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swept young girls from the street. While this is true, it isn’t always the case. They can stake a girl out, follow her home and wait for an opportunity. That is, if they think she’s worth the trouble, if they think she’ll get a good price. And that’s what had happened. That’s why that man had broken into our home. Now my brother refuses to let me go anywhere unless he’s with me. He worries over our shoulders, peers into alleyways we pass. We’ve added bolts to the door. We’ve strung the kitchen floor in a labyrinth of kite strings and empty aluminum cans so that we’ll be alerted—loudly—to any intruders before they can hope to break into our basement.
    I hear something else now, something I at first assume is another rat scurrying around upstairs. It would be the only thing small enough to wind a path around our trap.
    But then the basement door begins to rattle at the top of the steps. The bolts pop open, one at a time.
    Behind me, Rowan has stopped snoring. I whisper his name. I say I think someone has broken in. He doesn’t answer me. I turn around, and the cot is empty.
    At the top of the stairs the basement door flies open.
    But instead of the darkness of our house, there’s sunlight, and the most breathtaking garden I have ever seen.
    I barely have time to take it all in before the doors close in front of me. The doors of a gray van, a van full of frightened girls.
    “Rowan,” I gasp, and throw myself upright.
    Awake. I’m awake now, trying to console myself. But reality does not offer a safe haven. I’m still in this Florida mansion, still the intended bride of the House Governor, and Rose is gasping for her life down the hall while voices try to soothe her.
    My legs and hips feel sore when I stretch them against the satin sheets. I peel back the blankets, assess myself.
    I’m wearing a plain white slip. My skin is tingling and hairless. My nails have been rounded and polished. I’m back in my bedroom, with its window that doesn’t open and its bathroom so pink it’s practically glowing.
    As if on cue, my bedroom door opens, and I don’t know what to expect. Gabriel, beaten and limping as he brings me a meal; a parade of first generations coming to exfoliate, fluff, and perfume what’s left of my skin; a doctor with a needle and another scary table, this time on wheels. But it’s only Deirdre, carrying what looks to be a heavy white package in her tiny arms.
    “Hello,” she says, in a tone that’s gentle as only a child’s can be. “How are you feeling?”
    My answer wouldn’t be kind, so I don’t say anything.
    She flits across the room, wearing a wispy white dress rather than her traditional uniform.
    “I’ve brought your gown,” she says, setting the package on the dressing table and undoing the bow that was holding it together. The dress is taller than she is, and it drags luxuriously along the floor as she holds it up. It glitters with diamonds and pearls.
    “It should be your size,” Deirdre says. “They measured you while you were out, and I made some alterations to be sure. Try it on.”
    The last thing I want to do is try on what is clearly my wedding gown, just so I can meet House Governor Linden, the man responsible for my kidnapping, and Housemaster Vaughn, whose name alone made Deirdre go pale in the elevator. But she’s holding up the dress and looking so sympathetic and innocent about it that I don’t want to give her a hard time. I step into the gown and allow myself to be zipped in.
    Deirdre stands on the ottoman at the dressing table to tie the choker for me. Her deft little hands make such perfect bows. And the gown is a remarkable fit. “You made this?” I ask her, not hiding my amazement. A blush spreads across her apple cheeks, and she nods as she steps down.
    “The diamonds and the pearls take the longest time to thread. The rest is easy,” she says.
    The dress is strapless, shaped like the top of a heart at my collarbone. The train is V