Total pages in book: 46
Estimated words: 42128 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 211(@200wpm)___ 169(@250wpm)___ 140(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 42128 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 211(@200wpm)___ 169(@250wpm)___ 140(@300wpm)
There was just enough light for me to see that tiny pintucks and faint hand embroidery decorated the bodice and hem. On my feet were soft slippers that historically matched the gown. They were thin and completely useless for any practical purpose.
My hair had been up in a ponytail earlier, but now it was down and smoothed carefully around my shoulders. I lay slightly elevated on what felt like a stone altar or heavy wooden platform draped in linen. My breathing grew shallow as horror clawed up my throat. I turned my head slowly, wincing at the pain, and that’s when I saw her.
Another woman lay a few feet away, arranged in a funerary repose on an altar. She wore an ivory gown that was identical to mine. Her body had been arranged with terrifying precision, her head resting on a folded piece of preserved fabric, her chin tilted downward, and her neck elongated in a graceful line.
Her hands were folded neatly just below her rib cage, her fingers meticulously intertwined with one hand resting lightly over the other. Beneath them, someone had placed sprigs of dried lavender and rosemary. Her ankles were crossed delicately, the hem of the dress arranged in perfect folds around her legs.
She looked deceptively peaceful.
And then I saw the large painting propped on a dais between us. It was a Victorian memorial portrait of two young women lying side by side in mourning poses, hands folded and expressions serene. One looked eerily like the woman beside me.
The other looked like me.
Same soft features, shade of blond hair, and delicate build. The artist had even captured the faint flush that often sat on my cheeks.
The warped reverence of it all was horrifying because I knew the significance of these poses. I studied Victorian mourning photography during my coursework, in which families posed their deceased loved ones to look as if they were merely sleeping. It helped them be remembered as sleeping beauties.
Except I was alive, and my parents had nothing to do with my being here. I didn’t know who’d taken me, but the eighteenth-century burial preparation rituals made it painstakingly clear that they didn’t intend for me to survive whatever they had planned next. Not when everything had been staged like we were exhibits in some twisted historical reenactment of death.
Tears burned my eyes as the full weight of my situation crashed over me. I’d been kidnapped as part of something calculated that had been planned with obsessive care.
The soft scrape of a door opening echoed through the space. I tensed against the platform, every nerve screaming as Dr. Kinghorn stepped into view. He moved with the same unnatural calm I’d seen in the lab, his steps unhurried, like he had all the time in the world.
He didn’t look at me with anger or excitement. Just clinical focus, similar to the way he examined artifacts under the lights. He carried a small wooden box in one hand and set it down on a nearby table, opening it with precise movements.
“You’re awake.” His voice was detached, as if he was commenting on something as inane as the weather. “Good. The timing is important.”
I swallowed, fighting to keep my breathing even. “Dr. Kinghorn, why are you doing this?”
He ignored the tremor in my voice and continued preparing whatever was in the box. Glass clinked softly, and fabric rustled.
“Preservation requires order. Structure. The modern world corrupts beauty so quickly. It rushes everything toward decay.” He glanced at me briefly, his eyes devoid of emotion. “I simply intervene before that happens.”
My skin crawled. This wasn’t the respected academic who praised my steady hands. This version of him felt hollow, like a shell performing motions.
He lifted a small vial and examined it in the low light. “I’ve been looking forward to this moment since your first day at the museum. I’d just recently acquired this particular portrait, and the visual similarities were quite striking. I keep things beautiful forever, exactly as they should be.”
Terror clawed up my throat. What scared me most wasn’t the ropes or the strange room. It was how completely emotionless he sounded. No rage or excitement, like one would expect from someone who’d just kidnapped them. Just calm, clinical certainty, like he was discussing pigment analysis back in the lab.
“Then as I saw your work, I came to appreciate your respect for the past. With your attention to detail, I knew you would appreciate the care I take. You’re truly the ideal preservation subject.”
I forced myself to stay observant, noting every small movement he made. It was all so meticulously arranged.
“You understood the significance of the portrait right away.” He pulled out two preserved flowers. “And I’m sure you’re aware that these lilies represent innocence and resurrection. I chose them specifically for you, Delaney. Because of the goodness you exude.”