Chapter 3 - The Cold Chamber
By six o'clock the following morning, the rain had stopped, leaving a heavy, white fog hovering over the grounds.
I stepped into the kitchen through the service entrance. The house was quiet, smelling of floor wax, dark roast coffee, and cold rain. Mrs. Gable, the cook, was already at the stainless-steel prep table, slicing fresh green apples into precise, uniform wedges.
"He's in the study," she whispered without looking up from her cutting board, nodding her head toward the heavy double doors at the end of the east corridor. "Hasn't slept a wink. The guards said he stayed up all night going through shipping manifests."
"Is Finn up?"
"Still sleeping like a log," she said, her expression softening. "Whatever you gave him last night worked. First time in three weeks he hasn't woken up shouting before dawn."
I pulled a small measuring pipette from my pocket, drew exactly two milliliters of the clear liquid from the Zurich vial, and mixed it into a small glass of fresh orange juice. The compound was completely tasteless and soluble in citric acid—a formulation I had spent two weeks reviewing in my quarters before ordering it through a proxy clinic in Toronto.
I carried the tray up the back stairs.
When I pushed open the door to Finn’s bedroom, the morning light was just beginning to filter through the heavy sheer curtains. The boy was sitting up in the middle of his massive bed, his small hands wrapped around his plush wolf, his hazel eyes fixed on the door.
"Harper," he whispered, his voice dry and scratchy.
"Morning, sunshine," I said, setting the tray on his bedside table. I sat on the edge of the mattress, placing my hand against his forehead. His skin was cool, his temperature normal. "How do you feel?"
"My head feels... quiet."
I smiled, a genuine, deep feeling of relief expanding in my chest. The micro-seizures that had been firing in his temporal lobes every forty-five minutes during his sleep cycle were finally suppressing.
"Drink your juice," I said, handing him the glass. "All of it."
He drank it down without a single complaint, wiping his mouth with the back of his small sleeve. "Is Dad home?"
"He's downstairs in the office."
Finn looked down at his wolf’s grey ears. "Is he still angry at me?"
My heart twisted. "He wasn't angry at you, Finn. He was just tired."
"He looked at me like he looks at the guards," the boy whispered, his small shoulders caving inward. "Like I'm broken."
Before I could answer, the door behind me swung open with a heavy, deliberate click.
Victor stood on the threshold. He had changed into a clean black suit, though he wore no tie. His jaw was still dark from the bruise, but his face had been shaved, and his grey eyes were sharp, bright, and completely unreadable.
He looked at Finn first, his gaze trailing over the boy's clear eyes and relaxed posture, before shifting directly to me.
"Leave us, Harper," Victor said flatly.
I didn't move immediately. I reached over, smoothed down Finn’s duvet, and patted his knee through the blanket. "I'll be right outside, okay?"
Finn nodded quickly, his little fingers tightening around the plush toy.
I stood up, walked past Victor without making eye contact, and stepped into the carpeted hallway. But I didn't walk away. I stood three feet from the door frame, where the shadow of a large bronze display casing hid my reflection in the dark wood.
Through the crack in the heavy door, I heard Victor’s boots cross the hardwood floor.
"How is your head?" Victor asked. His voice was lower than usual, lacking the hard, barking edge he used with his men, but it was still stiff—a man trying to use a language he hadn't spoken in years.
"It's okay," Finn murmured.
"The sirens last night," Victor said, the floorboards creaking as he sat down on the edge of the mattress where I had been sitting seconds before. "They were for an accident on the highway. Nothing near the gates."
"I know."
"You don't need to hide under the desk, Finn. You have guards at every door. Nothing comes into this house without my permission."
"Harper says..." Finn paused, his small voice hesitating.
"What does Harper say?"
"She says being scared isn't bad. She says it just means my brain is trying to keep me safe, but sometimes it makes a mistake."
Silence stretched inside the bedroom for five long seconds.
I held my breath in the hallway, my knuckles pressed against the bronze frame.
"She told you that?" Victor asked quietly.
"Yeah. She said everybody gets scared. Even you."
A soft, low breath escaped Victor’s lungs. "She speaks too much."
"She’s nice to me," Finn said, his voice dropping into a sudden, fiercely protective tone that sounded shockingly like his father’s. "Don't yell at her, Dad. If she leaves, I'm not going to eat."
"Nobody is leaving, Finn," Victor said after a long pause. His voice sounded surprisingly weary. "Drink your milk. The driver is taking you to your speech session at ten."
A moment later, the door swung open, and Victor stepped into the corridor.
May you like
He stopped the moment he saw me standing near the bronze casing. He didn't look surprised to find me listening; he looked at me with that same cold, analytical intensity he had used in the kitchen twelve hours earlier.
"My office," he said, stepping past me toward the stairs. "Five minutes."
