The Pawn and The Puppet (The Pawn and The Puppet series Book 1)

My hand hovers over the knocker on Meridei’s front door, shaking in the cool breeze.

What if Dessin was right to ask me to stay home? What if I do get caught in his cross fire? I’m blindsiding him by even showing up. The nerve that I once had to watch those who hurt me as they crash and burn has diminished to the size of a melting snowflake.

Before I can turn away, backtrack, and erase my presence from this doomed three-story estate, the door flies open. A soft, golden light shimmers from behind Meridei and Belinda, grinning at me in unison.

“I truthfully did not think you would come.” Belinda raises her eyebrows, not trying to hide her incredulity.

I take a deep breath and dig up my best forced smile. There’s no going back now.

“I surely couldn’t miss this,” I say, allowing Meridei to take my dress cloak.

Her home isn’t nearly as lavish as Aurick’s. It’s comparing aluminum to gold, but even still, my home in the outskirts, the bear trap of the city, never held a candle to this place. Her walls are covered in floral wallpaper and copper sconces. The grand sitting room isn’t at all spacious. The walls are crowded with paintings of tea parties, rose gardens, and angels. Thick lavender curtains cover four wide bay windows, and glass cabinets display glass collectibles—majestic animals in mid-stride, dancing women in long ruffled gowns, and porcelain teacups.

Her guests sit on matching pink-velvet armchairs and sofas, reaching for miniature cakes and finger sandwiches on stacked trays on the coffee table.

One of the orderlies sits at a grand piano, playing an upbeat tune meant for dancing, yet the conformists stay seated, sipping their tea, snickering at old gossip. The sitting room carries a light aroma of vanilla and honeysuckle, a most impressive disguise for the rot and fester that transfers from woman to woman with each thought of destructive intent toward me.

I scan for empty seats, unsure of the safest location for me. In the center of them all? Never. But there is an open love seat closest to the front door. Perfect.

Aware of the sinister eyes following me, I quickly lean down to the woman sitting on the other end of the loveseat. “May I sit here?”

I’ve never seen her before, at least not at the asylum. Is she a relative of Meridei’s?

The woman nods. A genuine smile softens her cheeks and lights up her hooded brown eyes. “I’m Ruth.” She reaches her hand out to shake mine. “Tomorrow’s my first day as a conformist assistant.”

Ah, she’s new. She must not be in on the blueprints to my demise. It’s reassuring to have a blank slate with someone. Ruth doesn’t slouch or relax into the love seat. Her legs cross, tightly bound against each other, and she holds a stiff smile as if her life depended on it. The elegant posture of a ballerina between stances.

“My name is Skylenna,” I say under my breath. I don’t want the others to have reason to target Ruth, so it’s probably best to keep my kindness toward her as under the radar as possible.

At a closer glance, her looks are almost elfin, with an upward pointed nose, long eyelashes, sharp bony shoulders, and wide, sparkling eyes.

“They’re quite an intimidating bunch.” Ruth matches my hushed tones, fidgeting with her floral evening dress. “I was afraid to say no when invited—it didn’t exactly seem like it was optional.”

I frown inwardly. She seems perfectly pleasant. I’d hate to see her corrupted by the likes of these parasites.

“To be frank, I didn’t exactly want to work in the asylum. But my father gambled away a good amount of our small family fortune. My parents forced me to ask for work here, so they wouldn’t muddy their reputations as Survivah bureaucrat and Emerald wife.” Her focus wanders across the room, sizing up the other women nervously as if at any moment they could grow fangs and spit fire. She’s rather candid for someone here, sharing her family’s downfalls so openly.

I have to remind myself to warn her. Don’t trust any of them with your secrets.

It dawns on me why I’m here, like dipping my toes in the water to realize it’s ice cold, shocking my system back into its finest form of defense.

Dessin is here. Or he will be. And I wasn’t supposed to come. And now, I might have found a new friend, one that’s not a patient or a man that lets me live with him. A friend that is about to fall victim to Dessin’s twisted antics.

“You should leave,” I say under my breath, under the high-pitched chitchat mixed in with the piano.

Her head turns to me, a question making a solid “o” out of her thin lips.

“I don’t have time to explain,” I whisper, maintaining my socially acceptable smile.

As if remembering my presence, Meridei raises her voice at us over the music.

“Ruth, Sky—come, enjoy the sweets.” She signals her hand to the trays of crumpets, cakes, and muffins.

“I haven’t eaten in four days so I could enjoy tonight,” Belinda tells two conformists sitting on either side of her.

As Ruth stands to help herself, I shoot her a look. Sit down. I plead with my alarmed expression.

“We’re saving room for the dinner,” I respond for the both of us. The lady of the house, dressed in a black evening dress complete with black gloves, sets the table. Dishes of asparagus, roasted pig, hot sourdough bread, and glasses of champagne fill the table.

We’re not going to be able to touch any of the food, are we?

“Dinner, yes! Everyone, take your seats at the table,” Meridei announces.

Ruth grabs my hand as everyone rises, pressing me with a bewildered expression. What’s going on? she mouths.

“I’ll explain when this is all over. Don’t touch the food.”

I want to tell Ruth all of the insidious actions the other conformists have sprung on me since I arrived. I want to warn her that Dessin will be crashing this evening’s festivities, and the likeliness of this all occurring in a clean and calm manner has the odds of a million to one. But I can’t. All I can do is stay by her side and hope Dessin senses my urgency to protect her.

We take our places at the long dining table set for fifteen guests. Meridei sits directly across from me, keeping a steady watch on my every move. Ruth instinctually sits to my right, careful not to touch anything. I probably scared her to death with my warning. But I still don’t know what Dessin is capable of. I can’t take any chances.

There are nine forks and spoons on either side of our silver plate covers and flute glasses with bubbling champagne. I scope out the surface, curious if there will be any sign that Dessin has been here. What if he doesn’t show? What if I’ve ruined everything by showing up? What if he was right when he said there could be a time they terrorize me and he won’t be here.

“I’d like to make a toast”—Meridei holds her flute at eye level—“to myself.” She laughs teasingly, then her face falls as she shoots a vicious glare in my direction. “For being so generous to share my former lover, Aurick, with Skylenna. The conformist that has set out to destroy Emerald Lake Asylum.”

Now my face has fallen. Wait. Aurick? My friend Aurick?

I wasn’t expecting this. She knows him? Why didn’t he tell me? Why is she just now sharing this with me? My face warms, throbbing with heat and pressure, like a burn from touching the stove. A few girls snicker at the end of the table, and one of the orderlies blows out a long breath, followed by a whistle.

“Oh,” Belinda cringes. “I don’t think she knew that.”

Ruth rubs the back of her neck, staring down at her plate cover.

“There are no hard feelings, though,” Meridei adds, her flute still waiting in the air. “Skylenna, Ruth? Toast with us,” she orders, quick and clipped like the bite of a python.

Ruth whips her head to gawk at me.

I nod and lift my glass. Don’t drink it, Ruth. She follows suit and holds hers close to her chin with a trembling hand.

“To Aurick. May his cock still taste like me.”

Oh my God. My jaw unhinges like a broken drawer, dangling from its post. The rumbling sensation coming from my pulse in my ears drowns out the laughter, a stampede of nerves galloping across my spine. What do I do? I bring the flute up to my mouth slowly, watching the others take gulps of their champagne. I want to stand up. I want to hurl this glass at her—

My glass is instantly blocked from touching my lips. I look down at the top of a hand covering my flute glass. It propels my hand back down to the dining table, and that’s when I follow the frozen looks of panic. With relief washing over me like warm summer rain, my eyes find Dessin towering above me.