, all muddy paths and half-frozen gardens. The air is crisp and clean, tasting of pine and coming snow. Winter was never much of a season back in Vegas, but here it lies deep and thorough over the land. I don’t mind it, snuggling into my warm coat. I breathe deeply, feeling the knot in my chest loosen a little.
That’s when I see them: the side gates, standing slightly ajar. That’s where Mira, the village girl on the dirt bike, came through the other morning.
Through the bars, I can see a winding dirt track. It disappears into the forest, but beyond the treeline, I catch glimpses of rooftops. Woodsmoke rising into the gray sky.
The village.
Eva said to stay inside. But she’s gone, and I’m not her prisoner. Am I?
Besides, I can’t stand the idea of going back inside the castle and wandering those lonely halls like a ghost. So before I can second-guess myself, I’m walking through the gates and down the muddy path.
The village is smaller than I expected. Stone buildings with steep roofs cluster around a tiny square. Laundry lines stretchbetween windows. A church bell tower rises above it all, dark against the cloudy sky.
Some villagers nod when they see me. Others turn their backs.
Children playing in the square stop their soccer game to stare. They whisper to each other in their language, pointing at my coat, my boots, my obvious foreignness.
I smile and wave. “Hello.”
The youngest—a girl of maybe six years old with pigtails—approaches cautiously. She says something I don’t understand, but her tone is curious, not afraid.
I crouch down to her level. “Hello. I’m Robin.”
She giggles and pats my coat. She says a word that might meansoft, or maybepretty.
Soon the other children gather around. Language barriers dissolve when kids are involved. We play a clapping game that transcends words. I French braid one girl’s hair. I help a boy tie his shoe.
Some adults watch approvingly. A woman brings me a cup of hot tea from her doorstep. An old man tips his hat on what seems to be his regular morning walk.
But others keep their distance. Cross themselves when they think I’m not looking. Whisper behind hands.
The division is clear: those who see me as just another person, and those who see me as something dangerous.
Something connected to the castle.
I ask the kids about Mira, the girl who came up to the castle and who wanted to practice her English, but all they do is make a noise that I think is supposed to indicate she’s gone somewhere on her dirt bike. And when the children are called away for lunch, I duck into a small pub at the edge of the square. It’s warm and dim inside, with low beams and a fire crackling in a stone hearth. The smell of bread and garlic in the air makes my stomach growl.
The bartender is an older man with suspicious eyes. He speaks in halting English when I order.
“Soup. Bread. Cheese,” he says, when I point at items on the handwritten menu. I order it all, and he nods but doesn’t smile. Five minutes later, when he sets down my bowl, he asks, “You live in the castle?”
I hesitate. “Just visiting. For a little while.”
His expression darkens. He mutters something in his language that doesn’t sound friendly.
The soup is delicious—rich and warming. I’m halfway through when a middle-aged woman approaches my table. She sets down my bread and cheese, then leans closer.
“You should not be here,” she whispers in accented English.
Startled, I begin to stand. “Oh, I’m sorry, I didn’t know?—”
