Page 29 of Wicked Chains
Lucien remains still for several seconds, his expression giving nothing away. Then, with a movement almost too fast to track, he slams his fist into the wall, creating a small crater in the plaster. He stares at the damage, then straightens his already perfectly straight tie and walks away, calmly and slowly.
I wait until they're both long gone before I step out from my hiding place, my heart pounding. Ash thinks that Lucien stayed to protect me. The revelation twists something inside me, an uncomfortable feeling that I don't want to look at too closely. The idea that Lucien might actually care makes everything too complicated. It’s more likely that Lucien is playing his own game with Ash, and that it suits his purposes to have Ash believe I’m the reason he stayed and didn’t leave with the others.
I hurry back to my room, conflicted and confused. I've spent so much time hating Lucien for his control, his rigidity, his apparent betrayal. Now I don't know what to think.
When I finally open the door to my room I see that Hank is hopping in circles around the floor, making urgent little croaks.
"What is it, Hank?" I ask, kneeling beside him.
The croaking intensifies.
I scoop up Hank, who continues his warning croak. "You can sense something, can’t you?" I whisper, impressed despite my growing anxiety.
Hank quiets slightly in my hands, but his body remains tense. I cross to the door, closing it firmly and turning the lock.
We both turn our heads at the sound of something being slipped under the door. Whatever it is can’t be good, going by how agitated Hank is.
I reluctantly walk over and pick up the card.
Rose Smith,
Please report to
Headmistress Wickersly’s office immediately.
For a brief moment, I forget that it's not Victoria Wickersly, but then I remember it’s Helena who is in charge now.
Hank croaks again, softer now but still clearly distressed.
"I know, buddy," I tell him, stroking his bumpy head. "I don't like it either. But I need to go.”
If I don’t, Ash will send goons to escort me, or he’ll play puppet master again with my body. I’m still not convinced he wouldn’t do something to Hank, either.
Hank’s eyes get even bulgier than they already are, and for a second, I swear he can read my mind.
Fourteen
Rose
I stand outside Helena Wickersly's office, trying to swallow down the lump in my throat. The door in front of me might as well be the entrance to a torture chamber, and given my first impressions of the new headmistress, that might not be entirely inaccurate. Hank shifts in my hoodie pocket, his small body a little ball as he hunkers down. I've tucked him away, not trusting Helena at all with small, vulnerable animals. I take one final deep breath, straighten my back, and knock.
"Enter," comes a voice from within.
I push the door open and step into what used to be Victoria Wickersly's office. It's been transformed. Where Victoria favored minimalist understatement, Helena appears to prefer maximalist excess. The walls have been painted a deep crimson, and heavy black velvet drapes hang at the windows, blocking most of the natural light. The room is illuminated instead by brass candelabras that cast shadows across the walls.
Helena Wickersly sits behind an enormous black desk, her silver-streaked red hair pulled back in an elaborate updo. She's dressed in all black, which I can appreciate as someone who prefers the same monochromatic wardrobe, but her outfit is pure power-dressing with dramatic shoulder pads that would make an '80s businesswoman jealous. A collar of glossy black feathers frames her face, making her look like a bird of prey. Vulture-esque, really. Her small, beady eyes lock on me as I enter.
"Miss Smith," she says, staying seated. "How generous of you to finally arrive."
I stop a few feet from her desk, keeping my distance on purpose. "You summoned me less than fifteen minutes ago. It takes that long to walk here," I point out, then add, "Headmistress," because I'm not stupid enough to completely disrespect her to her face.
Helena's lips curl into what I think is supposed to be a smile, but it's about as warm as an icicle in a January blizzard. “Sit." She gestures to the chair in front of her desk.
I perch on the edge of the chair, like I’m ready to bolt at any minute. Hank stirs in my pocket, and I place my hand over him protectively, hoping Helena doesn't notice.
"I thought it was time we had a little chat," Helena continues, steepling her fingers. "Woman to woman. Witch to witch."
"About what?" I ask, keeping my voice even.
