Starling (71 page)

She could sense walls even though she couldn’t see them. They
were close; the room was small. Her fingers continued gently probing
the floor around her. All she felt was wet stone. The dampness meant
she was on the lowest floor of a building.

“Hello?” she said. Her voice trembled, rendering the word almost
incomprehensible. She tried again. “Is anyone there?”
No answer. Tentatively, she lifted herself onto her hands and
knees. Extending one hand into the inky darkness, she began to
crawl forward. She made it only a couple of feet before her fingers
touched steel.
Bars.
Cass was in a prison cell.
The shock stole her breath away. Her arm collapsed beneath her,
and her face collided with the wet ground. She clutched her chest as
her heart slammed against her breastbone. She curled onto her side,
nearly giving in to the panic.
But then she thought again of Luca. He had been imprisoned, and
he had remained calm. He would not have survived, he would not
have escaped, if he had not been strong.
She needed to be strong too. Breathing in and out slowly, she concentrated on the beating of her heart, willing it to slow. Where was
she? Luca had been locked in a room made mostly of wood, she remembered, whereas
this
cell was made of bars.
More of a cage than
a cell.
“I demand that you let me out of here at once,” Cass shouted.
Still no response.
Gradually, her eyes adjusted to the darkness and nearby objects
filtered into view. There were cells on either side of hers. Both were
empty. One had a pile of tattered blankets in the corner, as if it had
been recently occupied. Cass realized she had a blanket too. It sat,
still folded, near the door to the cell. She grabbed it and wrapped it
around her, frowning at the dampness.
Besides the three cells, the room was empty except for a heavy
wooden table and chair. The walls were made of stone, and the doorway to the room was low and uneven, as if it had been created by
walling off a corner of a larger room. The air smelled familiar.
Like
balsam,
Cass thought, with a crushing sense of dread.
Like Angelo de Gradi’s workshop.
A low wail escaped from her lips as she pounded the palm of her
hand against the bars.
The tattered blankets in the next cell shifted. Cass jumped as a
girl’s head peeked out from beneath them. Her dark hair hung in
matted clumps. “Be quiet,” she said. “If the guard hears us, he’ll send
for the woman and her henchmen.”
“What woman?” Cass asked, though she already knew the answer.
“She calls herself Belladonna.”
Of course. Cass had heard Dubois and Belladonna talking about
how she was now using Angelo de Gradi’s workshop. She remembered the dissected dog she and Falco had found pinned down to a
steel table. Perhaps Cass
was
in a cage. Perhaps this small room had
once functioned as a kennel.
“Why did they bring you here?” Cass asked softly.
“I’m not sure.” The girl sat cross-legged in her cell, wrapping the
blankets loosely around her. “All I hear them talk about is blood and
humors and elixirs.” She sighed. “One of them is a doctor. He’s been