Promised by Caragh M. O'brien

was damp from recent washing. The air smelled faintly of wet stone and cleanser. Above, two barred windows let in the cool light of the late afternoon, and she saw, hanging from the ceiling, a long black chain, ending in a pair of cuffs just below her eye level. On the far wall, loosely coiled on a hook, was a black whip.
    The chilling simplicity of the cell pierced to some primal, unreasoning core of her and ignited vicarious pain: this was the exact place where Leon had been whipped, where they’d cut off the upper knuckle of his ring finger. She pressed back to the farthest corner of the cell, but there was no escaping the nightmare.
    As silent echoes of Leon’s pain barraged her and she heard the whip sting into his back, she covered her ears and crouched down on her heels, curling into a tight ball. Not Leon , she pleaded, and flinched. He’d never fully told her. He’d never explained the details of how he’d gotten his scars. So how did she know, how could she feel it now herself?
    She lifted her chin for a big breath and in the top corner of the cell, she saw a small white box with a red pinpoint of light. A camera. She was being watched, just as Leon once must have been watched, and even at this moment, someone knew she was sitting here, unglued, prey to her own imagination.
    â€œWhy are you doing this to me?” she whispered. “I haven’t done anything wrong.” If the Protectorat could treat her like this, knowing she was the ruler of her people, which he must have learned from her scouts, there was nothing to stop him from being even worse to her people. I’ve already failed , she thought.
    She folded her fingers over the bandage on her arm, squeezing. Why did they take her blood? What had they injected into her? Her gaze returned to the chains, black and motionless, and a fly buzzed slowly around the metal, circling higher, as if seeking a trace of old meat. Again Gaia pictured Leon there, suffering because he’d protected her. Because his father hated him and could hurt him again. She cringed, pressing her hands to her face.
    â€œHe’s all right,” she said aloud, to make it true. “He’s not here. He’s all right.”
    She struggled to remind herself that no one was hurting her right now. No one was wielding the whip. Her only torture was her own terror, and that was all in her mind, if she could only stop it. She took a deep, ragged breath and tried to draw on the inner strength she’d learned as the Matrarc. She strove to visualize the marsh back in Sylum with its calming blues and soothing greens, and the sweetness of the wind on her lips.
    When she finally heard a noise beyond the door, she listened, attentive, and nearly cried with relief when a click came in the lock.
    She pushed herself to her feet, keeping her hands on the wall.
    The door opened, and Mabrother Iris stood on the other side. Dressed in his customary white, his urbane appearance contrasting sharply with the rough hallway, the man seemed completely at ease, as if accustomed to visiting V cell. The overhead light glared in the lenses of his tinted glasses, concealing his eyes. In his arms, he cradled a small, white animal with a pale snout: a baby pig.
    â€œHad enough, my dear?” he asked.
    She wanted to puke. “Take me to the Protectorat.”
    He lifted an eyebrow. “It is so, so tempting to leave you here, just as you are. You’re far more satisfying to deal with than Leon ever was. Or your mother. You care so much more, like a finely tuned instrument. I can’t decide which one. A viola, maybe.”
    She could feel him wanting her to beg him to release her. She wiped at her face, feeling the smudges of tear tracks.
    â€œJust let me out,” she said. “You’ve had your fun.”
    â€œA taste of it,” he agreed.
    â€œThe Protectorat didn’t order me here, did he?” she said. She could not believe how odious the small