Grounded

Chapter 9

Chapter 9

A person can only get so empty before their instincts, raw and primal, demand attention. One moment I am on my knees on the white tile floor of the bathroom, and the next, I am frantically foraging in the pantry Jameson introduced to me. I eat like an animal, hand to mouth, not bothering with the plates provided. A piece of bread, a slice of cheese, peanut butter straight off the spoon. I guzzle from a bottle of water I find in the tiny refrigerator. I eat so fast, I don't taste any of it.

Sated, I leave my mess of clothes outside the door and walk naked into the bathroom. It takes me fifteen minutes to figure out how to use the shower. Out of frustration I start sobbing again. But through trial and error I finally get the temperature and pressure right. I step in. Warm water sprays my face, mixing with my tears before washing the stench of dung and disappointment down the drain. About the time I finish scrubbing, I knit myself back together. My tears dry up in the final rinse, and I turn off the water with the same torque as I close off my self-pity.

Stepping from the shower, I find everything I need and some things I don't in a basket on the counter. I brush my teeth and hair and wrap the fluffy white bathrobe around me before exiting into the main bedroom chamber. Apparently Jameson has let himself into the room while I bathed. A gorgeous swath of colorful material stretches across the bed. Resting on top is a note written in painstakingly neat handwriting. I capture the paper between my fingers.

Lydia,

I thought this dress would be appropriate. If it doesn't suit you, the other items I've obtained for you are in the closet.

In your service,

Jameson

Tenderly, I lift the dress. It's cerulean blue with tiny white flowers. When I pull it on over my head, the silky fabric skims down my body, clingy at first then adjusting to my size as if it were tailored for me. Sliding my feet into the silver slippers next to the bed, I twirl in front of the mirror. The hem of the skirt hits just above my knee, an inappropriate length if I'd been in Hemlock Hollow, but expected, I'm sure, in this world. Given the circumstances, I put all misgivings aside. Until I find my way home, I need to fit in.

Something is missing. Per the note, I check the closet. Racks of clothing fill a room that could house a small family. One wall is nothing but shoes. A cabinet at the center holds rows and rows of shallow drawers. Who needs all this? Overwhelmed, I search until I find undergarments and tights. I finish dressing and set out to find the others.

Retracing the path back upstairs proves challenging, maybe because I'm exhausted from the events of yesterday or because this part of the house is a maze of hallways. For a good twenty minutes, I am lost until the blue palominos provide a visual anchor. I drink in the texture of Korwin's painting, the way the shoulder of the largest horse bunches like the animal is bucking the sky itself.

Inexplicably, my attention wanders from the painting to the door next to it. There's this hum that calls to me from beyond. It's a feeling in my gut like a hunger, like my mouth is watering for what's inside. A hollow, empty feeling—a wanting, not unlike my instinct to eat—urges me forward.

The room is unlocked. Inside, music plays softly. Huge machines with blinking lights line all four walls, and in the middle is a square tub of water that bubbles and glows electric blue. Flashbacks of the room I saved Korwin from fill my head, only no one is restrained in here. The room isn't menacing at all.

 The technology fascinates me and I scan the machines, the knobs, the lights, the grids of measurements I don't understand. My silver slippers creep across the room to the edge of the tiled tub, and I lean over to look into its depths.