“Ellen—wake up!”
Beatriz’s hand slammed into my shoulder and the world snapped from white to room.
“Stop.” I pushed her away and sat up fast enough to make the silk sheets whisper. Cold air hit my face. The canopy curtains were heavy velvet. The window glass had frost filigree at the edges.
“Shut up, will you? You’ll get us both killed.” Beatriz’s whisper was sharp. Her breath smelled like citrus and deceit.
“Who’s going to kill us?” I asked, testing the voice in my throat. I sounded like the heroine from the book—soft, betrayed, playing captive. Good. Play the part and survive.
“Gideon is back. He’s at the main hall. He’ll want answers.” Beatriz’s eyes darted. “If he sees you trying to run—”
“I’m not running.” I planted my feet on the cold floor and swung my legs out of bed. My body remembered corset and ribbon like it had lived there for years; my mind remembered the manuscript like it had lived even longer.
Beatriz went pale. “You can’t stay. You have to—”
“No.” I wrapped the stolen robe closed and stepped toward the dressing table to fix my hair. The mirror showed me wearing a white gown the book described, and for a stupid second my mouth smiled at the match.
“You don’t get to decide,” she hissed. “You’re supposed to cry, beg, plea—do whatever keeps him from killing you. That’s the role
