The Pawn and The Puppet (The Pawn and The Puppet series Book 1)
The Pawn and The Puppet: Chapter 7

I let my shoulder relax and the muscles in my neck go limp during the drive from the asylum to Aurick’s estate.

We’ve been staying at his cottage in the North Saphrine forest, away from the city, away from the people, away from any responsibilities. But now, it’s time for me to learn the customs of living the way the women here do. And thankfully, Aurick’s friendship has extended to letting me stay in his estate.

I lean against the window and take in my new surroundings.
We pass the Dellilian Castle first. It has over three hundred rooms, numerous towers, spires, and peaks the color of coffee grounds. It would be the cover of a child’s storybook if it weren’t for the worn-down stone, as if it were stained by dark oil, lined with dead vines, and surrounded by bare oak trees. Even still, it dominates the area. It bullies the other estates into a smaller, less significant purpose.

The road changes from dirt to shiny gray cobblestone. There are gas streetlights at every corner, followed by shops with windows full of extravagant items, like bottles of wine, jewelry, long gowns, and tuxedos. And there are so many people outside. My focus gravitates toward a cluster of women leaving a boutique. They have winter wool coats like mine, with fur muffs and umbrellas hovering over their heads. I avoid their faces at first, like the stories I’ve heard make them fictional characters ready to disappear in a glamorous gust of wind if I stare too hard.

But they aren’t fictional.

They’re real and blindingly elegant from their soft, white complexions like porcelain dolls to their silky pinned-up curls and narrow, willowy figures. Their swaying hips flow at a steady rhythm like they’re being guided by the gentle rocking of a boat. My chest tightens with insecurity as the women smile with glistening white teeth like they’re constantly performing for a crowd.

Must I become this version of a woman?

Before we turn the street corner, my eyes flick to a woman sleeping on a chaise lounge in the middle of the sidewalk, her hand outstretched to the cobblestone. Then another on the sidewalk across the street. I open my mouth to question it, to ask what—

“They’re called fainting sofas,” the driver mutters over his shoulder.

I wait for him to clarify, but he doesn’t. Then it hits me—the lady-doll regimen. The starvation. It must cause frequent fainting after long hours of shopping. I shudder at the clear memory of the woman’s parted mouth, appearing to sleep peacefully.

Our buggy sweeps past the catalog of enchanting civilians and slows to our desired destination.

Thin flakes of snow begin to fall from the sky. A brisk wind lifts my hair from my shoulders as I step out of the buggy and onto Aurick’s eleven acres of land. There is a freshly cut lawn, an asphalt driveway wrapping around a granite courtyard fountain, and a three-story bluestone mansion. Its sides are covered in ivy, just barely reaching the bottom side of the roof.

The ruby-red front door glides open and Aurick smiles at me wearing a white dress shirt with a double-breasted vest. He steps out of his home with the easy grace of a dancer. A tall and lean frame, with the face of a young professor, and the eyes of a dreamer. His irises swirl with the color of the frozen pond by his northern cottage.

He looks recharged, like the luxury of his estate breathed sophistication back into his body. He runs one hand through his raven-black hair, and his long fingers wave me to come in.

The snow melts on my cheeks as I shuffle up the porch steps to greet him. Aurick’s hands theatrically extend to the mansion—presenting it as if for an applauding audience.

I nod with raised eyebrows. “Not bad at all.” Wow. I mean, wow.

He smiles. “Come in, please.”

I’m guided through the front door, allowing a rush of warm air to hit my skin. Aurick’s home is nothing short of intimidating, like walking into a Gothic fairy tale with dark wooden walls and a common theme of gold lining. I notice the dining room table, set for a feast and a centerpiece bouquet of red roses.

I stand there, looking at every detail, consciously holding my mouth closed. The manor matches his demeanor perfectly. It’s beautiful and lonely, cuddled together under a cashmere blanket.

“It smells nice in here,” I comment. “Like potpourri and cigars.”

Aurick helps me out of my coat and holds his arm out to keep me balanced while I remove the heels from my sore feet. I’m not accustomed to wearing nice things. I’m accustomed to running barefoot in the mud and swimming in dirty creek water.

“Welcome home,” he announces with arms outstretched to the mansion. Home. The word itself holds warmth, but this atmosphere does not match. The cold floor underneath my bare feet, the shadows pouring out of every corner and crevice, the dim flickering lights of the gaslit chandeliers and wall lamps. It reflects the same haunted sadness that Emerald Lake Asylum cast on to me earlier today.

“Would you like to dine first or after the tour?” He opens a closet to his left, hanging my coat and setting down my shoes.

“I’m famished.” I haven’t eaten all day. While I was observing the patients, Suseas offered me a meal from the grand dining hall. I refused, claiming I was still utterly full from breakfast. She gave me an approving nod. I learned some time ago that women are praised for refusing meals. It’s a sign they’re keeping up with their lady-doll regimen—to uphold a thin and fragile womanly frame. Little did she know that was far from my reasoning. I refused the meal because I feared the extra food in my stomach would give me away, sell me out as an empathetic fraud. I would merely have to think of Chekiss being drowned over and over again, and the contents of said meal would pressurize in my mouth and come spewing out between my fingers.

Aurick nods knowingly. He escorts me to the feast. After only a few steps in that direction, I’m hit with the rich aroma of hot melted butter, freshly baked bread, and roasted turkey.

Aurick seats me at the end of the table, where he pours a large glass of white wine. His focus jumps to the empty glass in front of me.

“Water or wine?” He raises an eyebrow.

“I’ve never had wine.” I shrug, glancing over to his glass. “But after the day I’ve had…”

He chuckles, nodding his approval as he fills my glass half full.

I don’t wait for him to sit down to begin eating. I bite into the turkey leg first, dripping with a bourbon glaze. The juices spill over my bottom lip and glide down my chin. I’m overwhelmed with the succulent flavors purging from the tender meat.

I use my fork to stab at a few slices of cheese from the charcuterie board while using my fingers to pluck rosemary roasted potatoes from the other side of my plate. They’re all crammed into my mouth simultaneously. The stickiness of the potatoes makes it hard to swallow down my food. I lift the bowl of hot soup to my lips and slowly fill my mouth to gulp the rest down.

“Do you always hum when you eat?” Aurick severs the comatose state I was hypnotized into by all of these savory foods.

I smile shyly, wiping the juices from my neck and chin with the back of my hand.

“Only when the food is really good.”

“You would make for an amusing date at one of these political dinners I attend monthly.” He shakes his head—then stops—raising his eyebrows at my frozen expression.

Date. Man. Lover. They’re only interested in the slickness between your legs.

Scarlett.

He winces, as if reading the thoughts being printed across my forehead.

“We should address that rather large elephant in the room, shouldn’t we?”

Yes. I don’t want to. But better now rather than later.

“I should have made my intentions clear when we first met,” he admits, setting his fork and knife back down to the table. “I won’t presume to guess how you feel on the matter, but I recently lost my fiancée in a tragic accident. My heart is no longer open—I only seek friendship from you.”

A tub of warm, sweetly scented relief washes over me.

“Good,” I say, swallowing the rest of my last bite. “Because I enjoy being friends. I’m appreciative of everything you’ve done for me.”

He smiles and shrugs before he cuts into his first bite. “How did the interview go? You spent the whole day there.”

“They offered me the position,” I respond before I take another solid bite of my turkey leg. I chew faster so I can keep talking. “All thanks to you. I never would have had the opportunity if it weren’t for your influence.” I pause, looking back at him. How does he have so much sway at the asylum?

“I’m a Survivah bureaucrat—a leading board member,” he answers quickly, as if reading the question blossoming over my face.

Survivah. I only know the term in relation to what we’d call infirmaries, it’s responsible for the funding for the doctors and the asylum. It’s where I woke up after the beating. My father. The club swinging into the back of my head.

“It’s the brother to Demechnef’s side of the government. Survivah covers health, general nutrition, mental illness, and religious requirements. As opposed to Demechnef that covers the societal cosmetic standards, discipline, order, and—war.”

I nod, chewing slowly. That’s why the staff was trying to impress me. So that I’d report back to him. He’s on the board that controls their income.

“Did you see the patients? Their methods?” He takes a sip of wine.

I frown. “I signed an agreement stating that I wouldn’t talk about what I saw.”

Another long exhale. “Is that right?” He places a small square of steak carefully between his teeth, pulling his fork out slowly. “Does that mean you’re not going to tell me anything of what you saw?”

“If it makes you feel any better, I’m sparing you the ugliest of details.”

I catch a splash of annoyance in his eyes—fleeting, like a match that refuses to light. He sips his wine and smiles. “Fine. Then should we discuss your standards moving forward?”

The word standards has the same upsetting effect as a fork scraping against a plate. I stop eating. Set my fork down. Straighten my shoulders.

“I don’t catch your meaning.”

He pats his lips with a napkin. “There are certain standards of the society to uphold in the city. I can imagine that you haven’t grown up accustomed to it, which is perfectly fine, of course, but you’ll still need to learn and adapt.”

I know where this is going. The starvation. Long nightly routines. Soaking in rose water. Lathering in oil and avoiding the sun. The lady-doll regimen.

Even Scarlett had to succumb to putting in the effort and upkeep. She may not have soaked in a warm bathtub steeped with dried herbs and essential oils for hours at a time, but she never went to sleep without buttering her skin with the right concoctions she’d make herself. She stayed out of the sun and kept her skin from darkening. And her meals were small and proportioned.

“I’ve already filled your wardrobe and vanity with the proper necessities. But you’ll need to get used to weekly measurements, days without supper and, of course, vigorous cleaning and prepping every night.” He spears two berries onto his fork, waiting to eat them as he anticipates my response.

My hands are now clasped in my lap. The urge to indulge in more of this abundant meal has slipped from my grasp, with the new ideas flowing into my head. He set up this feast to farewell my old habits. A last plentiful supper. And now, the thoughts of hungry nights swell up inside my racing mind. The idea of being waxed of stray hairs and holding an umbrella everywhere I go to avoid the soothing touch of the warm sun prickles my skin with sudden loss.

“And what if I refuse?” My question climbs out of my throat with caution.

Aurick continues eating. Shrugs. “Then you cannot stay or work in the city. I don’t need to remind you what happens if anyone strays from societal standards. Appearance is everything here. You either adjust, or you live freely on the outside.”

He’s right. I hate that I can’t fault him for insisting on this matter. But women who gain a pound outside of what they should weigh are taken into the west wing of the Emerald Lake Asylum as patients. Sometimes they’re kept there for months. Sometimes they never come back. Women are taken if their face grows unwanted blemishes. They’re taken if they draw unwanted attention.

Is fulfilling Scarlett’s wish of changing the dynamic of the asylum worth all of this? I’m already at risk of being taken. Not for my weight, as growing up malnourished and starving has created quite a delicate frame for my body. I’m at risk for the golden hue of my skin, my long, wavy, golden locks, and the absence of makeup on my face.

But I am the reason Scarlett can no longer complete this goal herself.

I take a swig of my first mouthful of wine, cringing at the bitter dryness.

“I’ll do whatever I am asked to do.”