“Well, Father made an exception.”
“Why?”
“To shake things up? Frankly, I have no idea. I was shocked when I heard, but happy, too. But I guess he took a liking to her. ‘Cause he has put her back into the competition.”
Back into the competition? The words just stay there in mid-air suspended between us, as if we are in a comic strip.
“Don’t look so shocked,” Abbott says.
“How can I not be? This is unprecedented.”
“Well, everything is, until it happens, right?” Abbott says nonchalantly.
“It just seems so…unwise.”
“You think she should go back?”
“No, of course not,” I say.
And I don’t. Not at all. When I first heard about the dungeons through whispers from the guards, I begged my father to put an end to it. What did he do? He denied their existence. But, of course, they exist. I have seen the video recordings. And not just of the one Abbott has had a starring role in.
“What do you think made him change his mind?” I ask. “I mean, what happened to her down there?”
“Oh, finally! You’re coming around from your good guy ways!” Abbott exclaims. “I’ll send you the video.”
“No, no, that’s not what I mean,” I start to say, but it’s too late.
Abbott picks up his phone and logs into his cloud account. The shirt that I threw on the sand along with the rest of my clothes vibrates. The video has arrived to my inbox.
“You aren’t supposed to have this,” I say. Another one of Father’s strict orders. No one is supposed to watch the recordings of what’s going on there.
“What else is new?” Abbott shrugs. “Honestly, the rules of this place. You know, it can be quite stifling here if you follow all of them.”
“Yes, I know.” I nod.
“You see, that’s your problem, Easton. You’re too law-abiding. I mean, you are a Prince of York. Act like it once in a while. Father will respect you more.”
“The last thing I need is that asshole’s respect,” I whisper under my breath. We’re outside, on the beach, far away from the house, and yet I’m still not sure if a recording of this conversation will get back to him.
“I know you think he’s a dick. So do I,” Abbott says. “But he’s not as mean as he used to be. He has softened up a lot.”
“Yeah, right,” I say.
“Yes. Right,” he confirms. “I’m not sure if it’s his old age or what, but he’s a lot nicer now. Always talking about his legacy and shit like that.”
I shrug and look out at the horizon. The sun is dropping into the ocean, painting the sky in gold and peach. I yearn to be out there, somewhere in the distance, away from the madness of this place.
“You should visit more often, Easton. If you did, you’d notice that he’s not the same.”
I shrug again. I can’t trust Abbott. He’s my brother, but he’s always playing a game. When Abbott plays games, he plays to win.
“Isn’t he holding the competition again?” I finally ask. Abbott nods.
“Well, having women compete for your hand in marriage, against their will, doesn’t sound like much of a change for me.”
“It’s not a big deal anymore, Easton. I mean, he doesn’t really take it that seriously anymore. Besides, most of them are really into it.”
“Are you listening to yourself, Abbott? Most of them? Shouldn’t all of them be into it? And, at the end, do they still have to marry him and have his children?”
Abbott glares at me.
“You know what your problem is? You’re too judgmental.”
A low bellowing laugh builds somewhere in the bottom of my stomach and spreads throughout my whole body.
“What happens to the women who don’t proceed through the rounds?” I ask. I know the answer, of course, but I want to hear it from Abbott.
“They don’t move on in the competition.”
“And what does that mean exactly?”
“They are sold off.”
“They are sold off at an auction,” I specify. “To terrible men who do who knows what with them and to them.”
“Life is a bitch, Easton. So what?”
“Yes, I know. I am very well aware of this fact.”
“So, what do you want from me?”
I take a step closer to him and whisper, “What I want from you is to stop making excuses for that son of a bitch that we call our father.”
I grab my clothes and collide into his shoulder as I walk past him. Surprisingly, he doesn’t punch me or pull me down to the ground. He just takes a step back and lets me go.
“He’s still our father!” Abbott yells after me.
I ignore him and instead watch as my feet sink deeper and deeper into the snow-white sand with each step.
“He’s different now, Easton. You’ll see. He would never send you to Nevada now!” Abbott screams at the top of his lungs, barely in earshot.
He knows very well what happened to me in Nevada. Our father had his men show him the videos. They also showed them to me. A number of times. They were meant to serve as a reminder of what I’d done and what happens to those who stand up to him. Well, I received the message loud and clear. And nothing is ever going to change my mind about him. Ever.
When I get back to my apartment on the far end of the house, I stomp my feet to knock off some of the sand and plop onto the bed.
The first round of competition is tomorrow. Everyone, who is anyone in York, will be there. The most important of us will be required to participate. I need to rest so that my contempt and anger doesn’t show on my face. Yet, my mind keeps drifting back to one thing: the video that Abbott sent me.
He’s not supposed to have it and neither of us are supposed to see it. But, of course, Abbott has his ways. He has managed to survive in this house for a lot more years than I have without igniting my father’s wrath. Yes, he definitely has some resources at his disposal.
I thumb the screen of my phone trying to decide what to do. I know I shouldn’t watch it. Not because my father has forbidden it, but because I don’t want to see anything that happens. I jump into the shower to wash off the salt and sand. My mind races as I lather my hair and body.
What happened down there?
What did she do that made her stand out?
What is it about her that changed my father’s mind?
With soap still running down my face, I get out of the shower. Wiping my hands with a towel, I grab my phone and log in.
Easton
When I watch the video…
The screams are deafening.
I turn down the volume. I can’t bear to hear them.
The dungeon is dark, but the lighting is sufficient. It’s like a terrible movie from which you can’t look away. But there isn’t anything amateurish about it.
Someone has edited this video. There are cuts. Multiple angles. Zoom in. Zoom out. Someone watched this video a number of times to get just the right angles. Did Abbott do this?
The only thing that’s missing is a soundtrack.
What kind of music would enhance the experience of a torture chamber? Something German? Classical? Perhaps, a virtuoso pianist.
I see the fear in her eyes. Tears are glistening on her cheeks. One tear runs down the outside of her face, pausing slightly in hesitation.
I cannot see the men’s faces. They crowd around her like animals after a kill. She is chained to the wall.
Restrained.
Helpless.
She screams and begs just like the rest of them do. I cannot bear to watch the rest. I fast-forward. It goes on for hours and hours.
Different days. Different men.
Same dungeon. Same horror. Same screams.
And then it stops.
Just like that.
In the middle of the video, the woman transforms into someone else before my eyes. She does not beg anymore. She does not fight. There’s a far away look on her face. Glazed eyes
. Lost in some other world.
She is there, but she’s not there.
Her body remains with them. But her mind flies away.
They yell at her to come back. Shake her. Slap her. But she does not return.
She is not drunk or high. It’s almost as if she has transported herself to some other place, on another plane of existence.
The men keep coming. The cruelty continues, but she is no longer the same. I have no doubts that she still feels pain. Of course, she does. Yet, she finds some peace.
I turn off my phone.
So, that’s why my father caved. Abbott had shown him the video and he just couldn’t resist having a woman like that in his competition.
Which wife is this again? The competition runs every two years, so this must be the sixth.
Four of those have produced heirs. Most more than one. All except two are boys. This island is crawling with children of York.
It’s not the kids’ fault. Of course not. Who asks to be born into this world? Let alone into the kingdom of York?
For now, none of them can challenge Abbott as the one true heir to the throne. But what does the future hold? Many kingdoms have fallen apart over the hate that is bred into the children.
I have no intention of inheriting anything. Abbott knows that. He knows that as soon as our father moves on from this world to torment others in another world, he can take the throne. If he wants it. I know that he does.
I run my finger over the outline of my phone.
Who are you, Everly March? I do not dare to say her name out loud.
Undressed and shy, I remember the way she stood quietly in the corner. I was drawn to her even then. Is it her cold glare? Or her hot temper? Back then, she didn’t know what she was capable of yet.
I tried to warn her. But it didn’t work. Maybe I wasn’t convincing enough.
Unfortunately, her only way out now is to win. I don’t know exactly what happens to the other girls, but it’s not good. Everyone has a debt to pay for knowing about this place.
What will this place do to you, Everly March?
Will it force you to rise to the occasion? Will you fight with all of your might, or will you give in?
Will you do anything to live? Or will you let them take your life from you?
Will you become my new stepmother, even though you are younger than I am? Two of my other ones are also.
Or will you be sold off to the wolves?
Will you bear my father’s children, my future brothers and sisters? Or will you spend the rest of your life in a foreign land?
No matter what, you will spend the rest of your life in chains.
We all do, because this is York. York is where darkness lives.
Easton
First night of competition…
I dread this day, but as with all dreaded days, it comes anyway. As the sun starts to set, the first round of competition begins. It’s not fair, just like everything else about this contest. None of the women know that they are being judged.
The audience get their seats behind a large screen in my father’s private screening room. Only his top advisors and friends gather here. Everyone else meets in the theater at the other side of the house.
I wish I could sit back in the dark and watch with the rest of them. But, unfortunately, I have to participate.
As always, Ferguson Groff helps me get ready. He is an English butler with a knack for discretion and he has been my servant since I was a child. He’s in his early sixties, and he’s the only person I really miss when I’m not here. Ferguson is not one for emotion, but when he greets me this afternoon, I notice that his eyes look a little damp.
“It’s so great to see you, Ferguson,” I say, giving him a warm hug.
“You are looking well, Mr. York.”
As a son of York, my official title here is Mr. York or Prince of York. I’ve considered changing it, going by something else back home. But there is very little distinction between this place and the real world, so my father is bound to find out about it.
“Are you ready for the competition?” Ferguson asks tactfully. He knows better than to ask me if I’m excited for it.
“As ready as I will ever be, I guess,” I say with a shrug.
Ferguson shows me the suits that he has picked out for me and I point to the first one there. I trust his judgement and the last thing I want to do is to give this whole affair any more thought than I should. As long as it’s appropriate attire, I’m fine with it.
The first round is nothing more than a cocktail hour. That’s it. There is no host yet. No announcer. Just a tastefully designed hall with tall cocktail tables and two bars at opposite ends. And the cameras, of course.
The purpose of the first round is to evaluate the women on their poise. The judges are seated in another room, and their job is to watch and listen to every word. They are interpreters. What does doing this or that say about this woman? What does that say about the other one?
They may be judges, but their influence is rather paltry. They assign scores, based on each contestant’s performance and make suggestions. The final decision about everything is up to my father. It is his future queen after all.
I am escorted to the head of the line, right behind Abbott, and we walk into the room first. The rest of the men follow. I’ve met some of them. Others are here for the first time. It’s a mixed bag of positions, ages, and looks.
The older ones are dignitaries and other high ranking men from around the world.
The younger ones are mainly bait. They have chiseled jawlines, beautiful eyes, and bodies of Greek Gods. Some are online celebrities; others are legit movie stars.
The men don’t know this, but they were invited to test the contestants.
Will they be drawn in by their beauty and charms? Or will they give the older ones a chance? And what exactly will they say to them? How will they act? Will they spend the night with them? And what exactly will they do?
Sleeping with someone isn’t an immediate disqualification.
The woman who became queen six years ago, took a different man to her chambers every night. Sometimes, more than one. Sometimes, she even invited one of the other contestants to join them.
That year, my father was in the mood for someone who was ravenous and insatiable. There are no rules to this contest. I’d say it’s rigged, but it would have to be rigged in someone’s favor. And in this case, it’s subject to nothing else but my father’s whims.
Abbott and I get our drinks and position ourselves at the far end of the room. I don’t want to be the first person any of the contestants talks to, and Abbott likes to get the feel for everyone in the competition before making his move. Typically, we don’t know anything about any of the contestants.
Except this year, of course.
Except about Everly March.
After all the men are positioned around the room, the doors open again and the women enter. They are dressed in gowns. Most are long and sparkling, some are tight-fighting, and others are flowing. I don’t know much about dresses, except that they all look beautiful.
I wonder about the excited expressions on their faces. Are they fake? An illusion to hide their true feelings. Or are they actually looking forward to this? The flawless airbrushed makeup and the wide smiles make it hard to tell.
I lean against the wall. As Prince of York, I have to mingle. Participate. But the degree of my involvement isn’t specified, so I hang back. I have no interest in getting to know these poor women. Their fates have been sealed long before they arrived here.
I don’t want to look for her.
I try not to.
But I can’t help it.
Everly is one of the last ones to enter. Her long red gown sparkles as she walks. She’s not an expert in wearing heels and it shows. She doesn’t glide like some of the models here, but she doesn’t stumble either. She’s cautious and careful. She’s the only one who is aware of the full darkness of this place.
I glance over at Abbott.
Something is bubbling up within him.
Is it anger? Desire? A bit of both?
He makes a move forward, but I grab his arm.
“You can’t talk to her now,” I say.
“Why not?”
“We’re supposed to mingle. They’re supposed to make their way around the room. If you go straight to her, you’ll make a scene.”
“So? Isn’t that what we’re doing here? Putting on a show?”
“You need to give her space,” I insist.
I have no reason to hold him back, except that I want the judges to see her for who she is first. Before she does…frankly, I have no idea what she is going to do when she sees him, but whatever it is, it will likely get her disqualified.
“Fine,” Abbott says, pushing me away. “I’m going to talk to that one instead.”
Tall, blonde, and gorgeous. She’s the quintessential example of Abbott’s type.
I don’t believe him. But much to my surprise, he does exactly that. He walks up to the blonde and offers to buy her a drink. Then he leads her to the other bar, clear across the room from Everly.
“Well, hello there.” Someone comes up to me, running her fingers down my arm. She has dark piercing eyes and almond hair, so shiny it might be made of silk. She takes a sip of her drink and looks up at me with a mischievous smile.
“I’m number eleven,” she says, extending her hand.
“Easton,” I say, shaking her hand.
“It’s very nice to meet you, Easton.”
“So, how do you like it here?” I ask after a few moments of silence. I want her to go away, but she’s persistent.
“It’s beautiful. The white sand. The crystal blue waters. Really reminds me of home.”
“Home?”
“I grew up on the Gulf coast of Florida. Near Sanibel.”
House of York Page 8