Laila stood mesmerized by the purple curtain and stared at the pattern of threads in the rough fabric.
Almost shy, her hands touched the heavy lines.
The curtain was divided in the middle.
Laila pushed the two halves aside with a beating heart.
The light behind her enabled her to reasonably appreciate what she had encountered here.
Laila frowned.
Was she in the basement of the building that housed Summersby's shop?
She looked into a long room whose end she could not see in the dark.
As much as Laila strained her eyes, she could not see anything specific.
Right and left were long plastic or glass surfaces that served Summersby as a storage place for discarded mannequins.
The dark outlines of the juxtaposed, child-sized puppets seemed to be lost in the darkness of the room in infinity.
Laila took a hesitant step into the room.
First she felt for a possible light switch with her left hand.
Laila heard a metallic click as she swallowed nervously.
Sweat broke out of her pores and made a cold film on her skin, so she got goose bumps.
Every moment she expected cold fingers to shoot out of the darkness and grab her.
She took a deep breath.
'Why the hell are you doing this? It's just a harmless storage room. '
Laila forced himself to search for a light switch with his right hand.
On this site she was luckier.
Her fingers pressed the toggle switch and suddenly the room in front of her was bathed in soft, golden light.
Laila frowned.
Strange lighting for a storage room.
Very atmospheric but unsuitable to make a decent storage.
Her nerves were still taut and it seemed as if a thousand tiny hands were plucking at the nerves along her spine.
Her eyes fell on the opposite wall.
She was painted in the same purple hue as the curtain she had just stepped through.
In front of this wall stood a white marble pillar, divided at the top into two marble wings.
The pillar was high so that it could comfortably serve as a lectern to the visitor standing in front of it. On the huge stone wings rested a large open book.
Laila looked up.
The ceiling arched to a high arch.
It was painted a night blue and covered with tiny lights that poured over it like a cascade.
A successful imitation of an atmospheric starry sky.
The strange room reminded her more of a cathedral than of a sober warehouse.
Carefully, Laila passed through the room.
Keeping her eyes fixed on the strange desk, she glanced only briefly at the dolls to the right and left of her.
Girls and boys, as they were in Summersby's shop window.
Laila shivered, feeling as if the dolls were pursuing her with her beady eyes.
She felt like an uninvited guest, an intruder. Was she too?
Deep in her mind, a string began to vibrate softly.
An unpleasant feeling.
The more her eyes flickered to the side, the more she thought she recognized accusation and reproach in the doll's faces.
Frustrated, Laila focused on the sweeping wings in front of him.
She admired the dexterity of the stonemason.
Before her stood an artful masterpiece.
If the wings were still stony and heavy from the arch, they presented themselves with an indescribable elegance.
In almost sensual arches, the artist had worked out the individual wings.
They were surprisingly light despite the heavy material.
As if they could rise at any moment and fly away.
Curious, Laila stepped closer and studied the pages of the opened book.
She saw the edges of a black leather folder.
The thick, cardboard-like pages were covered with transparent tissue paper.
Amazed Laila stared at a single photo, which was mounted in the middle of the page.
Laila looked at himself.
The photo showed Laila on the steel table of the first room, where she had awakened captivated. Summersby must have shot it when she was unconscious and before he had tied her to the chair.
Laila flipped through the pages below.
No more photos.
She slammed the leather folder.
Her fingers paused for a moment, stroking the fine nappa leather before opening the cover.
On the inside of the lid stood in uniform, golden letters 'My Collected Works.'
On the first sheet the photo of a beautiful 6-year-old girl.
The string in her interior began to sing louder.
Laila lay in her cell on the cot, facing the wall.
She stared at the raw bricks of the brick wall.
Some stones were littered with irregular notches.
Laila had carved a line into the rock with Miguel's silver tube for each day she had to spend in this unfriendly place.
A dull desperation came over her.
She counted 258 scary notches.
The 6 months were long gone and she was still here.
Laila turned on his back and crossed her hands under her head.
She stared at the ceiling.
At least, as promised, Brutus had asserted his influence.
He had introduced to her seven specialists who had eagerly taught Laila the secrets of their special abilities.
Laila thought of her notebook, which was safely kept in Brutus' office.
Laila had diligently taken notes on each topic and followed attentively the explanations of her 'teachers'.
She was an ambitious model student.
Laila sighed, what else should she have done here.
At least that lesson and Brutus practical lessons had kept her in good health.
Her thoughts circled around Brutus.
She just did not get smart out of this man.
By now she met him four nights a week.
He always picked her up silently in her cell and accompanied her - depending on the topic was - to different places.
In the women's common room, he oversaw her advances on self-defense and melee.
Often he was her sparring partner.