Emme had stopped pounding on the door half an hour ago, but her hands still stung. She was slumped against the hardwood doors that led into her room - no, her prison cell. It was a prison cell, she reminded herself, and she was trapped, and no matter how tired she was of yelling and screaming and pounding, it had to do some good eventually. But her voice was hoarse and her throat parched, and she was achingly tired.

She glared at the four-poster bed with the soft, goosedown mattress and the rich silk sheets. It had no right to look as comfortable as it did. For weeks she had defiantly slept on the floor, making a point to scuff up the carpet as much as possible, but even her stubborn asceticism was breaking down now. She was so tired...

Groaning, she lifted herself up and gave in to her basest desires. She flopped down on the bed, exhausted from boredom and fruitless resistance. It was softer than anything in the world. This, she felt, was what lying on a cloud would feel like, if such a thing were possible. Her aching feet, sore from her constant pacing, slid under the thick comforter.

I'm a traitor, she thought.

Any moment now they'd bring up food, they'd bring in a doctor to look at her and check her all over, and they'd replace the curtains she tore up every night. It was like some sort of sick game. She didn't know who had captured her that night, but she knew they weren't the resistance; the resistance wasn't this infuriatingly posh. It felt like masochism, but she almost longed for the familiar faces of Triar and Jon Serro and Alyssa Pierre.

Digging her face into the pillow, she found she had no urge left to cry. Anger had replaced sadness. Her indignance and rage at being held hostage by forces that were beyond her control knew no earthly boundaries. She was so wrapped up in her own thoughts that she didn't hear the door click.

She sat up like a bolt of lightning when it shut, furious again at being caught in the bed they had provided, but she didn't see the servants or the doctor. Instead, she saw a man: a tall, gangly man with a wide-brimmed hat and an expensive-looking coat.

Emme stared at him, and he stared back.

"I heard you tore up my curtains again," he said.

Her eyes went wide. Was this the man who was keeping her prisoner...?

"Very ungrateful of you," said the man, beginning to pace around the bed. Emme stiffened, hating being caught in this vulnerable position. "You'd be dog meat right now, madam, had I not the foresight to bring you to my estate. And how do you repay me? Willful destruction of private curtains, and look, you've put scuffles in my carpet."

He stuck out his bottom lip, pouting as he toed the damage. Emme raised an eyebrow; if this was her captor, he was by far the strangest one she'd ever had.

"My name is Silas Hawke," he said, and her eyes bulged. She'd heard of him. Widely ignorant as she had been about the world beyond Vienda, she knew his name. The King of the Underground was legendary. Half the things she owned had probably been bought and traded at one point by this man, the man who was now staring at her as though she was a fluffy, silly little dog. She hated him instantly.

"I suppose you're angry because we haven't explained why you're here," he said. Emme glared at him, refusing to grant him the courtesy of her response. "True, it was very bad form. You've been here almost two weeks. I regret that I wasn't able to pay you a visit before tonight, you see, but I've been very busy ending the lives of some very, very bad people."

A couple months ago, that sentence would have horrified Emme, but she only glared harder at him.

"I can see we're not yet past the formalities," said Silas, looking very bored with her. He tugged at his scarf, which was almost ridiculously large and a pleasant shade of off-white. Emme felt rather strongly that no man that evil should wear an article of clothing like that. "Sigh. I was so hoping we could be friends. You seem like a fascinating young lady. Or at least you've managed to fascinate someone."

He eyed her up and down. "Actually, you're incredibly dull. I retract the statement."

"Now see here," said Emme furiously, sitting up and waving an indignant finger in his face. Silas leaned back.

"Whoa, there," he said, smirking and catching her hand. With a queasy grimace, Emme realized that he was a wick; she could feel his field mingling with hers, and it felt like a violation somehow. "So, you do have a voice."

"Yes," she said, breathless with anger. "And you're a...an awful, awful man. You're a slimy, no-good thief, is what you are. You're a coward and a villain. And I...I demand you tell me why you are keeping me in your horrid lair."

"HORRID?" shouted Silas, using a booming voice that startled her so badly that she almost slipped off the bed. His left eye was twitching, and he sounded apoplectic with indignation. "Madam, the decor for my palace is imported from all over the free and enslaved world. That silk bedspread that you are rubbing your filthy feet in is worth more than your life. I am a very rich man and I have impeccable taste. How dare you!"

Emme looked disgusted. "You vain peacock of a man!" she cried. "Why are you keeping me here? Tell me!"

She grabbed him by the scarf around his neck, and time stood still.

There was a heavy block of time. The constant tick-tock of the wall clock stopped, and she felt Silas' delicate hand on her own. He looked perfectly calm, and she felt like she was floating in a sea of terror. The look in his eyes was enough to drive her insane; she closed her eyes to shut it out, but he seemed to fill her mind with cold judgment.

"Please don't touch me," he whispered.

She was flying across the room, through the air, in a graceful arc. The wall was an unpleasant interruption; her back hit it so hard that she felt something crack, either the wall or her spine. Emme slid down the wall and crumpled on the ground with a groan, every part of her but her voice screaming out in protest.

Tearing off the white scarf and throwing it to the ground in disgust, Silas gazed down on her with the calm wrath of an all-seeing god.

"I'll be back later," he said casually, "if you think you can behave yourself."

Emme was shivering. He strode out of the room, and she watched his black boots with vision blurred with the shock of what had just happened. She was no stranger to fear, but the hopelessness and helplessness that she had felt on the beach was gone.

Her hand was bleeding.

She opened it slowly, crying out a little as the metal scarf pin slid out from the puncture wound she had created. There was a little silver hawk engraved on the circle of metal. The needle was at least three and a half inches long.

Closing her red-rimmed eyes, she allowed herself a moment to think and breathe. This was a now only matter of patience.