"Well, well, well. If it isn't the escapee. What do you have to say for yourself?" He looks at me with his arms crossed and his chin sticking out, and all I can think is how much it would hurt him if I shoved his chin back.
I look him full-on in the face. True, this means that I have to arch my neck up a bit, but I am DONE looking at people's midriffs. "I am proud of what I did. Wait just a chicken-fried minute, how did you know that I escaped?"
"I have certain informants."
Hortencia! That dratted little ingrate must have tattled. When I get my hands on her....Well, she won't be happy. Everett grabs my upper arm and drags me. I flail out at him, yelling "You are invading my personal space! You are invading my personal space! Bwoop,  bwoop, you are too close to this person!"
A few of the maids look up at us when we walk by (well, he walks, I get dragged), but they see that I am making the commotion and go back to their work. We pass by Hortencia, and I break free of Everett with a yowl. I jump at her, ready to hit and scratch and generally make use of my limbs. Everett grabs my arms from behind and I struggle against him.
"Calm down, Lorelei!"
"I'll destroy that no-good, dirty, lying-"
"Please sir, I've done nothing wrong. She tried to hurt me!"
We all yell over one another, my threats and his mediation and her lies. Finally, I stop screeching and breathe hard. Everyone else stops, too, and looks at me. I give Hortencia my Death stare. I shut my eyes until they are tiny slits, and then grimace. I raise one hand and stick my ring and pinkie fingers out of a fist in the universal (well, universal in our land) sign for Death and Destruction. She cowers, leaning back against the wall. She covers her face and emits a tiny shriek. Works every single time.

Everett continues to drag me down the hallway. He takes me past my room, past his, and then stops at a door. This door is unlike any I have seen yet, thick mahogany and bolted with heavy iron. Everett has to undo so many locks and chains before he opens it that I lose count. When the door finally creaks open, so much dust puffs into my face that I sneeze twelve times. Everett shoves me rather roughly.
"Go on in, Lorelei." He reaches to shove me again, but I grab his arm, twist it (very, very hard), and then walk through the door myself. As soon as I set foot in the room, the door slams behind me. I hear locks clicking, chains rattling, and I groan. Thanks, Everett. I lean back against the door and gaze around. My vision is blocked off from going too far by white tile walls. There is one three paces in front of me, and one two paces away on either side. The ceiling above me is incredibly low, and the floor is rather high. A single wooden chair stands in the center of the room, but that is all for furnishings. Because of the room's inner, a reflective porcelain, it is freezing cold. I shiver. Why is he doing this to me? A small light fixture, known as a fairy ball, flickers above my head with inconsistent light.

I see the end of a tightly rolled scroll peeking out from under the door. I reach down and yank at it. The scroll comes free, and the door seems to sag a bit from the strain. I unroll the scroll. The crabbed handwriting is distinctly Everett's, the page a minefield of beautiful swirls and drops and lifts. I use the thin light in the room to read the parchment.

My Dearest Lorelei,
In regards to your recent, shall we say, escapades, I have sought out a more foolproof method of containment. The wedding is to be in a week, so I am afraid that you must stay in here until the day of the wedding to prevent any further shenanigans. Food will be provided, of course, and I can give you small things like blankets and precut fabrics for sewing. My dearest, just inform the maid when she brings your food that you would like those things, and they will be brought to you like quicksilver.
All my love,
Everett.

I glare at the letter. I am not his dearest, and this 'method of containment' is about as friendly and comfortable as a bathtub without water in it. While it might be nice to have a blanket and some sewing things, I have decided that I will refuse any creature comforts that he offers me. I am strong, and I am tough, and I will not turn into a sugar-sap lady the way that he wants. I will be cold, I will eat only the plainest foods, I will be defiant. I may not be able to outright resist him, but small things like these, I have learned, are enough to drive him crazy. For now, this will be my rebellion. I sit down in the wooden chair and re-read the note over and over again. I discover that the ink is of fine quality, not too thick and not too thin. The parchment is exactly the right weight, and it holds up so well to the ink that you cannot see the imprints on the other side. After a few hours, or maybe minutes or days or weeks, I cannot tell, something slips under the door. It is a food tray, silver-plated with gold handles. I grasp it and pull it into my little bathtub chamber.

The food on the tray is ridiculously extravagant. There is a leg of baked chicken covered in a rich cheese-tomato sauce. There are boiled potatoes, but they are in a sweet parsley cream sauce. A dramatic, six layer slice of chocolate toffee pudding has its own plate. A glass of the delightful new (primarily medicinal for those poor unfortunate peasants) bubbly soda water is next to a hammered brass carafe of water. I scrape the cheese-tomato sauce off of the chicken leg before eating it. I rinse the potatoes with the carafe of water. The pudding, as much as it pains me, must be thrown away entirely. I drink the bubbly soda water, but I convince myself that it is mainly to soothe my nerves. This whole ordeal has left me quite shaken, and I 'need' the soda water to help me relax again.

I don't know quite how much time passes between my meals. But I know that every time, I get rid of all of the sauces and sweets. I usually end up left with bland baked meat of some sort, plain potatoes in another form, and several glasses of soda water. I don't know when night is, so I sleep when I grow exhausted. The floor is cold as ice and hard like rocks, but I refuse any sort of blankets or pillows. My entire life becomes routine in a way that I always feared. I wake when I have finished sleeping, and eat a bland meal. I lose myself in my thought, eat another bland meal, hate Everett for a few solid hours, eat a dull supper, and then fall asleep. For all I know, however, I could be sleeping in the day and eating my midday meal in the middle of the night.

One day, however, the door swings open. Three maids, fortunately none of them Hortencia, come and take my arms. They pull me along to my chamber. They already have the hot water in the bathtub. I try to undress myself, but they rip my clothes away with a horrifying speed. My bath, instead of being relaxing and casual, is a terribly rushed affair. The water it scalding hot, and the demonic maids scrub my skin to within an inch of its life. After my bath, they begin lacing me into a corset. One brushes my hair so hard that I am amazed that I still have hair. The wedding dress that was designed for me is nice. It is an ivory lace affair with ribbon lacing in front. I roll my stockings on, and then pull on the garters. The maids finish styling my hair, pull my dress over my head, and then stand straight. One maid knocks about under my skirt, trying to fasten on ornate leather slippers. I kick out at her and then put on my own black boots. I whip out my sword and will it to shrink down. The maids shriek in horror as the sword shrinks to knife size. I tuck it into my garter, and then send the maids out.