I blink in the dim light of another day.

And then it's gone.

The next time I open my eyes it's pitch black out and my eyes are no help.

The house is in full swing, though. Through sound, I can practically see . . . the cutlery being placed, glasses clinking, the heat and water running, the violin, doors creaking and latching closed, casual footsteps, the occasional voice that is emphatic or displeased enough to be heard above the din.

If I was bored, I might listen in, but I don't have it in me to try this time. All I can focus on—I need to use the bathroom—but I can't move, so, I guess I'll have to wait.

I try to remember why I can't move or remember why I can't remember. Was I drugged? When? How?

I can't even recall the last thing I do remember, weird or otherwise. It's all miserable, but monotonously so, and nothing stands out.

Then, before I make any progress, everything shuts down on me. I'm so tired.

I don't reboot until the sun is shining. Morning is just brutal this time. It's a clear, fall, bright sunny day, and what a joy it is to my bleary eyes and pounding head!

The sun earns a point in its favor when it glints off a new development. There's a black splotch on the windowsill and I clumsily zoom in.

My glasses are sitting there.

Ivy found them for me and set them there without my knowledge. Lovely. She basically said I'd be better off blind, and yet here they are.

I do remember something. It comes with a pit of dread, though. There's clearly a lot I've missed.

Maybe Ivy was right. Am I better off not knowing what's going on? Why it feels like I was hit by a bus? And dragged three blocks on bare skin?

I could spend hours trying to debate that with myself, and work in Ivy's undoubtedly self-serving opinion on the matter, but I don't have the time, patience, or mental capacity. I fumble for my glasses, shove them on my face, and crawl to the bathroom for a true emergency, in more than one facet.

Crawl is really an overstatement. It's more like a creep, like I'm the dead coming from the grave.

The bathroom is where I first notice the tape and gauze by my left hip. Whatever is under there, it stings like you wouldn't believe. It's covered and seemingly well-cared for. I don't have the supplies to replace the bandage, so I'm not inclined to mess with it right now.

Once I'm expelling fluid from every opening with blood in the mix, it seems inconsequential anyway.

It's another whole day before I can hobble around on my feet, and it takes a day further to hold down any solid food.

The trays keep arriving while I'm sleeping, nonetheless. They've accumulated in a cluster. It's hard to know if they're ever taken back, what might be fresh, and if they're rearranging the contents just to mess with me.

Guessing probably won't help my stomach settle. The trays aren't improving the smell of my room. That's for sure! And that's not helping anything, either.

When I make a point to stay awake for Prue, Ivy, or whoever's been gracing me with their bland cooking and abysmal service, dinnertime comes and goes. It appears I'm stuck with cold, rubbery chicken and canned vegetables, probably from yesterday or the day before.

It's getting too dark to pick out what might be edible, if anything. What's worse, I'm at a point where I'm actually hungry, and hope to get my body back into a fraction of the shape it was before . . . before. . .

I dig and dig for an answer, even smacking my head a little, and I can't unearth anything useful, not even a nightmare to interpret.

It makes me cry. They're not like the tears I've cried before. They've happened out of anger, frustration, heartbreak, but this is just sheer and utter hopelessness. I'm going to die here...

Removing my glasses and cupping them in a loose grip, I collapse, face down, on my mattress.

And I hold nothing back.

It doesn't carry on for long, though. I'm interrupted by Samantha, said in a whisper.

At least that's what I think I heard. Am I going crazy? Lately, I'd consider that possible or even likely, but...

"Samantha," it comes again, a little louder and more intent. This time I'm sure, because I made a point to listen for it, and he made a point to be heard.

The voice sounds both close and strangely removed, like it's a recording at low volume. I rise to my elbows and swivel toward the camera.

"Don't cry, Samantha," the male consoles me as soon as I push my glasses back on my face and make eye contact with the tiny speaker.

Even through the tinny-sounding device, the Spanish accent is melodic and spine-tinglingly pleasant.

It could only be Ishmael. I've turned what little I know about him into this darkly disturbing, larger-than-life myth. The fact that, after all this time, he's actually acknowledging me. . .

And his voice is like the validation for all of my most sordid fears.

I would sink to previously unthinkable levels to get out of this place. Still, I'm not sure I'm ready to play this cat-and-mouse game where he'd have every advantage even if he's not some supernatural monster. I can tell by his voice that he most definitely is something extraordinary. Experienced, cultured, and fiendishly adept at everything he attempts.

Where is Prue when you need her? Another indecency lecture would go a long way.

I channel my thoughts toward her backhanded slap, and how much worse it would be if I actually did something she wouldn't condone. And it does the trick, and I turn a cold shoulder on Ishmael, the great.

Crossing my arms above me on the cot, I rest my chin between my wrists. "Don't tell me it's okay, because it isn't."

He'll get a view of my backside, which I'm certain he's no stranger to, but at least he won't see my blotchy face.

"Come now, Samantha. No one likes to see a lady so upset."

"Then maybe you should stop watching," I shoot back.

There's a long pause. I'm almost convinced I got rid of him for the time being, but, even through the lens, I can feel his eyes and practically hear his thoughts. My petulance is amusing to him, he loves to be entertained, and I'm a fresh opportunity. "You need a change of scenery," he eventually says.

"You think?"

"Join me downstairs..." He lets that notion settle, and it goes deep. "For dinner," he tags on lightly.

What's on the menu? And who's feeding who, exactly?

"And what if I don't want to?"

He considers that for a moment. There are so many colorful options to present in response to that question."Please, Samantha. I'm not one to ask twice."

A thinly veiled threat. I'd expect nothing less.

At that, there's the click of my room lock. The door creaks open a couple of inches . . . by itself? Or with his help?

Before leaving, I present myself—and my drab nightgown—to the camera. "This is not exactly dinner attire."

My keepers have gotten lax about the laundry. The underwear Ivy gave me never returned, and I'm down to my last pair. My period is over, but still...

I can't recall a damn thing about the last few days, but both the nightgown and I have clearly been through an ordeal. The smut doesn't lie.

"You let me worry about that, Samantha. You simply need an open mind and a hearty appetite."

"Great," I mutter.

"And leave the glasses behind," he stops me as I'm about to walk through the door. "You have such captivating eyes," he says in response to my squint at the camera. "I'd hate to see them so. . ." He searches for some undoubtedly big word that I would need a dictionary to interpret. "Ensconced."

Yep.

"I used to wear contacts," I grumble back, tossing them to my cot.

He apparently has nothing more to say right now, so I walk out of my prison door. It's not of my own accord, but it's probably the closest I'll ever get to it in this place.

In only the light from downstairs, I peer to the right before going down. There are two additional doors up here, both closed. In an old house of this size, it would make sense if, at one point, the Fowlers had more than one servant. But even in the house's prime, it probably wouldn't require more than a few. Of course, full service fell out of fashion to some degree, even among the rich.

I doubt the Fowlers are concerned with fashion if it results in inconvenience, so I'd wager they have staff besides their security team, but that doesn't necessarily mean I have neighbors in my hallway. I can't say I've ever had that impression, anyway.

Steeling myself for what's to come, and vowing to be just as observant elsewhere, I veer toward the attic stairs. They'd be dicey in good health and full light, and to be honest, I have neither.

I teeter down them anyway, a full grip on the wobbly banister. About halfway down, I notice someone waiting for me at the bottom of the stairs. It's one of the maids I was considering. A "French Maid," to be precise, and this is no Halloween costume. Her uniform looks authentic, like I stepped back in time. The lady is not young, but she looks docile enough. You'd have to be to work here and dress like that.

What worries me more is the shimmery black fabric draped over her arm and the spiked heels dangling from the other.

Wordlessly, she leads me from the attic stairwell and down the grand gallery walkway that overlooks the foyer. The house is certainly bigger than it feels from my room upstairs. It's immaculately clean and decorated in a style I would call "modern gothic." Elaborate candelabras are lit, but there are fancy electric wall fixtures as well, reduced to a mellow—and contemporary—orange glow.

I could spend hours trying to take it all in. The paintings that are disturbingly real to life. The ornamentation that is well thought-out and procured with love and a good eye. It's like a museum of creepy, valuable, old, kind of old, and new made to look old. But I only have about five seconds, and there's not much to see in any of the rooms we pass. The doors are all closed, and there's only one with a light peeking out from beneath.

The gallery forms a rectangle around the main staircase, and I'm brought to the walkway directly over it. We go through the one door that resides there.

The bed is "fit for a king" by more than just size. It's also the style. The colors are dark and regal. There's gold embroidery and enough pillows for a whole showroom.

The room is fairly dark, though, and the fine details elude me. There's an adjoining, candlelit bathroom that's easier to evaluate. It's white-tiled with black marble and silver fixtures. There are steps leading to an inlaid whirlpool tub. The water is already running. The room is luxuriously warm, and the mirrors are all foggy.

It's a bubble bath, I notice, upon closer inspection. There are rose petals floating within...

After what I've been through, it looks and smells divine. Something like this would be overly indulgent, practically scandalous at any point in my life. We didn't have the money or space for something like this, or any penchant for it. My showers were strictly regulated, in fact. Bathtubs were for practical uses only. My stepfather and my mother—who piously supports him out of concern for her bank account, first, and redemption, second—would never allow such cozy, intimate time alone with my naked body. The devil might give me the wrong idea.

It's the story of my life, or at least a recurring theme. And the punishment has always been severe, regardless of who, or what, I turn to for "guidance."

The maid drapes the black—what I assume is a dress—on a free towel rack, and readies what I would need to wash, dry, clothe, and polish myself to a shine.

Her poker face could win her a fortune. As much as I may want to, I don't beg for help. It would fall on deaf or dangerous ears, most likely, and those are not odds I'm willing to play when something better may present itself.

I let her leave when her chores are complete, giving her no more consideration than she gives me. She closes me in, and I lock my own door.

For a couple of minutes, I just walk around, touching all the items that have become foreign to me. A toothbrush and toothpaste, a bottle of perfume, a nail clipper, a razor that's brand new. I wish I had a place to hide it, but, holding up the dress I'm supposed to wear . . . there won't be. It's a long, straight-cut silk dress with a high slit up the side and spaghetti straps. It barely has any back. The front forms a deep draping "V" that offers volume, but very little coverage.

I haven't tried putting it on yet, but it's easy enough to envision. They were nice enough to supply a matching thong that won't offer much coverage either, but there's no bra to be found. I couldn't get away with wearing one in this dress even if they had given me one. If he had given me one. I stand corrected.

Would Prue approve of all this? Very doubtful. If she's the mistress of this house, does that make Ishmael the master? And does this mean they're married?

I'm starting to believe Ishmael is flying solo tonight, and the absence of Prue doesn't make his heart grow fonder.

By the time I pull off my nightgown, I'm trembling, and it's not cold in here. From the talking camera, to the slinky black dress, to the blatant resolve for adultery, it's a lot to absorb in a ten-minute span. The tape and gauze I rediscover only makes matters worse.

I peel it off with a grimace and a clenched jaw. When I see the wound, I almost slip on the moist tile. Then I'm scrambling for their immaculately clean toilet, and I soil the damn thing, so profoundly.

Whatever that thing is, burnt into a place on my body, which used to be fairly visible . . . it's so big and ugly. And insufferably painful now that it's exposed to the air. It's on the verge of being infected, too. And that's not even the worst of it. I am marked. No. Condemned. If Satan had a logo, this would surely be it. I didn't really have any hope of leading a normal life after this, if there is an after, but this pretty much seals the deal . . . in my bare skin!

If my stepfather ever saw this . . . or a future husband he'd approve of . . . I'd be better off staying here.

Forever.

I grab the razor from the vanity and climb in the tub with it clenched in my fist. It helps me bear the pain as my side reignites, and it gives me an option . . . I won't take, I decide, once the burning sensation subsides and I settle into the luxurious, therapeutically hot water, scented to a certain sanctity.

Maybe I'm overreacting...

I'm just a pawn, but if I play my piece smart—and I mean really smart—I could, at the very least, catch them by surprise. I may die as a result, but it wouldn't be alone in a bathtub. That isn't brave or noble. It's just sad.

Be patient, I tell myself, my eyes on the verge of closing. Before they do, I look over the bottles that are lined up a couple of feet away—what you'd expect, plus shaving cream and a clay mask—and I catch sight of an envelope propped between them at an angle I didn't previously detect.

A simple white card is pulled from within. There's a small silver rose on the front and a fountain-penned note inside:

Take your time.

Come downstairs when you're ready.

I'll make it worth all the fuss.

I promise.

Warm regards,

Ishmael