Disclaimer: See Chapter 1.

Chapter 2: On the Deafness of Persons with Large Salaries

The king led the girl to a room filled with straw. "Spin all this straw into gold by morning," he commanded, "or I will chop your head off."

Rachel Miller lost her temper. "WHAT HAVE YOU DONE?"

When her father had stumbled into the house, white as a ghost and clutching his head, she had been certain he was having a seizure. He had stopped her before she called 911, but the scare had not left her in the most accepting of moods for the confession to follow.

"I CAN'T BELIEVE YOU LIED ABOUT ME!"

Richard cowered in the armchair where he had collapsed. Rachel may have been only five foot two, but her wrath was worthy of the combined heights of the Chicago Bulls.

"MY OWN FATHER HAS GONE STARK, RAVING MAD!"

"I'm sorry, my dear," Richard offered for the fifteenth time.

As suddenly as her anger had come, it disappeared, and Rachel collapsed on the couch. Perceiving the worst of the storm was over, Richard emerged from the overstuffed depths and tried to explain. "I lost my head."

"I'll say," Rachel muttered, but there was no heat in it.

Richard sighed deeply. "I don't know what we're going to do."

"What choice is there? We'll have to tell the truth."

"The truth?" Richard looked, if possible, even more alarmed.

"Yes, the truth. We'll say you're a doting father who would do anything to make his daughter look good, and you got carried away. You apologize very sincerely and hope he's in a good mood. In fact, we'll go explain to those goons outside right now."

Ten minutes later Rachel was speeding down I94, wondering exactly how she had gotten there. She had left the house with every intention of sending the car and its escorts home. Somehow, in the middle of their refusing to listen to her, she had ended up in the backseat, and before she knew it, the car had backed out of the driveway and hit the streets.

"Mr. King's orders were quite clear indeed," she muttered and settled back for the ride. It turned out to be a very long one, and it was several hours before the car slowed and turned into a winding private drive and began climbing. At least, Rachel assumed it was a private drive until they drove up it for fifteen minutes with no sign of a house. Another fifteen minutes, three security gates, one electric fence, one spiked wall, and one manicured hedge later, the car came to a stop.

Rachel climbed out past the guy holding the door and got her first clear view of her destination. Enormous did not describe it. Craning her neck as far back as it would go, she could just glimpse the tops of the towers in the deepening twilight. Massive walls made the color grey very prominent, with wings sprawling untidily around four sides of the pentagonally shaped courtyard. Rachel felt certain winged monkeys would swoop down any moment and carry her off to the wicked witch.

"Ah, Miss Miller, I presume?"

The man who approached her did not look like a wicked witch's henchperson. He was short and stout, with a few black hairs carefully combed over the large bald spot on the crown of his head. "Yes," Rachel responded uncertainly.

"I am Herman Zitwitz, general manager of Mr. King's estate here. I can't tell you how delighted I am to have you with us."

His beaming smile dispelled the air of evil enchantment and emboldened Rachel to say, "Look, Mr. Zitwitz…"

"No, no, you must call me Herman," he interrupted, "and let me know if there is anything I can do to make your stay more comfortable."

"Herman, I'm afraid there's been a terrible misunderstanding," Rachel blurted as he took her arm and hurried her toward the house…mansion…fortress.

"No, Miss Miller, I am certain there is no problem. Mr. King's instructions were quite clear."

"But Mr. King was misled. He thinks I can…"

"Not here, Miss Miller. If there is something to discuss you must do it with Mr. King himself." His grip tightened and he all but dragged Rachel down a long corridor to where an open elevator stood waiting. Rachel was dimly aware of the plethora of statuary and sculpture lining the hall, but there was no time to stop and examine it, even had she been so inclined.

The elevator shot up with a speed that caused Rachel's stomach to drop. After less than a minute, it pinged to a stop, the doors slid silently open, and Rachel stepped out into the most beautiful room she had ever seen. The impossibly deep carpet was forest green, as were the draperies framing the bay windows. Ivory colored chairs and sofa, cushioned in more green, surrounded a coffee table with a crystal top supported on the backs of four ebony elephants. An inviting fire crackled in the gleaming hearth, and Rachel could not suppress a sigh of pure pleasure.

Herman heard it, and his smile became so wide it tickled his ear lobes. "Mr. King hoped you would be comfortable here." He threw open a door, and Rachel glimpsed more ivory and green before she demanded, "Mr. Zitwitz, you MUST listen to me."

"Miss Miller, I cannot."

Rachel blinked in confusion. The man wasn't deaf was he? "I don't understand."

"Mr. King's orders were very clear. I am not to allow any sort of…protestations."

"But…"

"Please, Miss Miller, I have a very good idea of what you wish to say, and if you value both our present positions, please don't say it. Mr. King is not a man to alter his decisions."

She had felt nervous and humiliated all afternoon, but up until this moment she had not been afraid. "You mean I have to go through with it, even if I can't…" she trailed off.

"Yes, Miss Miller."

Rachel took a deep breath. "And when I fail?"

"Then your father will have been proven a dishonest employee, and dishonesty usually pervades every area of a man's life, especially his business."

"I can't believe this. Are you saying that if I can't win a fortune on the market tomorrow, my father will be accused of…of cheating the company?"

Herman coughed uncomfortably.

Rachel's voice jumped five pitches. "My father has never stolen a thing in his life! His only fault is losing his head in stressful situations! You can look all you want, and you'll never be able to prove more than that."

"I am very much afraid that there will be proof." He sounded apologetic. Rachel stared in horror as the implications began to sink in. "Don't fail, Miss Miller." The elevator doors closed on Herman's gently smiling face, and Rachel was left alone.

She slept very little that night, despite a wonderful bed, and an excellent dinner brought up in the elevator by a uniformed maid. The elevator, Rachel discovered, that would not respond to her summons. Nor was there a phone, or any way out of her suite. The windows were sealed shut, and the door Rachel was certain concealed a staircase was locked. "I knew there was a reason to learn lock-picking," she mumbled as she tossed and turned on the king-sized bed.

At seven o'clock the next morning a maid entered to find Rachel dozing in an armchair by fireplace. She brought breakfast and a change of clothing that Rachel haughtily refused. At precisely a quarter to eight, Herman reappeared and Rachel silently rode a long ways down, into what felt like the heart of a mountain.

Compared to what else she had seen of this place, the room she now entered was spartan in the extreme. There was adequate lighting, but it served only to illuminate the cold stone walls and floor. Not bare stone: that would have been too much to ask of the architectural pride. The room was covered with huge mosaics, worked entirely in gray, blue, and white, depicting something Rachel was too flustered to determine.

Herman directed her attention to the room's only furnishings: a large leather office chair and a desk holding a full array of computer equipment. "I believe you will find everything you require, Miss Miller, but if not, just use the intercom." He pointed to one corner of the desk. Before he turned to go, he informed her, "All online activity in this room is monitored. I would suggest you stick to trading stocks." He left and the lock clicked with finality.

Rachel, in turning to watch him go, caught sight of something that had been previously camouflaged by the colorless mosaics. Stifling a scream, she stared at the skeleton, dangling by his frail wrists in the corner of the room. "So, Mr. Bones, we're in this together, are we?"

Rachel sank to the floor and buried her face in her hands. I will not panic, she told herself firmly, but at the moment, panicking and not panicking seemed equally useful. Here she was, stuck in a prison Houdini himself could not have escaped, controlled by one of the most powerful men in the country, who also happened to be a deranged control freak.

"Maybe the computer isn't really monitored." Rachel did not realize she had spoken aloud until a soft response echoed through the chamber.

"A cheering thought, but M. F. King does not make empty threats."

This time, Rachel really did scream.

A/N Thank you, Equus! Your comments are always well thought out. Everyone should have a (longsuffering) friend like you!