Page 65 of Silent Oaths
Outside, a sleek black town car idles by the entrance.Thedriver stands by the door, waiting.Maxwell, ever the gentleman when he wants to be, opens it for me.
“Afteryou,” he says smoothly.
Islide in, andMaxwellfollows, making sure the skirt of my dress doesn’t get caught.Thedoor shuts with a soft thud, sealing us inside.
Thecar pulls away from the estate, andIstare out the window, forcing myself to focus.Thiscould be my only chance.
Aftera moment,Iturn toMaxwell. “AreJulianandTheodorecoming too?”
“They’llmeet us there later.”
Iexhale slowly.Good.Thatmeans fewer eyes on me for now.
Thecar rolls to a stop in front of a grungy, weathered building that looks like it has seen better days.Thearea surrounding it is nearly abandoned, the kind of place that feels forgotten by the rest of the world, though there’s one detail that makes it stand out: the massive circus topper on the roof, its red and white stripes faded with time but still unmistakable.
Maxwellsteps out first, offering me his hand, as if this is some kind of grand occasion.Iignore it and step out on my own.
Mygaze drifts up to the building again, taking in the details.Thereare no signs, no neon lights announcing its presence.
Whenwe go through the entrance,Ihave to stop for a moment.Theinside isnothinglike the exterior.It’sa twisted dream of a circus, dark, decadent, and dripping in extravagance.Theair is thick with a mix of smoke, perfume, and something sweet, like caramel and whiskey.Deepred velvet drapes line the walls, pooling onto the floors, and the ceiling is strung with lights that mimic stars.Performersweave through the crowd, their masks elaborate and strange, their outfits ranging from opulent to outright sinful.
Agrand chandelier, shaped like a massive, upside-down carousel, spins slowly in the center of the ceiling, its carved horses frozen mid-gallop.Thedance floor below is packed with masked bodies moving in sync to the low beat of the music.
It’smesmerizing, intoxicating, and just the slightest bitwrong.
Maxwellsteps beside me, leaning in close, his voice a low purr near my ear. “WelcometoMadhouse,Starling.”
* * *
Ithas beenat least an hour since we arrived atMadhouse, andMaxwellhasn’t let me leave his side once.Heparades me around like some prized possession, introducing me asStarlingto everyone we meet, never once using my real name.It’sboth infuriating and unsettling how easily he falls into this role—smiling, laughing, speaking in that smooth, unbothered tone while keeping me firmly locked in his orbit.
Severalpeople greet him with a grin, calling himMadcap.I’venever heard that nickname before, but it makes so much sense.It’schaotic, unpredictable, and completely fitting.
Ibarely pay attention to the introductions, too focused on scanning the room, trying to piece together an escape plan.ButMaxwellmoves through the space with purpose, checking in with servers, bartenders, and masked performers to ensure everything is running smoothly.
Finally,Maxwellturns to me, a smirk curling his lips. “Drink?”
Ihesitate.Losingeven an ounce of control in a place like this could be a terrible idea, butIneed him to loosen his grip.
“Fine,”Isay.
Hegestures to a passing server, a woman wearing a sleek black mask adorned with tiny silver bells that chime as she moves.Shehands him a glass, and he passes it to me.Thedrink is deep red, almost black, served in a short crystal tumbler over a single, perfectly round ice sphere.Itsmells like cherries and something smoky.Asingle black cherry rests at the bottom of the glass.
Ilower the glass and glance around, eyes landing on the washroom sign across the room.
Perfect.
Iturn toMaxwell. “Ineed to use the bathroom.”
Hetilts his head, studying me for a second before nodding. “Alright.”
BeforeIcan take a step, he flicks his fingers toward one of the nearby bouncers—a broad-shouldered man in a sleek black suit and a wolfish mask. “Gowith her.”
Iswallow down my frustration and walk away, my so-called escort trailing behind.
Thepath to the washroom is narrow, winding through the crowd and past small performance stages where masked figures entertain onlookers.Aperson with white-painted skin and sharp red lips balances on a thin wire above me, holding an open flame in each hand.Anotherperformer, dressed in a tattered harlequin outfit, tilts his head at me asIpass, his mask grotesque and grinning.Myskin prickles.
Distracted,Idon’t notice the woman in front of me until it’s too late.
