Margaret unlocked the heavy oak door at the top of the stairs, and we stepped into a warm, carpeted hallway.

It smelled of cedar and old paper.

“This is the north suite,” Margaret said, pushing open a door to a large bedroom with a burning hearth. “The bed is made. There is food in the small pantry down the hall.”

She laid Emma gently on the middle of the massive king-sized bed.

My daughter did not wake, merely rolling onto her side and hugging her blanket close.

“Thank you, Margaret,” I said, my hands still trembling.

Margaret paused near the door, her stern eyes softening for a fraction of a second.

“He will keep you safe, Claire,” she said. “Julian is a difficult man, but he does not break his word.”

She closed the door behind her, the lock clicking into place.

I sat on the edge of the bed, watching the flames dance in the fireplace.

The room was beautiful, filled with dark mahogany furniture and thick velvet curtains, but it felt like a cage.

I thought of my husband, Ben.