Days bled into a measured rhythm, each one a careful, orchestrated performance. Finn, once a whirlwind of spontaneous questions and boisterous laughter, began to move with a new, unsettling precision. His bright smocks were replaced by tailored trousers and stiff collared shirts. His hands, which used to reach instinctively for Annelise’s, now clasped behind his back when he walked with the nurse through the meticulously pruned gardens. He addressed her with a stiff formality that pinched Annelise’s chest. He still sought her out, of course, but even their moments together felt watched, constrained. One afternoon, as Annelise hummed a familiar Porthaven folk tune while sketching a textile design, Finn, perched on the edge of a plush armchair, lowered his small, serious face into a book. “Mama,” he said, his tone quiet but firm, “the nurse says humming distracts from serious study. It is not—proper.” Annelise’s pencil froze. She looked at her son, his brow furrowed in a miniature version of Hanneke’s disapproval. “Proper?” she repeated, her voice thin. “Finn, it’s just a song.” He didn’t meet her gaze. “It is not part of the Concordance’s guidelines for quiet contemplation.” He turned a leaf of parchment, his small thumbs pressing smooth lines across the heavy vellum. It was a splinter under her skin, this constant chipping away at his natural self. She missed his wild theories about sea monsters, his sticky hugs, the way he used to insist on wearing mismatched socks just because he liked the colours. He was becoming a miniature Korvaag, polished and distant. The thought spurred a cold resolve in her. She sought out Joris that evening. He was dusting a collection of ancient, tarnished compasses in the grand hall, his movements quiet as ever. “Joris,” Annelise began, keeping her voice low. “Can you tell me about Stellan’s childhood?” The butler paused, his duster hovering over a brass instrument. His gaze darted to the empty hallway, then back to her. His usually placid features tightened almost imperceptibly. “Master Stellan’s childhood was… structured, Miss Vosse. As all Korvaag children’s are.” “But he wasn’t always like this,” Annelise pressed, thinking of the melancholic artist from the past, the one who’d smiled at Finn’s king question. “He must have been a boy once. What did he do? What did he like?” Joris straightened, his hand slipping into the pocket of his waistcoat. He pulled out a small, intricately carved wooden bird – not the one from her windowsill, but a similar, more weathered piece. He turned it over in his palm, his gaze distant. “He was… a solitary child, Miss Vosse. His late mother was a woman of spirit. She tried to bring light to these halls.” He paused, then his eyes met hers, a flicker of warning in their depths. “She did not always… conform to the Concordance.” His words hung in the cold air. Joris rubbed a thumb over the bird's beak, then made a swift, understated motion. As he turned to continue dusting, a small, ornate key, dull silver with an elaborate, almost floral head, lay on the polished mahogany table beside a compass. He did not look at her, but his voice was a murmur, barely audible. “Some parts of the estate are… less visited than others. The northern wing, for instance.” Annelise’s fingers closed around the cold metal. It was heavier than it looked. She tucked it into her pocket, her pulse quickening. Joris gave no further indication, simply continued his meticulous work, leaving her with the key and the silent warning behind it. Later that night, when the estate was silent save for the distant rumble of the ocean, Annelise moved through the vast, dimly lit corridors. The northern wing was indeed less visited. The air grew colder here, stale with disuse. Dust motes hung suspended in the faint moonlight filtering through tall, grimy panes. She tried several doors, her heart thumping against her ribs, until she found one that was different. It was heavier, darker wood, with a tarnished silver handle. The key slid into the lock with a soft, metallic click. The tumblers shifted, and the door swung inward on groaning hinges, revealing a room steeped in perpetual twilight. The air inside was still and cold, heavy with the scent of old paper and dust. It was a child’s room, frozen in time. A narrow bed, still made, stood against one wall. A wooden rocking horse, its paint chipped, sat patiently in a corner. But it was the walls that drew her eye. They were covered in drawings, faded and yellowed, depicting a small boy trapped within a cage, or peering out from behind bars. One corner of the room held a narrow casement, but it was not merely grimy; thick coats of chalky enamel sealed the glass from the inside, blocking any view of the grounds. On a small, ornately carved desk, a leather-bound journal lay open. Its pages were filled with elegant, yet agitated script, the ink faded to sepia. She recognized Stellan’s hand, but it was younger, less controlled. The paper rattled against her palms as she read. *“Day 107. Still no answer. She says the mist is a veil, not a cage. But it feels like a cage. Grandmother says I must learn to be still. Still like the stones. Still like the mist. I want to run. I want to see the sun. She told me stories of a place where the sun always shines, where the sea is blue, not grey. She says she will take me there. Soon.”* Annelise’s stomach clenched. She turned a page. The drawings here were more frantic – abstract shapes of despair, a figure shrinking under a looming shadow. Then, another entry, further on. *“She is quiet now. Grandmother says she is ‘indisposed.’ Joris brings her tea. Her eyes look like the mist on the horizon, always fading. She told me to remember the sun, even when I can’t see it. To never forget the blue. The blue that is not grey. I think she is forgetting it too. I try to sketch it for her, but my colours are all grey now.”* She looked at the small, blinded pane, then back down at the script. A chill seeped into her skin. Stellan’s mother had tried to bring light, only to fade under Hanneke's thumb. A floorboard creaked behind her. Annelise spun around, the journal still open in her hands. Stellan stood in the doorway, a dark silhouette against the fainter light of the corridor. His gaze fell to the journal, then to the sealed pane, and finally, to her face. For the first time since she’d known him, the carefully constructed facade around him fractured. His jaw, usually so unyielding, softened into something close to grief. His eyes, though shadowed, held a raw vulnerability she’d never witnessed. He walked further into the room, his steps slow, deliberate, as if each one cost him immense effort. He reached out, not for the diary, but to touch the faded drawing of the boy in the cage. His knuckles grazed the enameled glass. “She didn’t wither,” he said, his voice a low, rough murmur. “She defied them. Every day. She resisted The Concordance, resisted my grandmother, battled for me to have a life beyond this… prison.” His voice broke on the last word. “She just… ran out of strength.” He turned to face Annelise, his eyes fixed on hers, a desperate plea in their depths. The air in the room settled thick around them with the memory of that lost battle. “Don’t let her do to Finn what she did to me.”

The Locked Room