Our conversations are measured and brief, never more than a sentence or two.

Cecily complains that the orphanage didn’t do a good job teaching her to read. She’ll sit studiously at one of the tables with a book and sometimes spell a word out loud, waiting impatiently for me to pronounce it and sometimes tell her what it means. Though she is only thirteen, her favorite reads are all about childbirth and pregnancy.

But for all her shortcomings, Cecily is something of a musical prodigy. I can hear her sometimes as she plays the keyboard in the sitting room. The first time, I was drawn to the threshold well past midnight. There she sat, this tiny body with flame red hair, trapped in a hologram of flurrying snow that was projected from somewhere on the keyboard. But Cecily, who is so dazzled by the false glamour of this mansion, played with her eyes closed. Lost in her concerto, she was not my little sister wife in a winged dress, or the same girl who throws silverware at the attendants who cross her on the wrong day, but rather some otherworldly creature. There was no ticking time bomb inside of her—no indication of this horrible thing that will kill her in a few short years.

She’ll play more clumsily in the afternoons, tapping the keys in nonsensical patterns to amuse herself. The keys won’t work unless one of the hundreds of hologram slides is inserted into the keyboard to accompany the music: rushing rivers, a sky full of glittering fireflies, speeding rainbows. I have never seen her use the same hologram twice, and yet she scarcely acknowledges any of them.

There’s no shortage of illusions in the sitting room.

The television can, at the press of a button, simulate a ski slope or an ice rink or a racetrack. There are remotes, steering wheels, skis, and a whole assortment of control-lers to replace the actual world. I wonder if my new husband grew up in this way—trapped within this sprawling mansion, with only illusions to teach him about the world. Once when I was alone, I tried my hand at fishing, and, unlike with the real thing, I excelled at it.

In my abundance of time alone, I’ve wandered the entire length of the wives’ floor several times, from Rose’s bedroom on one far end of the hall, to the library on the other. I’ve inspected the vents, which are bolted to the ceiling, and the laundry chutes, which are too small to fit anything larger than a small load of laundry. None of the windows budge, except in Rose’s room, which is always occupied by her.

The fireplace in the library is entirely fake, with a hologram flame that makes crackling sounds but provides no warmth. There’s no chimney, no way for the air to reach the sky.

And there’s no staircase. Not even a locked emergency exit. I’ve felt along the walls, peered behind bookshelves and under furniture. And I wonder if the wives’ floor is the only part of the house without a staircase, and if there’s a fire and the elevators stop working, Linden’s brides will be burned to a crisp.

We’re easy to replace, after all. He didn’t think twice about the lives of the other girls in that van.

But that doesn’t make sense. What about Rose, with whom Linden is so madly in love? Isn’t her life worth something more to him? Maybe not. Maybe even first wives, favorites, are disposable.

I try opening the elevator, but none of the buttons will work for me without a key card. I try prying it open with my fingers, and then with the toe of my shoe, pretending that there’s a fire, pretending my life depends on an immediate escape. The door doesn’t budge. I search my bedroom for a tool that can help me, and I find an umbrella hanging in my closet, and I try that. I’m able to wedge the point between the metal doors, and they part just slightly, enough for me to fit my shoe between them.

And then—success!—they slide open.

Immediately I’m blasted with the stale air of the elevator shaft, and the darkness that intensifies when I look up or down. I study the cables, with no way to tell where they begin or end. I don’t know how many floors are above or below. I reach out and touch one of them, get a firm grip on it. I could try climbing it, or just hold on to it and slide all the way down. Even if I only got as far as the floor below me, I might be able to find an open window, or a staircase.

It’s the word might that makes me hesitate. Because I might not be able to open the elevator doors from the inside. I might be crushed to death if the car comes before I’m able to escape.

“Contemplating suicide?” Rose says. I flinch, retract my arm from the elevator shaft. My sister wife stands a few feet away, arms folded, in her wispy nightgown. Her hair is tousled, her skin pale, her mouth an unnatural candied red, and she’s smiling. “It’s all right,” she says. “I won’t tell on you. I understand.”

The elevator doors slide closed, without me.

“Do you?” I say.

“Mm,” she says, gesturing for my umbrella. I hand it to her, and she pops it open, twirls it once over her head.

“Where did you find this?” she asks.

“In my closet.”

“Right,” she says. “Did you know you’re not even supposed to open them inside? Bad luck. In fact, Linden is very superstitious.” She closes the umbrella, studies it.

“And Linden has final say on what’s in your bedroom, did you know that? Your clothes, your shoes—this umbrella. If he allowed you to have this, what do you suppose that means?”

“He doesn’t want me to get rained on,” I say, beginning to understand.

She raises her eyes, smiles at me, tosses the umbrella into my hands. “Exactly. And it only rains outside.”

Outside. I never thought the word could make my stomach flip-flop like this. It’s one of the small freedoms I’ve had all my life, and now I’d do anything to have it back. My grip on the umbrella tightens. “But are the elevators the only way outside?” I say.

“Forget about the elevators,” Rose says. “Your husband is your only way outside.”

“I don’t understand. What if there’s a fire? Wouldn’t we all be killed?”

“Wives are an investment,” Rose says. “Housemaster Vaughn paid good money for you. In fact, Housemaster Vaughn is obsessed with genetics, and for those eyes of yours, I’m willing to bet he paid a little extra. If he wants you to be safe, then fire, hurricane, tidal wave—doesn’t matter. You’re safe.”

I guess this is supposed to flatter me. But it only makes me worry. If I’m such an investment, it’s going to be that much harder for me to leave undetected.

Rose is looking weary, so I toss the umbrella into my room, and then I help her into her bed. Normally she’ll fight the attendants when they tell her to rest, but she allows me because I never try to force any medicine into her. “Open the window,” she murmurs, settling into her silky blankets. I do as she asks, and a cool spring breeze rolls in. She breathes deeply. “Thank you,” she sighs.

I sit on the window ledge, press my hand against the screen. It looks like a perfectly ordinary screen, one that would pop out of its frame if pushed hard enough. I could jump, although it’s several stories up—higher than the roof of my own house, at least—but there are no trees to reach for. It isn’t worth the attempt. But still, I think of what Rose said when she found me at the elevator. She said she wouldn’t tell on me because she understood.

“Rose?” I say. “Did you ever try to escape?”

“It doesn’t matter,” she says.

I think of the little girl in the photo, smiling, so full of life. She’s been here all these years. Was she bred to be Linden’s bride? Or was she once resistant to it? I open my mouth to ask, but she’s sitting up in the bed now, and she says, “You’ll see the world again. I can tell. He’s going to fall in love with you. And if you’d just listen to me, you’d realize you’re going to be his favorite once I’m dead.” She mentions her death so casually. “He’ll take you anywhere you want to go.”

“Not anywhere,” I say. “Not home.”

She smiles, pats the mattress beside her in invitation.

I sit beside her, and she gets up to kneel behind me, and begins weaving my hair into a braid. “This is your home now,” she says. “The more you resist—” she tugs my hair for emphasis “—the tighter the trap gets. There.” She takes a ribbon that was draped over her headboard and ties my hair in place. She crawls across the mattress so that she’s facing me, and she strokes a wisp of hair away from my eyes. “You look nice with your hair back. You have great cheekbones.”

High cheekbones, just like hers. I can’t ignore our resemblance to each other: the thick, wavy blond hair; the pert chin; soft nose. All that’s missing in her are the heterochromatic eyes. But there’s one other difference between us, and it’s significant. She was able to accept this life, to love our husband. And if I have to die trying, I will get out of here.

There’s no more talk of escape between Rose and me after that day. She favors me over the other wives, who have never spoken with her at all. Jenna speaks as little as possible, and Cecily has asked me more than once why I bother getting to know Linden’s dying wife. “She’s going to die, and then he’ll focus on us more,” she says, like it’s something to look forward to. It disgusts me that Rose’s life is so meaningless to her, but it’s not very different from the things my brother said about the orphan we found frozen to death on our porch last winter.

Tears welled in my eyes when I discovered the body, but my brother said we shouldn’t even move right away, that it could be a warning to anyone else trying to break into our home. “We did such a great job with the locks, they’ll die before they get in,” he said. Necessity. Survival. It was us or them. Days later, when I suggested we bury the body—a little girl in a threadbare plaid coat—he had me help him haul it to the Dumpster. “Your problem is that you’re too emotional,” he said. “And that’s the kind of thing that’ll make you an easy target.”

Well, maybe not this time, Rowan. Maybe this time being emotional can help, because Rose and I talk for hours, and I relish our conversations, certain I can use them as an opportunity to learn everything about Linden and earn his favor.

But as the days turn to weeks, I sense a genuine friendship blossoming between us, which should be the last thing I want from someone who is dying. Still, I enjoy her company. She tells me about her mother and father, who were first generations that died in some sort of accident when she was young; they were close friends of Linden’s father, which is how she came to live in this mansion and become his bride.

She tells me that Linden’s mother—Housemaster Vaughn’s younger, second wife—died in childbirth with Linden. And Vaughn was so immersed in his research, so obsessed with saving his son’s life from the start, that he never bothered to take on another wife. He might have been ridiculed for it, Rose says, if he weren’t such a capable doctor and so in love with his work. He owns a thriving hospital in the city and is one of the area’s leading genetic researchers. She tells me that the Housemaster’s first son lived a full twenty-five years and was gone and buried by the time Linden came along.