A Realm of Masks and Sorrow

By Payton Rose

Blamed for her brother's death, Lia is sent by her father to a remote mental facility in Greece. There, she discovers that her ability to see and communicate with lost souls connects her to a world of divine secrets, ancient prophecies, and binds her fate to the gods an

• Language: English
• Publisher: Starlit Pages Publishing
• Release date: May 17, 2024
• ISBN: 9781738287925

Payton Rose

Payton Rose is an emerging Canadian author from Sherwood Park, AB. During her young adult years, Payton diligently built a stable career as an administrative assistant. This stability has granted her the opportunity to dedicate significantly more time to her passion for writing fiction, a journey that began at the age of fifteen.Her deep love for mythology, especially Greek myths, intricately weaves its way into her romantic fantasy series. Payton revels in the fantasy genre, with a particular fondness for vampires, mythology, and the supernatural. It is from this love that she drew inspiration for her first novel and is thrilled to be living her dream of becoming a successful and published author.Despite her busy life, Payton still finds herself swooning over gothic romances. In her free time, she can often be found curled up with a good book or indulging in binge-watching her favorite shows.

Book preview

Chapter 1

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I twisted against my restraints, the rough material tearing at my raw skin. My shoulders ached from the awkward angle my arms were bound, and I lost track of how long I had been left like this.

But I refused to give in to despair. Instead, I tried to swallow my pain, and remind myself there would be time to grieve later. I would mourn for the life ripped away from me and all the possibilities that had gone with it.

When my plane landed, two large orderlies in white scrubs bound me in a straitjacket. I didn’t even get to say goodbye to our family’s driver, who had been tasked with accompanying me on my flight. I was horrified by the their treatment as they led me through the airport, the eyes of onlookers fixed on our group from every direction, their expressions a blend of intrigue and wariness.

I tried to suppress my anger as shadows swirled in my peripherals. I understood the purpose behind it all. It was to humiliate and isolate me. They intended to strip me of any remaining dignity I had. It would be far worse behind closed doors if this was how they treated their patients in public.

They escorted me through the airport’s sliding glass entrance, away from the cool, air-conditioned building and into the suffocating humidity. The sun’s rays reflected off the concrete, sending heat waves rising into the air. Among the sea of colorful vehicles was an old, green military van. It looked like it was meant to transport prisoners or cargo, not patients.

Rust faded the paint, and the wheel wells were corroded, leaving the vehicle worn and aged. Doubt crept in when I realized this was our intended destination. Would the van hold up under the oppressive heat or were we destined to break down along the way? The double doors swung open, revealing a bare interior with two metal benches on either side.

I was thrust inside, and the doors slammed shut with a harsh, grating groan. The men settled into the front seats, separated from me by a metal grate. I felt like an animal trapped in a cage. Swallowing my anger at their mistreatment, I sat on one of the benches. The metal was cool against the bare skin of my thighs. Gasoline filled the air as the vehicle roared to life, the seat vibrating beneath me.

The drive was jarring, and the van lurched. I tumbled forward, colliding with the seat opposite me. Pain rippled through my face, and I gasped, trying  to right myself. My bound arms left me defenseless against the rough journey. Hours stretched on, and I surrendered to the numbness I’d been fighting since Ryder’s death.

At last, the van stopped, and the orderlies swung open the doors. The abrupt flood of sunlight left me momentarily blinded. I barely had time to blink before the men grabbed me and dropped me onto the hard, rocky ground. My teeth dug into my bottom lip, and the metallic tang of blood filled my mouth.

Dragged to my feet, they herded me toward the stone steps. The sheer size and grandeur of the facility took my breath away. Perched atop the sea cliffs, the building was stretched along the rugged coastline. Across the front, a majestic forest graced the grounds, framing the structure with natural beauty.

Four stories of aged white brick towered above. A stone stairway, now cracked and chipped, led to wooden doors framed by colossal marble pillars. Once smooth and inviting, the railing had transformed into a jagged, unforgiving surface. Barred windows contrasted the building’s beauty, overtaken by thick green vines. Chimneys flanked the roof, with a small tower—perhaps an attic—rising from the center.

As the sun warmed my exposed skin, birds sang from the untamed forest surrounding the facility. Wildflowers spread across the landscape, their sweet floral scent mingling with the salty undertone of the nearby sea. For a fleeting moment, I heard the waves crashing against the cliffs beyond the magnificent structure.

The orderlies shoved me forward, and I tumbled onto the unforgiving stone steps. My knees scraped and my chin collided with the stair above. They dragged me to my feet, their expressions dripping with irritation, as if it were my fault I couldn’t keep my balance.

Within the towering oak doors, the foyer was composed of marble floors and a spiral staircase winding upward. Despite the grandeur, the atmosphere inside did not mirror the beauty of the building’s exterior; instead, it exuded a cold and grim aura.

Portraits of men who bore a striking family resemblance hung along the walls. They must have passed the facility down through the generations. Dragging me down a corridor to the right of the staircase, we passed barren walls, interrupted only by a door every few feet.

The orderlies shoved me through an open doorway, and I stumbled over the threshold. I suppressed a wince as my shoulders contorted unnaturally, and I collided with the ground once more. I bit down on a groan of pain as the resounding slam of the metal door sealed me inside.

I lay there, gasping for breath. Thankfully, the floor had some padding. I sat up, taking in the padded white walls. Using my legs to maneuver, I managed to pull myself to my feet—not an easy task without the use of my arms—and walked over to the back wall before sliding down until seated.

The motives behind their actions were clear to me: to mark me as insane, to imprison me, and to throw away the key. A shadow whispered to my right—a reminder that I was being watched.

The voice was unmistakable. I knew it well. It belonged to Clio, one of the shadows. She was one of my closest companions and the first shadow I remembered making contact with. She remained hidden from my sight, yet her presence enveloped me like a soothing breeze, quelling the fiery surge within my veins.

There was a camera in the room’s upper left corner, its red light blinking ominously. I was locked in a waiting game; one I couldn’t afford to lose. The padded room was suffocating; its white walls seeming to inch closer.

As I waited, a storm of suppressed memories broke free, sweeping me back to that night. They wanted me to think I was crazy. I knew I wasn’t. But it didn’t matter. No one ever listened to me. Not even my mother, whom I never thought would betray me like this.

My brother, Ryder, would never have allowed our parents to send me away; he would have fought for me. But he was dead. They said it was my fault. I tried to tell them the truth, but they wouldn’t listen. I couldn’t blame them because I couldn’t even explain what happened that night. According to everyone, I had a psychotic breakdown and attacked him. Murdered him.

They had found me amidst a fiery inferno, cradling his lifeless body in my arms. The weight of his stillness bore down on me, and I could still remember his blood seeping through my clothing, drenching me in a chilling reminder of the violence that had stained my world.

The golden blaze illuminated our intertwined forms, casting a hauntingly beautiful light on the devastating turn my life had taken—the wound in his chest a grotesque cavity where life once thrived. Amidst the raging flames and chaos, I struggled to comprehend the unfolding tragedy.

The flashing lights of sirens painted my surroundings with a haunting red and blue glow. Bright orange flames danced and flickered as the firefighters swarmed around us, trying to contain the blaze. Their worried voices reached my ears as the paramedics approached, but their words faded into the background.

A thick haze had enveloped my senses. I was blinded by the numbness that threatened to consume me; the crackling of the fire echoed the turmoil within my soul, a symphony of anguish and rage. Tears mingled with the ash clinging to my cheeks as I cradled Ryder’s lifeless body—a silent requiem for all I had lost. The world faded into insignificance, the searing pain of his absence driving me to the brink of despair.

Because of the events that night, I was deemed mentally unstable and unable to stand trial. The shadow of doubt lingered, even though there wasn’t enough evidence to prove my guilt. Instead, my father was appointed as my guardian, granting him a deputyship over me.

I was no longer legally permitted to make decisions for myself, and the little control I had over my life was torn away just as Ryder’s life had been violently torn from him.

But I couldn’t understand how anyone, even for a fleeting moment, could think I was capable of harming him. Ryder was my best friend, my rock, and the only thing that made my life bearable. The accusations against me felt like a cruel joke, a nightmare I couldn’t wake up from. 

How could they suspect me when he meant everything to me? The anguish of his loss was a raw, festering wound. I had no time to process his death or say goodbye.

Ryder had always believed in me, even knowing the entities I communicated with. I had seen them for as long as I could remember—always there, always watching over me. I no longer feared the shadows’ presence in my daily life. 

Most shadows were peaceful beings, the lost souls of the dearly departed. They lacked understanding or had unresolved matters that kept them tethered to this realm. At times, I was able to help them move on; others simply craved company. I’d never encountered someone like me—someone who could see, sense, and communicate with these beings. I called them ‘shadows’ because that’s how they appeared, though they could become more solid if they desired.

As a child, my parents grew concerned when I conversed with things they couldn’t see or hear. In search of a solution, my father turned to therapy. Initially, therapists reassured my parents, attributing my behavior to a common childhood phase of having imaginary companions. However, their concern grew as I aged and didn’t outgrow it.

It wasn’t until I turned fifteen that my therapists recommended testing for schizophrenia. They also diagnosed me with Intermittent Explosive Disorder—a condition characterized by sudden episodes of impulsive, aggressive, violent behavior or angry verbal outbursts.

I had always grappled with these outbursts, my emotions uncontrollably erupting whenever I was angry or distressed. The therapists ultimately suggested that my family consider placing me in a group home for my safety and theirs. 

Although my mother resisted this idea, my father was more concerned about the potential public image of having an unstable daughter. If not for that concern, I might still be in London, with the chance to at least visit my mother.

It was my brother’s idea to lie. And that’s all it took. A lie that made them believe I no longer saw them. I began telling my parents and therapists that I saw the shadows less frequently. Over time, I claimed they had disappeared entirely.

My therapy appointments were reduced from four times a week to just twice. Even though my medications remained the same, they believed their drugs and therapeutic skills had miraculously eliminated the visions of the shadows. The only problem was that the medication made me unable to function—made me a zombie.

I had been homeschooled since I was ten, following several altercations with other children. Because I was different, they bullied me and called me names. I was consistently punished for these altercations, even when I protested that I had been defending myself. Due to my homeschooling, it was easy for my brother to whisk me away to our family’s lake house.

Ryder helped me through the withdrawals, holding my hair back when I retched into the toilet and comforting me through those long, sleepless nights. When we returned, he assumed responsibility for administering my medications, substituting them with placebo pills.

I continued the drugs prescribed for my anger. They helped control the shadows. When I grew angry, vindictive spirits seemed drawn to my rage, like moths to a flame. The angrier I was, the more agitated they became.

I lost track of how long they left me like this—maybe a couple of hours. I watched the shadows, drifting  closer and away, their murmurs filling the room in an incoherent symphony. 

I ran my tongue across my bottom lip feeling the tender spot where it had split and swollen during my unpleasant journey. The dull throb on my cheekbone hinted at a bruise forming, and a sharp sting on my chin marked where I’d collided with the stone steps.

My once naturally-straight, pale hair cascaded in tangled waves down to my waist. From past experiences, I knew well how the sterile lighting would leach the warmth from my skin, transforming my ivory complexion into an ashy, pallid hue. I sensed the absence of the familiar heat that usually graced my cheeks. My blue-violet eyes were the only feature that remained vivid in these dreary surroundings.

My eyes were my mother’s inspiration behind my name—Evangelia Violet. The dull ache in my chest deepened at the thought of my mother. I wanted so badly to be angry with her for letting my father send me away, but I couldn’t find it within me. 

Her heart had always been in the right place, but the spirit that once burned brightly within her had been dimmed over the years of their marriage. This wasn’t her doing; it was my father’s.

It was easy to hate him. Vincent Evgeny was a selfish bastard who would rather medicate and ship his own daughter away than risk his reputation. He couldn’t even commit me to a facility in London; no, that was too close to home. Instead, he had shipped me away to an entirely different country.

Blood meant little to him. I don’t think he cared that my brother was dead, only that he had lost his male heir.

With those thoughts alone, my temper erupted. A searing heat coursed through my veins, the peaceful shadows dispersed, replaced by the more malevolent ones, emerging from the mysterious depths from which they came. The room temperature dropped, and my breath came out in shallow, ragged heaves. The lights flickered, and vibrations shot down my spine.

This is what they want. I whipped my head toward the voice to see Clio take form. Her brown eyes met mine.

Breathe, Lia. I felt his presence before me, and I met his stare.

It was another shadow—Jason. I listened because I had no other choice. I couldn’t afford to give them more reasons to think I was crazy. If they genuinely believed in the things I could do or knew the extent of the fire in my veins, I’d be locked up forever. Dissected to discover the source of my abnormal abilities.

Breathe, Clio whispered again.

I took a deep breath and released it, allowing the calming rhythm to settle my racing thoughts. As the air filled my lungs, a sense of clarity washed over me.

My thoughts drifted to my father as I reflected on how I had ended up here. I didn’t believe he was the same man my mother fell in love with. He was the CEO of a major corporation, and it had consumed him, leaving little room for anything—or anyone—else.

Ambition had driven my father, pushing him to climb the ladder with a ruthless determination. In his non-stop chase for success, he had turned cold and self-centered, always putting up a front and prioritizing appearances above everything.

Recently, my father was speaking with private lawyers and considering purchasing the company from beneath its current owners without their knowledge. They had taken him on as an apprentice when he was a new graduate, offering him a place within their company. Little did they know, he was plotting to take over their life’s work.

Ryder had been his pride and joy. He was awarded a business scholarship at the University of Oxford and was on track to acquire the skills to step into my father’s shoes. The plan was for Ryder to assume the CEO position once my father finalized his company ownership.

My father was unaware that my brother had planned to drop out. He and his girlfriend, Juliette, were going to elope and start a life together.

Juliette, hailing from a lower-class family, never found favor in my father’s eyes, leading to them being forbidden to see each other. They dated in secret for four years. 

Ryder promised to take me with them. None of that mattered anymore. All those dreams and possibilities were shattered. The doors to the life I once dreamt of were forever closed.

I attempted to distract myself from the ache of my shattered dreams. My mother, too, had harbored her own hopes and ambitions. Born in London, she longed to explore unfamiliar cultures. 

At seventeen, she chose to move to Greece. Immersing in the language and culture, she passionately pursued her interest in Greek mythology, determined to embrace the rich heritage of her chosen home.

There, she met my father, who was on a business trip. He persuaded her to return to London, offering her a life of comfort and luxury. Yet, my mother’s heart remained anchored in Greece. Against my father’s wishes, she tutored my brother and me in the Hellenistic tongue from an early age. This was a rare act of defiance on her part.

Though my father had long since tamed her spirit, her passion for Greek culture endured. She revisited every year, and when my brother turned eighteen, she took him with her.

Upon his return, it became apparent that something had happened while they were there. Ryder’s previously carefree demeanor had given way to a somberness. He spoke less and listened more, and his eyes held a gravity I had never witnessed before. But what stood out was the way he began to act around me. He was always nearby, watching my every move with an intensity that made me feel suffocated.

At first, I found his overprotectiveness annoying. It felt like he doubted my capability to fend for myself, even when he’d always been my sole defender. But I soon realized it stemmed from concern. The catalyst for his transformation remained a mystery to me. 

I didn’t care anymore; I would have done anything just to have him back.

My mother had also promised to take me to Greece when I turned eighteen. I guess she didn’t technically break her promise. I was in Greece, just not the way I expected. It wasn’t a vacation to unwind on the beach or visit the remains of temples built to worship the gods. 

No, this was a nightmare come to life.

They’re coming... Clio murmured to me in warning, bringing me back to the present. She and Jason faded into shadows before vanishing altogether.

Chapter 2

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The padded room’s door creaked open, revealing a short, balding man. As he entered, the faint scent of disinfectant accompanied him.

The square-framed glasses perched on the bridge of his nose caught the glint of harsh overhead lights. A faint gleam of excess hair product sought to control the sparse remnants of his receding hairline, attempting to tame what little remained. 

His sleek pinstripe pants had thin lines, creating a subtle yet striking pattern that caught the eye, and his navy dress shirt, though plain, revealed fine stitching and a soft texture. Beads of sweat formed on his forehead, each droplet catching the glint of the harsh, artificial light. The sterile scent of the room mixed with the subtle fragrance of his nervous perspiration.

The pig-like man stared at me, and I stared right back. He had two men standing behind him in white scrubs—different from those who collected me at the airport.

One was tall and lean, with tanned skin that complemented vibrant green eyes and blonde, curly hair. He didn’t look like someone who should be working in a mental hospital; no, he should have been modeling for a magazine cover.

The other orderly was the opposite. He was quite a few years older than the swimsuit model and stood with every muscle flexed. Dark eyes, cool and calculating, locked onto me from beneath bushy, thick eyebrows—a sharp contrast to the otherwise hairless expanse of his body.

The pig-like man gave me a beaming smile, yet there was something about him I didn’t trust.

My dear Miss Evgeny, he said with an almost apologetic tone, but I could hear the insincerity behind his words. I am terribly sorry for this misunderstanding. My name is Phil Balaskas. I am the director of this institution. I instructed the orderlies to bring you here and keep you comfortable. Not restrain you. I will discuss this with my staff, so they know there was a miscommunication.

I remained seated, my senses on high alert. The sterile fabric of the floor beneath me served as a tactile anchor. I consciously ensured my expression remained an unreadable mask. The stale air in the room seemed to echo my silence, the absence of spoken words filled only by the soft rustle of fabric as I shifted.

Everything he said was a lie. He was the one who ordered this. He was testing me, looking for weaknesses or anything they might use against me. The whispers of the shadows confirmed this. I bit down on my tongue, a surge of pain flooding my senses. It served as a momentary respite, diverting my attention from the anger that smoldered within me.

Again, my apologies, Balaskas said, directing his attention to the orderlies. Corban, remove her restraints, and we can move on to the admission process.

The overly attractive swimsuit model—Corban—stepped forward.

His posture remained loose and fluid, his eyes meeting mine with calm assurance. Surprise flickered through me. He appeared overly composed and relaxed, considering he was about to approach someone presumed to be mentally unstable. It was an effort to remember not to let my surprise show. After all, I was diagnosed as clinically insane. 

I held my breath as Corban unlatched the buckles, their metallic clinks echoing. The canvas of the jacket slid past my wrists, and Corban’s thumb brushed along the bone—across the chafed skin.

Tossing the jacket aside, he exposed my tangled hair and the bruises from my journey. I pulled my hair over my shoulder in a feeble attempt to conceal them. 

Corban gestured for me to walk ahead, and the soft padding beneath my feet muffled the sound. Balaskas left the room, the two orderlies trailing behind us.

Your parents are kind and very generous people. They were a pleasure to deal with while preparing your admittance, and your father spoke of donations to improve our facility. There was a flicker of greed in Balaskas’s tone. When I heard your story, I knew I had to help them. My ancestors organized this facility since its construction in the early 1700s. We have been helping the mentally ill ever since.

The pride in his voice disgusted me.

I stayed silent, and Balaskas didn’t bother to check that I was still behind him. I was no threat, not with two orderlies trailing in our wake. He led me into a small, plain room several doors from the previous one. The walls were a sterile white, and the only furniture was an old, wobbly table with wooden chairs. A file placed in the center of its worn surface—my file I realized.

I sat in one seat while Balaskas occupied the other. Muscles stood guard at the door while Corban took his place against the wall behind me.

Balaskas made a show of pulling my file towards him and opening it. He retrieved a small recording device from the inside pocket of his suit. He fumbled with it until a green light turned on, then placed it on the table between us.

You’ll have to forgive me. Patient admission is not a part of my regular duties. As your father is such an executive client and a valued supporter of our facility, I wanted to personally extend a warm welcome to his daughter as she begins her journey here.

He said it with pride as if it were a great honor. I raised my eyebrow, suppressing a snort. In response, Balaskas shifted in his seat, fidgeting with his tie as if it were suddenly too tight. His eyes darted up to meet mine before returning to the file before him. His discomfort was revealed by the subtle clenching of his jaw and the nervous bobbing of his Adam’s apple.

Balaskas cleared his throat. Your full name is Evangelia Violet Evgeny. Birth date: September 23rd, correct?

My lips pressed together in a tight line. Memories of my recent eighteenth birthday lingered, adding bitterness to the situation.

You are from London? he pressed, and I continued to stare at him, keeping my expression blank. Can you tell me why you are here?  

His voice carried an undertone of frustration, and his sweating increased. Balaskas retrieved a white handkerchief from his shirt’s pocket, dabbing his massive forehead.

This would be easier on everyone if you cooperate with us. I shrugged, and his eyes narrowed to small, beady slits. It says here you can see the dead?

I hesitated, torn between my desire to cooperate and fear of being labeled crazy. I decided to give him a little of what he wanted to speed up this tedious process. My father would have provided them with a detailed report of my history already.

Yes, I admitted reluctantly.

Balaskas’s brown eyes lit up with curiosity as he leaned closer. Can you tell me about them? Describe them. What do they say?

There was genuine interest in his voice, but I couldn’t trust him. How could I trust anyone in this place? The answer was simple: I couldn’t.

No.

Sighing, he rubbed his temples. Miss Evgeny, I assure you that all we ask for is your cooperation. You could make this process easier on us all and make your stay here more comfortable if you cooperate.

His words struck like a match to gasoline, and an inferno of anger surged within me. Unable to contain the rising tide of fury, my response became primal—I bared my teeth in a silent snarl.

Every muscle trembled as I waged an internal battle for composure, but I was failing. A bead of sweat traced a jagged path down Balaskas’s forehead. He was nervous, and this angered me further.

Cooperate? I laughed, my composure snapping. You want me to cooperate with you? Since landing, I have been subjected to appalling treatment. Your men manhandled me—treated me like I was scum on the bottom of their boot!

My hands trembled, and I clenched them into fists. I was all but dragged off the plane and strapped into a straitjacket! They threw me into the back of the van, not even bothering to strap me in! Upon arrival, I was hauled out onto the ground and up the stairs. I’m covered in bruises, and it’s only my first day here! Not once did I resist or behave in any way that warranted such treatment.

Balaskas’s eyes widened, and as if recoiling from an invisible force, he leaned back in his chair. Sweat continued to drip down his forehead. He didn’t wipe it away. As the temperature in the room dropped, the restless murmurs of the shadows in the background grew louder.

You here are the ones who are insane, yet you will do your damn hardest to label me as unstable! For what? So, I’ll give you a reason to put me back in that straight jacket? Or to confine me in another room with padded walls? To force your drugs down my throat until I forget who I am? What would be next after that, I wonder? I laughed, the sound clawing its way out of my throat. Electric shock therapy? A lobotomy? I refuse to be treated like some caged animal. 

My voice trembled, and the table before me shook, even though I wasn’t touching it. Before I could even question what was happening, the darkness surrounding me deepened, wrapping around my senses. The souls of countless individuals, much like me, grappling with feelings of uncontrollable anger, began to appear.

Their anguished lamentations filled the room, pushing me deeper into the abyss of rage. Their wails echoed—wails only I could hear. My anger was their anchor in this realm.

For the first time, the handsome orderly—Corban—looked uneasy as he gazed at me with innocent eyes. The bald one glared as he stepped forward. Neither grasped what was happening around them, but they still considered me the threat.

Don’t you dare touch me, I spat.

The lights flickered, and they froze, looking up.

Lia, this is what they want. You need to calm down. Jason was beside me, his hand on my shoulder. While his voice maintained a soothing tone, an undercurrent of urgency threaded through his words.

I can’t, I whispered, staring at my trembling hands.

I couldn’t feel Jason’s touch, but in my periphery, his hand flexed as if to tighten his grip.

You can, Lia. They’re watching you. Do not give them an excuse to lock you up again. My head snapped up, expecting to see Clio, but she kept herself hidden.

I shifted my gaze back to my trembling hands, and I drew in a shallow breath, grasping for the control slipping away from me—control I desperately needed. My quaking body calmed, and the once-flickering lights lapsed into stillness. The energy that had disrupted everything was now contained within me, simmering beneath the surface.

Take a deep breath. You risk anchoring the others. You will face the blame and the possibility of being confined to another padded room. Do not give them a reason to do so, Clio said.

I struggled to block out the wailing of the unsettled shadows.

Focus, Lia, Jason said, his voice calm.

I took three deep breaths, and the trembling slowed. The shadows drifted away, no longer fueled by my rage. The temperature gradually rose at a steady pace before reaching a comfortable level.

Mr. Balaskas’s beady eyes darted around the room, his face ashen. After a moment, he adjusted his gaze back toward me. Neither of us spoke. Curiosity painted itself across his pig-like features, a vivid contrast to the unease flickering in his eyes.

Apologize, Jason said.

I took another steadying breath. I’m sorry. I was unable to pack my luggage, and my father neglected to have my medication packed, so I missed several doses. I’m having trouble regulating my emotions.

Mr. Balaskas glanced around the room, his gaze moving past Jason and Clio. I think that is enough for today. Corban, could you escort Miss Evgeny to the room we assigned her?

Corban nodded, and Mr. Balaskas gestured for Muscles to follow him as he exited. The orderly shot me a look that promised pain if I stepped out of line.

After they were gone, the racing of my heart slowed, and when I was in control, I rose to my feet. Corban approached me slowly, as if he recognized I needed a moment to collect myself.

He smiled, and his eyes were curious as he blocked my path. What happened in there?

I don’t know what you’re talking about. I’m tired, and it’s been a long day, I answered, avoiding his gaze.

Corban rolled his eyes playfully at me. Please, everyone in that room was panicking. Tell me how!

I bit my lip and winced. I had momentarily forgotten the injuries I had sustained upon my arrival. Why would I tell you anything? You’re one of them.

I glared and he answered me with a boyish grin, his eyes sparkling mischievously. You’re wrong. I only work here because my grandmother was tired of having me in the house, annoying her. She has close ties to the Balaskas’s. Our families go back centuries.

Corban overemphasized the word centuries. He sounded sincere, but I couldn’t trust him, and why should I?

I’m Corban, by the way. Your name is Evangelia, right?

Lia, I corrected him.

Interesting. His tone caught me off guard as he allowed me to leave the room and lead me down the hallway.

Despite myself, I asked, What is?

Corban raised an eyebrow. Well, Lia, your name comes from the Greek words ‘EU,’ meaning ’good,’ and ‘Angelia,’ meaning ‘news.’ It makes me wonder what good news you will bring us.

His grin was infectious, and I hardly suppressed my own. We entered the main foyer, and without the foreboding presence of the orderlies who had picked me up from the airport, I marveled at the sheer grandeur—from the sparkling chandeliers overhead to the exquisite artwork that adorned the walls.

Corban led me up the stairway, and as we walked, he pointed out various paintings and portraits, weaving together tales of the past. I stopped, and he turned back to face me.

Why are you being so nice? I asked, looking up into his eyes and noting the various shades of green that comprised them.

What do you mean? he replied.

Well, the other nurse—orderly, or whatever he was, acted like he hated me. The Director is, well, a director. But you? You don’t stop smiling. I didn’t know why I was talking to him. He was the enemy—one of them—but I couldn’t stop myself.

Corban stuck his lip out in a pout and asked, Don’t you like my smile?

I surprised myself by laughing. 

That’s better. I knew there was life in you somewhere, he joked, and I ignored is comment. Don’t worry about Philip. He’s like that with all new patients. 

I didn’t try to mask the sarcasm in my tone as I asked, Is that supposed to comfort me?

Corban shrugged and gestured to a set of metal doors in front of us, each with a small window providing a glimpse into the room. He scanned his key card. Here we are. 

The door emitted a soft click, accompanied by the abrupt sound of a buzzer. He pushed the door open, and we stepped through.

Afternoon, Lucy. He winked at a lady who sat behind a desk to the left of the door. She was at least twice his age and blushed like an eager schoolgirl. Got your latest recruit, Lia Evgeny. Lia, this is Lucy; she’s the manager of this unit.  

I was grateful Corban introduced me by my preferred name, not my given one.

Welcome, dear. Get her settled in, Corban. I have work to do. Corban winked and motioned for me to follow him.

I glanced back at Lucy as he led me away from the desk. She placed one hand over her heart and fanned herself with paper. Her skin flushed a deep crimson.

Corban showed me around the unit; there was a common room, an art room, a music room, a cafeteria, and several offices used for therapy.

You’re given three meals a day. Breakfast is at eight-thirty, lunch is at twelve-thirty, and dinner is at six o’clock. Don’t skip meals because that’s all you get to eat. Showers are down this hallway. Make sure you switch the sign to in use. The doors don’t lock, so people may walk in on you from time to time. He shrugged as if to say, what can you do about it? Group therapy is every other day, and you have one-on-one counseling with our specialists once a week. We administer medication in the morning and evening. Take it; it’s not optional. Got all that?

I think so, I mumbled.

The lighting cast an impersonal chill, reminiscent of the sterile glow in a hospital room. The walls were a sickly pale green shade covered in chips and cracks. The floors were plain tiles, arranged in a simple, repetitive pattern. And the windows? They were hardly large enough to let in any natural light, leaving the place dim and gloomy.

Are we ever allowed outside? I asked.

I hoped they would allow us time by the ocean. I was drawn to nature; it soothed me—the flowers, the smell of grass, the fresh air, and the breeze from the sea.

My spirits crushed even further as he answered, Rarely.

I tried to control my expression, but Corban must have seen it before I could plaster a neutral one on my face. It’s not that bad, I promise. You will get used to it and might even find that you enjoy it here.

I doubted I could ever be happy in this place, but the look on his face was so earnest that it weighed on me. Yeah, maybe you’re right.

It wasn’t much, but Corban smiled and suggested, Why don’t I show you your room?

I trailed behind him, my footsteps echoing in the dimly lit corridor. It stretched before me, seeming to extend endlessly, lined with doors on either side. Two distinct types adorned the hall. Most were crafted from wood, while a handful stood apart, forged from unyielding steel. Regardless of its material, each door featured small windows that provided a glimpse into the rooms.

The hallway’s vastness pressed down on me. It felt like an eternity to travel despite the faint glimmer of daylight that beckoned from a distant window at the far end.

This unit ranges from patients aged six to twenty-five, Corban informed me. A few months ago, a small fire broke out in our youth ward, necessitating the merging of the youth and young adult wards during the repairs and renovations.

My eyes widened as memories of the flickering flames from the night Ryder died rushed back, impossible to ignore.

How did the fire start? I asked.

The investigation is still ongoing, causing a delay in the repairs and renovations. Corban shrugged and led me further down the hallway. He pointed to a door and said, Your room is 680. Keep in mind that the doors only lock from the outside.

Curiosity got the better of me once again, and I asked about the purpose of the metal doors, noticing that mine was made of wood. Corban explained the rooms with metal doors were for patients who require higher security. There were also solitary rooms in a separate hallway.

Since this is a low-risk ward, you can wear your clothes. Housekeeping collects laundry every Sunday and returns it Monday, Corban said.

Their classification of me as low risk was interesting. I had been blamed for murder, after all. Corban opened the door and motioned for me to enter. There were two beds, one of them occupied by a little girl.

She couldn’t have been older than six or seven, with strawberry blonde hair that cascaded in perfect ringlets down her back. It was odd how immaculate she looked, considering our current location. Soft, rosy cheeks framed her face, hinting at a youthfulness that seemed out of place.

There was an air of stillness about her that unsettled me. Her eyes were like pools of gold—deep and mysterious, possessing an almost otherworldly quality that made them seem to swirl in the light. Despite the youthfulness of her appearance, her eyes held an ancient knowledge that felt beyond her years.

Thyme, you have been assigned a roommate. This is Lia, Corban introduced me, and the girl—Thyme—bounded off the bed and wrapped her tiny arms around me.

You’re beautiful! she exclaimed, her words dancing with admiration.

A gentle flush crept up my cheeks. I bent down so I was on her level. But not as beautiful as you.

She flashed me a brilliant smile, and I couldn’t imagine what she was doing here. As I straightened, I found Corban staring at me. His gaze made my heart skip a beat.

He cleared his throat. Well, I better get back to work. He scratched the back of his head, looking uncomfortable. Thyme, can I count on you to help Lia settle in from here?

Yes! she replied, enthusiastically.

Corban gave me one last inviting smile before leaving. I tried not to return it, but somehow, my lips curved anyway. As the door closed behind him, the room seemed to contract, stealing away the warmth he brought.

The growing void left behind echoed with a haunting silence, and the subtle hum of the air-conditioning became a lonely symphony. Alone with Thyme, I couldn’t shake the encroaching chill.

Chapter 3

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I scanned the room, pushing back against the suffocating walls. Hoping to glimpse my belongings, I found only emptiness and bitter disappointment. 

Do you know how long until they bring my luggage? I asked Thyme.

It won’t be until after dinner, she answered, They need to go through everything and make sure you’re not attempting to smuggle in anything forbidden. She had such unusual, articulate speech for someone so young.

I took in the room that would be my home. An open closet beside the door was barely large enough to accommodate a few hangers. Above the nightstand, a small window offered a tantalizing glimpse of the outside world, and a soft stream of natural light filtered in, carrying with it a hint of fresh air and sea breeze.

I peered through it, hoping to catch sight of the ocean, but to my disappointment, all I could see were the grounds of the facility and the forest that surrounded it stretching out before me.

Thyme’s eyes lit up as she eagerly asked, Can I show you around?

Corban already gave me a tour, I said, watching as her face fell.

He might have shown you around, but I’m certain he didn’t show you the best places to spend time! Her words were a gentle but firm tug at my heart and a heavy sense of disappointment washed over me as if I had failed her. 

I couldn’t resist the overwhelming desire to do better—to be better for her.

Alright, why don’t you give me a tour? I suggested. 

The brilliance of her smile was breathtaking. She grabbed my hand and led me back into the hallway. I had never met a more enthusiastic child. There was something different about Thyme. Despite her youthful appearance, she moved with flowing elegance, her voice was as mature as the questions she asked.

Where are you from? Thyme asked as she led me through the halls.

I’m from London, I answered.

Her eyes lit up with curiosity. Are you really? I nodded, and she smiled eagerly. I have not been to London in ages; it must be so different from what I remember. 

A small giggle escaped her lips, and I smiled, thrilled at the possibility of finding someone to talk to about my home. You’ve been to London?

Oh yes! When Mother and Father took me there, I adored it. I was much younger then! The buildings were unlike anything I had ever seen at home! And then there was the fire, Thyme continued, her tone shifting, carrying a touch of sadness. I remember the sorrow that engulfed the city as the fire devoured everything in its path, leaving the streets covered in a blanket of ash.

We walked silently, and a gnawing sense of unease nestled within my chest. The gravity in Thyme’s voice made me think of one fire in particular—the Great Fire of London. But that couldn’t be possible.

How old are you? I asked, struck again by the intensity of her eyes.

She gazed up at me. I’m seven.

Are you talking about the Great Fire of London? That can’t be possible if you’re only seven. The fire occurred in 1666, I pointed out, puzzled by the revelation.

Thyme blinked slowly, her unwavering smile never faltering. Oh, I apologize for the confusion. I meant that my mother showed me photographs of the sites affected by the fire. We visited some of those places. It was heartbreaking to see the extent of the damage. My mother told me it took years for the city to recover.

Her explanation failed to alleviate my growing unease. Thyme had spoken as if she had experienced the fire herself, but that was impossible; the fire had happened over three hundred years ago. I couldn’t find any other explanation that fit what she had said, and before I could dwell on it further, she changed the topic.

This is the common room, she announced, gesturing with her hand to the space around us.

The common room was a vast expanse with hallways branching off in three directions. Its walls were painted a dull, pale green, and the air clung with the sharp scent of disinfectant.

Patients were scattered, each nestled into their own threadbare couch or chair. Their unique appearances and mannerisms painted a tableau of lives marked by struggle, each