Cage Night Talk: Don't Fall Asleep by the Cage

My name is Evelina Swift. When I woke up, my limbs were bound, and I realized I had fallen into the hands of my nominal sister, Rosamund Thorne. She always wore a white lab coat, but her gaze was chilling, as if she were examining a specimen. In this basement she called her "private laboratory," electrified instruments and chilled solutions were neatly lined up, and her expression told me those weren't meant to save lives—they were meant to break people down inch by inch and reassemble them into obedient animals. A few other women knelt in the corner like shadows; they had once, just like me now, clenched their teeth and refused to bow their heads.