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By J Douglas Kenyon

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This is nothing less than a torture chamber, its other occupants elaborate monsters of sadism and steel. My hand creeps up to my mouth to filter the stench of decay, but there is none. If these are my husband’s murdered wives from years past, why have they not rotted away? I am reeling from shock, sensation, disorientation. No part of the scene before me makes sense; the murderer standing next to me is the most comforting presence in the room. It is all I can do not to huddle my body closer to his warm realness.

Greta, I don’t like this,” Han hissed at her. ” She rolled her eyes and the woman’s smile spread just a touch. ” She turned her attention forward again. Forward was where the real help would be. She knew it with the kind of instinct that had kept her alive until now, and would see her out of this in one piece. And Han, too, if he watched his fucking mouth. “Anything,” she said. “I mean... I’m not really into killing anyone, or anything that could get us killed. But anything else... “ She shrugged, doing her best to seem nonchalant.

They don’t say Beauty. They say Belle. Belle. Belle. Their faces are the pretty face of the prince from my dreams. I stop keeping track of time. The aviary is flighted with birds. They chirp my name a hundred times and pull at my sleeves, at the ribbons ‘round my wrists. Remember the prince, 59 Like a Thorn they sing. I cover my ears. The room lined with mirrors reflects my face twelve times. They don’t say Beauty either. They say nothing. Nothing times twelve. I like this room best of all. l To get to the mirror room, I walk many flights of stairs.

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