The first day in her gilded cell was the most difficult. The opulence was a weapon in itself, designed to dull the edges, to lull suspicion to sleep.
The bed was so soft it seemed to want to swallow her, the food so rich it was a balm after years of deprivation, and the silk robes caressed her skin like promises of complacency.
It was an assault on her senses, an attempt to transform her into what they wanted her to be: a passive, grateful, docile creature.
Catherine ate the food, took the scented bath, and wore the luxurious clothes, but her mind remained a fortress of ice.
She analyzed every move made by her silent jailers. She understood that luxury was not a gift, but the first bar of her cage. It created a debt. It encouraged dependency.
The maids who attended to her moved with a silent efficiency, their faces empty of all expression. They were trained to be ghosts.
But to Catherine, no one was a ghost. Every person was a story, woven from threads only she could see.
The young girl who brought her meals, for example, had a bright, secret pink thread that led out of the house and toward the stables.
A forbidden love, likely for a stable hand.
That was a weakness.
The guard posted outside her door, a stone-faced man, was surrounded by a dark gray halo of financial anxiety; a thread of debt connected him to a gambling den in the slums.
Another weakness. Dolores, during her brief inspections, was a bastion of gray loyalty to her mistress, but the small bronze thread of her personal ambition always shone, a desire for control that could be exploited.
Catherine did nothing with this information. She simply cataloged it, filing it away in the archives of her mind. She was learning the emotional geography of her prison.
The days passed in an unchanging routine. In the morning, she was brought water for her toilette and an outfit for the day.
Not the Oracle dress she had made, but simple, elegant gowns of the highest quality.
They were polishing her, refining her. In the evening, an exquisite supper was brought to her. No one spoke to her, except for brief, impersonal instructions.
She used this time to explore her own power in this new environment.
One evening, she was brought a dress of deep blue. Touching it, she felt another thread, this one thin and of an acidic yellow. A thread of jealousy.
She focused on it, following it out of her room, down the corridor, to another closed door.
Behind that door, she sensed the presence of another "collection," another woman whose jealousy had soaked into the fabric meant for Catherine. She was not the only one. The Cage had other birds, and they were already rivals.
Sometimes, in the silence of the night, she would extend her consciousness further, beyond the walls of her prison, searching for Mathieu.
She could feel his threads from a distance, a beacon of frantic activity at the Scriptorium.
She perceived his frustration, the dead ends, but also the flashes of discovery small golden threads that would shine when he stumbled upon a secret, an inconsistency, a piece of the Valerius puzzle. Her outside agent was working well.
On the evening of the third day, as she was contemplating the private garden from her barred window, her bedroom door opened. It was Dolores.
The steward entered, her face as impassive as ever, but Catherine sensed a new tension in her threads.
"The clerk you met in the square, a certain Mathieu," Dolores began without preamble.
"He has returned to the Square of Scriptures every day since you left. He waits. My people say he looks like a man who has lost his only reason to live. He is devoted. Why?"
It was a test. A direct question to unsettle her. Catherine turned slowly, her face a canvas of serenity. "Some men do not search for a woman," she said in her whispered voice. "
They are searching for a key to open their own cage. I showed him where to find the lock."
Dolores stared at her, searching for a flaw. Finding none, she moved on to the purpose of her visit.
"Your preparation period is over. Your performance in the square generated whispers in the right places. Enough to pique curiosity."
She took a step forward.
"Magistrate Valerius is to honor our house with his presence the day after tomorrow. He is coming to see a new acquisition, a dancer from the Jade Isles. There will be a small reception."
Dolores stopped before Catherine, inspecting her one last time as one inspects a weapon before battle.
"You will be presented. Do not disappoint us."
The steward withdrew, closing the door behind her. The wait was over.
Catherine turned back to the window. The moon was rising, casting long, distorted shadows in the perfectly manicured garden. The moment was approaching.
She would finally meet her prey.
A cold, purely predatory excitement ran through her veins.
The Cage was going to open its door for her.
And she was ready to unleash carnage inside.