The night comes flooding back, and I bury my face in my hands, holding back stinging tears, trying to forget what happened next. Did I hear them scream or did I imagine it?
Allard touches my elbow. “That’s instinct. Your superior intuition is unique. It’s why we want you. It will serve you well here.”
Raising my head, I push the memories away and focus on her. On the future. “I don’t know if I trust my intuition. It’s been wrong before.”
“I’m here to help with that.” She guides me forward alongside a gurgling stream.
“How?”
“Practice. Forgiveness. We study and understand your past so it no longer limits your future.”
“Fun,” I say, keeping my plans to only move forward and never look back to myself.
We arrive at a small stone cottage so overtaken by ivy it disappears into the landscape. I may have missed it entirely if Allard hadn’t pushed aside vines to reveal a weathered wood door.
“I won’t pretend it’s going to be easy. But it will be worth it,” she says. She inserts a skeleton key into the faded brass lock before opening the door and motioning me inside.
Ducking under the ivy, I enter a living room with stone floors and wood-paneled walls. Cast in watery light filtering through the floor-to-ceiling windows at the back of the cottage, a shallow tweed couch faces a large stone fireplace. The space is void of cameras and screens—the techiest thing is an antique record player that sits in an orange box on the hearth. It’s like the whole place is frozen in time, like I’ve stepped into a VR game set a hundred years ago.
I rub my arms against the chill in the room as a dizzying wave of homesickness washes over me. If only I could curl up with my cat on the cushy lounge in my old home theater to get lost in a movie. While I was growing up, my parents kept me under lock and key. Most kids were on the Networks since birth, so when they went public at sixteen, they already had fans, but not me. I was homeschooled by robots and nannies with the occasional VR field trip. Publicly, my parents said they kept me a virtual secret because they wanted me to have a childhood, but I think they didn’t want to risk revealing my true identity. Movies were my only link to the outside world—practically my only friends—and my only common ground with my dad. As an actor, he studied the classics, and I’d watched the entirety of his rare collection religiously. They were my life.
“Everything is going to be fine, Elisha. You’ll see.” Allard closes the door. The deadbolt clunks into place, jumping me back to my new reality. “You must be starving. Can I get you anything to eat? Drink? Should I start a fire?”
“No, thank you.” My stomach rebels at the thought of food, and my legs wobble, threatening to give out. “I think I need to lay down.”
“Of course.” She shows me down a hall to a small room with a single bed draped in wool. A light fixture resembling a space station illuminates a streamlined dresser. I try not to compare the sparse furnishings to my room at home—the king-size bed tufted with down, the French crystal chandelier, the dressing room equipped with a delivery portal for sponsored products, ensuring a constant rotation of sequins and bangles—all controlled by a swipe of my hand. I only had to speak the occasion I was dressing for, and, at a wiggle of my fingers, the closet would spin around me while my virtual stylist assembled an outfit in one minute flat.
As I catch a passing glimpse of myself in a mirror, my bruised and bloody face replicated with gold starburst rods radiating around it—at the center of the explosion—my breath seizes. Terrorized by the nightmare reflected at me, I quickly look away. It’s like I’m underwater again, fighting for breath, and I crumple onto the bed, trembling, the enormity of the night assaulting me. I squeeze my eyes shut tight, and a sob escapes my throat.
“Shhh… Here, take this.” Allard helps me sit up and hands me an orange cup. “It’ll help you sleep. And tomorrow we’ll begin your training so you’re up to speed when the others return.”
After choking down the sugary concoction, I bury my face in the pillow.
Allard sits silently with me, her hands pressed to my back, and lets me cry.
Eventually, the sedative works its magic, and the sobs slow.
“Welcome home, Elisha,” Allard whispers, lightly stroking my hair as I drift to sleep. “I promise you’ll find riches here you never knew existed. Everything is going to be okay. You’re among friends now.”
Friends. The word resonates, but I pass out before I dare dream it’s true.
…
When I wake, I’m battered, beaten, limp. Everything hurts. My throat is raw, and my lungs are sore. The night comes rushing back with a vengeance. Wanting to keep the memories at bay, I force myself to my feet, repeating my mantra: No looking back. Only forward. Don’t think. Move. I head into the hall in search of the bathroom and bump into Allard.
“Elisha. You’re awake.”
Groggy, I rub my eyes, reminding myself of my new name. “How long was I out?” I ask, my voice scratchy and hoarse.
“About twenty hours.”
“That was some strong stuff you gave me.”
“Yes. I thought you needed a good rest,” she says. “And a hot bath is in order, too.” She opens a door behind her and shows me into a spacious restroom with stone walls and a claw-foot tub bathed in natural light from skylights. Dropping a stopper into the drain, she turns on the hot water and throws in bath salts and bubbles.
Sweet lavender wafts up to me on the steam, and I can’t wait to soak my aching bones.
“Use these towels, and I’m going to run and get you a change of clothes. I’ll be right back.” She sets the fluffy green towels on a wood counter next to the sink.
“Thank you,” I say as she hurries out of the room.
While she’s gone, I force myself to examine my battered reflection in the gold-framed mirror hanging over the sink. A cut on my forehead erupts from a black bruise that radiates over my right eye and fades to a sickly green on my swollen cheek. I’m still wearing my beaded Balenciaga birthday dress, the sheath accentuating my lean frame and the beads somehow intact. I hate everything about it.
“I probably don’t need to wear asymmetrical makeup with this monster face I’ve got going on,” I say when Allard returns.
She smiles. “Probably not. I don’t think you’ll have any scars, though. You’ll need a makeup lesson in no time.”
“No scars that anyone can see, anyway,” I mutter, struggling with the zipper on the side of the dress, unable to peel it off fast enough.
“I’ll give you some privacy,” Allard says. “But when you’re done you can put this on. It’s your uniform.” She sets down a neatly folded stack of forest green cloth.