Kneel
829 Words
The bell had no clapper.
Clara stared at it from her bed, the thin morning light barely reaching through the lamplit gloom. The small silver bell sat neatly on the bedside table, gleaming softly. It hadn’t made a sound. But her door was open.
No knock. No voice. Just the invitation of silence.
She sat up slowly. Her nightdress clung to her legs. There was something strange about waking up in a place like this—no bells for prayer, no Sister Agnes walking the hall with her stiff cane. Just velvet shadows and the smell of wax.
The dress had been placed at the foot of her bed.
It was softer than the one from yesterday. Lighter in color, closer to white than cream. The sleeves were thin lace. The fabric itself was nearly transparent at the hem. It was modest in length but made to be seen through when caught by the light. She didn’t need anyone to tell her that.
There were no underthings.
Clara pressed her lips together and rose from the bed.
The floor was warm beneath her feet—a surprise. She peeled off the nightdress and pulled the new garment over her head slowly, carefully, letting it settle along her spine. The fabric whispered against her skin. It was smooth as breath.
No buttons this time. Only a ribbon at the back of the neck.
She tied it with trembling fingers.
Then she stood by the edge of the bed, unsure.
The bell did not ring. No instructions came.
So she waited.
The minutes passed slowly. Her body tensed and relaxed and tensed again. She didn’t know what to expect. She didn’t know if she was meant to expect anything. That was the worst part—not knowing.
What if she was already failing?
She turned to glance at the door again—and froze.
Someone stood there.
Not Dorian.
The woman from yesterday—older, stiff in posture, eyes like smoke. She stepped into the doorway with a slight nod. Her face was expressionless.
“Come,” she said. Her voice was low, cracked from disuse. “Do not speak.”
Clara followed.
Mrs. Liria said nothing as she walked.
Clara followed, barefoot and silent, her dress trailing soft against the stone floor. The halls here were unfamiliar—narrower than the main wing, with low ceilings and no windows. The light came from small oil lamps tucked into iron sconces along the walls, each flickering with a gold flame.
They passed no one.
She wanted to ask where they were going. She wanted to speak. But her voice felt like it had been locked away with her old clothes.
They turned down another corridor—this one even darker—and came to a tall wooden door with a keyhole shaped like a tear.
Mrs. Liria reached into her apron and withdrew a key. She didn’t hesitate. The lock clicked once, sharp and final.
She opened the door and stood aside.
Clara stepped in.
The room was warm. Very warm. A low fire glowed in a wide hearth on the far wall, filling the space with a slow, golden hush. The walls were lined with dark velvet, deep blue and black. A round rug lay in the center, faded red with gold stitching. Two velvet chairs faced the hearth, and a small table stood between them.
No windows.
No mirrors.
Clara had never been in a room without a single reflective surface. It made her feel like she didn’t exist—not unless someone looked at her.
Mrs. Liria closed the door behind her without speaking. The soft snick of the latch left her alone in the hush.
Clara stood still.
Seconds passed. Then minutes. Her hands drifted to her sides, then clasped behind her back, then returned to her sides again. She tried not to fidget. She failed.
Then—footsteps.
She heard them coming long before she saw him. Smooth. Slow. Measured.
The door opened again.
Dorian stepped inside.
He wore no coat, no gloves. Only a black shirt and dark trousers, the sleeves rolled once at the cuffs, exposing strong, pale wrists.
He closed the door and turned to her.
“Clara.”
Her name sounded different in his mouth. Like a secret he wasn’t finished unwrapping.
She stood straight, unsure what to do.
He didn’t speak for a while. Just looked at her.
Then he said, “Kneel.”
No anger in it. No edge. Just... a request.
She blinked.
He watched.
It was not a punishment. Not a command barked in discipline.
It was a test.
A choice.
Clara’s breath caught.
Slowly, uncertainly, she sank to her knees.
The rug was thick beneath her. Warm.
Her dress settled around her ankles. Her spine straightened without her thinking. She kept her eyes down, unsure whether he wanted her to look at him or not.
The silence lengthened again.
Then he spoke—low, calm, amused.
"Good"
- Writer
