“Pull the sticks.” She understood, and tried, but frustrated easily. My agitation mounted as she wiggled one loose, then went on to the next one. The second was harder, but the last came free easily. Then she had to turn the metal ring to line up with the hasp slot. This was harder for her, her hands hurt, and she was beginning to be afraid in the dark. I was losing patience. My freedom was so close—I could foil whatever plans Boyd and the boy had for me if only this little wimp of a child could free me.

Settle down, Angelina, I had to remind myself. The child is doing her best.

I began the music again, softly stroking her golden hair with it, easing us both through this tense moment. The burred edges of the metal bit into her soft little fingers and the smell of blood was so loud that I almost screamed inside my prison. The first lock twisted and she lifted the hasp off.

Good girl, good girl. Now the next one. I could barely stay conscious, I was starving; the tension of the moment had me wanting to explode. She began to whine with the second one. The box was off square, and the hasp didn’t line up right. It was hard to turn.

I increased the music, hoping to give her extra strength. She worked hard at it, her little pink tongue poking out one side of her mouth. She grunted and groaned, began to cry a little bit and whimper as her blood flowed across the hasp, but I just increased the music; I wouldn’t, I couldn’t, let her stop. I was almost out.

It worked. The second was free.

The third was easier to do, and she turned it, then very slowly lifted the hasp off, took two steps back, and put her bleeding fingers into her mouth.

I quieted my heart for a moment, not believing my luck. Then I reached up and pushed on the lid. It swung open on silent hinges, and there she stood, like an angel.

I climbed out and knelt before her, promising her a child-­delight journey into the land of her heart’s desire later this evening. I played a light melody for her as I watched blood-tinged saliva, golden green in the darkness, appear at the corners of her mouth. Very gently, I removed her fingers and examined the cuts, then put her fingers in my mouth, tasted the delect­able fruit, the plump little knuckles weeping delicately onto my tongue, whetting my appetite.

I looked into her eyes, the eyes of my rescuer, and I wanted to sweep her up and dance her around the floor, sinking my teeth deeply into her neck and enjoying the golden flow of this most glorious child. But I dared not. Slowly, reluctantly, resisting temptation, I pulled her tender fingers from my tongue and patted her gently on the head.