Katherine exhaled in one large gasp as if she had been holding her breath until that very moment. “Thank you,” she said.
“Where do we start?” Charles asked.
Morgan looked around the room at all the books piled on the bed and the floor. “Grab a book and start reading. We don’t have a lot of time.”
The three of them studied the same books Morgan felt she had been studying for an eternity well into the night, but with new eyes this time—searching for a solution to Katherine’s problem now that John’s seemed to have a possible solution, as far-fetched as it may be.
Page after page of Council regulations brought Morgan no hope on what was already a bleak case. There were countless reasons for the Council to order a compulsory abortion: the mother being found unfit, the father being found unfit, getting pregnant while unmarried, getting pregnant while unemployed, getting pregnant with someone other than your husband. Dozens upon dozens of ways for the Council to legally terminate a pregnancy, but none that would convince them to let Katherine keep hers.
Katherine sat on the bench at the end of the bed where Morgan was studying, a pile of books stacked beside her, carefully leafing through each in turn. Charles lay on the floor by the door with his own stack of books, and although his face was out of Morgan’s view, she could hear his soft, rhythmic breathing.
Katherine must have noticed the change in his breathing too. Looking up from her book to where Charles was resting, she smiled and whispered, “Out like a light.” Yawning and stretching her limbs, she set the book aside. “Find anything useful?” she asked Morgan, still careful to keep her voice down.
“No,” Morgan said shortly.
“Me neither,” Katherine said. “But I did read about one of these new tests they’re recovering to prove who the child’s father is. Maybe we can try to do one of those and end this whole thing now.”
“That won’t work,” Morgan replied. “If Henry is willing to lie to make you abort his own child, then I think he’ll have no problem convincing a lab technician to fake a paternity test. Besides, that equipment is so old they’re inconclusive most of the time anyway.”
“We can make that work in our favor then, right? We can’t prove it’s Henry’s, but they can’t prove it’s not. Case dismissed.”
“Not exactly,” said Morgan. “‘Proof’ is a loose concept in these cases. There are two different types of evidence the Council usually accepts in fidelity cases. The first is an eyewitness to testify of the infidelity, the second is a personal testimony from the—” Morgan hesitated, making sure she chose her words carefully “—paramour himself. Both are notoriously easy to fake. All the family has to do is find a man willing to claim he had an affair with you in exchange for a little compensation. When the trial is over, he walks away a little richer for his troubles.”
“While my reputation is left in shambles and I’m ruined for the rest of my life,” Katherine said. A long, dark lock of black hair fell from where it had been pinned into place and onto her shoulder.
“I’m afraid so,” Morgan said from behind her book. “The Bells have enough prestige that, unfortunately, no one is going to take your word over theirs.”
“Perhaps it’s just unavoidable then,” Katherine said, fumbling to remove the remaining pins in her hair, becoming more and more frustrated until she finally ripped them out, pulling a handful of her hair out with each one. “I did everything right. I studied hard, passed my Evaluation, didn’t mess around with boys. I even married a high-born Northridge gentleman. Yet here I am, in the exact same position I promised myself I would never be in.” Katherine jumped up and threw the hairpins onto the bench where she had been sitting, Shaking her head, she whispered, “There’s no graceful way out of this, is there?”
“Probably not,” Morgan replied, still looking down at her book.
“You don’t have to sound so happy about it,” said Katherine, ripping the book out of Morgan’s hands.
“It doesn’t make me happy,” Morgan said as she glared up at Katherine, making direct eye contact with her for the first time since she walked through her door. “Just because we have a complicated history, doesn’t mean I want your life ruined.”
“Could have fooled me.”
“I’m helping you, aren’t I?” Morgan said, somehow yelling and whispering at the same time, her entire body tense from anger. “You left him, Katherine. No one made you. That was your choice. So yeah, forgive me if I don’t particularly like you right now, but as the sister of the man whose heart you broke, I think I’m entitled to that.” Morgan was trembling now. “You were like a sister to me, Katherine,” she said, her voice threatening to break, “and then you were gone.”
Katherine stood silent for a moment and Morgan swallowed hard as she held her gaze. Then Katherine nodded and sat at the foot of the bed, her head hung down, willingly accepting Morgan’s abuse without argument.
Morgan took a deep breath to calm herself. “Did you at least love him?” she whispered.
“Who?”
“Henry.”
“I don’t know,” Katherine said, wiping her eyes. “There were times when I thought I did. But now I think what I may have loved most about him was he was a way out.”
“How romantic,” said Morgan sarcastically.
Katherine’s eyebrows furrowed. “It’s not as if I could have turned down his proposal anyway.”
“Why not? You turned down Charles’. If you didn’t love Henry—”
“That’s not really relevant,” Katherine said. “Henry could have been a drunk with a reputation for beating his wives and my father still would have made me marry him. Not many people like me get a high-born to even look at them, let alone propose. So, if you get one, you accept it. I already had one failed engagement, there’s no way my father was going to let me turn down another.”
“Is that all Charles was to you? Just an advantageous marriage?”
Katherine sighed. “Of course not. But you and I both know Charles was never going to be allowed to marry me. I made the hard choice and decided to move on for both of our sakes.”
“He wasn’t going to give up on you. I hope you know that.”
“I do.”
“He’s too much of a gentleman to say it to your face, but you made the wrong choice.”
“I know.”
“Good.”
At that, Morgan picked up her book again and pretended to read. She knew she had crossed a line, but she feared what else she might say if the conversation continued. From the foot of the bed, Morgan could hear Katherine crying softly to herself. And while Morgan wanted so badly to hate her, she felt her anger slowly dissipate as they sat together in silence.
“I’m sorry,” Morgan whispered.
“It’s not your fault,” Katherine replied through the tears. “I just don’t know what to do anymore.”
“This is what you do.” Morgan shifted on the bed so she was sitting directly across from Katherine and, placing her hands on Katherine’s shoulders, she said, “You cry. You cry, and you scream until you can’t even breathe anymore. Then you pick yourself up, walk out that door, and you keep fighting.”
Shuddering with each breath, Katherine nodded and wiped her face. Katherine seemed older now, more burdened than Morgan remembered her from the good old days. Perhaps it was just the stress of everything going on with Henry, but Morgan sensed something deeper, the sort of weight that came from a lifetime of ‘what ifs.’ It was a feeling Morgan hoped she never had to experience.
Tentatively, Morgan wrapped her arms around her. Katherine sunk into her, her head resting on Morgan’s shoulder as she let out another muted sob.
It was then Morgan realized Charles was awake. He stared from his corner, not moving or making a sound. Morgan had no idea exactly how long he had been watching them, but his expression told her it had been long enough. Katherine had not seen him, her face still buried in Morgan’s shoulder, and Charles’s face silently told Morgan not t
o say anything. He just watched and gave a nod of appreciation to his little sister.
True to her word, Katherine took Morgan to the knifer’s house the next morning. He lived on the north side of the bridge, but the neighborhood definitely didn’t look like it was part of Northridge. The houses may have been considered elegant once upon a time, but it was clear no self-respecting high-born family would be caught dead there now.
A young girl, not much older than sixteen, answered the door.
“Good morning,” Morgan smiled, but the girl said nothing. “I’m so sorry to bother you, but is your father home?”
The girl just stared at her, completely confused.
“She means your husband,” Katherine corrected. “Is Dr. Harold Smith home?”
The girl nodded and held the door open for the guests to enter.
“It would probably be best if I waited out here,” Katherine said to Morgan. “Give you two some privacy.”
Morgan didn’t much like the idea of going into the house by herself, but perhaps this was the kind of conversation best had without an audience. Once inside, the girl shouted, “Harry, you have a visitor.”
A gentleman—well, gentleman might not have been the right word—emerged from the next room and entered the dingy foyer where Morgan waited.
“Dammit girl, stop screaming and act like a bloody lady for once in your life!” Dr. Smith shouted, then turning to Morgan said, “You’ll have to forgive my newest bride. She hasn’t been thoroughly broken in yet.” Turning back to the girl, he shouted, “What are you still doing here? Get out!”
Morgan felt her insides recoil as the girl scampered away and the doctor turned to her. Everything about him—his face, his hair, his clothes—was greasy and slimy, as if he hadn’t bathed in weeks. Morgan may have been able to find it in herself to excuse his appearance, had he not opened his mouth.
“How can I help you?” he asked, a sleazy grin across his face as he ogled Morgan head to toe.
Morgan gritted her teeth, willing herself to not show a single ounce of the detest that was overflowing within her. She needed him, after all. John needed him.
“So sorry to bother you, Dr. Smith,” she said, forcing her features into what she hoped would pass as a smile, “but I was told that since you’re a surgeon at the asylum—”
“Head Sterilization Surgeon,” he corrected in his most authoritative voice.
There was something odd about the way the doctor talked. Morgan couldn’t tell if his accent was from Northridge or Southend, as he tended to slip back and forth from one to the other within a single sentence.
“My apologies,” Morgan said. “Well, since you’re the asylum’s Head Sterilization Surgeon, I was told you’re in a position to grant… special requests.”
Dr. Smith raised an eyebrow. “And who exactly did you hear this from?”
“An acquaintance of yours. Katherine Bell.”
Dr. Smith laughed. “She told you I was just an acquaintance, eh?” he said, slipping back into a Southend accent. “That girl marries some Council brat and suddenly she’s ashamed of her own uncle, her own flesh and blood. I’m a doctor, you know, a respectable gentleman. Worked hard for everything I have. If anyone’s scum, it’s her. Just because I spend my days slicing up unfits doesn’t mean she’s better than me.”
“Of course not, sir,” Morgan said.
“What are we talking about here? You got a boyfriend in the asylum or something?”
“Something like that,” Morgan replied. “His name is Jonathan Hunter. He was arrested recently and is currently at the asylum, waiting to be ster—” Morgan stopped herself, “—waiting for his procedure. I was hoping you could help us.”
“Depends on what kind of help you are looking for,” he replied.
“I was told the current wait time for release was about four months.”
“More like six,” Dr. Smith said, walking out of the foyer and into the next room—a study of sorts that reeked of sweat and stale tobacco. He plopped himself down in a threadbare armchair, pulled a still-lit cigar from an ashtray on a nearby end table, and, placing one end into his mouth, inhaled deeply.
“I was hoping you could make it shorter,” Morgan said, trying her best to breathe through her mouth as Dr. Smith blew out a cloud of smoke.
“For the right price, I suppose I could shorten the wait. But it’s not going to be cheap.”
“Money isn’t an issue.”
Dr. Smith paused for a moment, examining Morgan.
“What did you say your name was?”
“I didn’t,” Morgan replied.
Dr. Smith smirked. “While I appreciate the need for discretion as much as the next guy, I like to know who I’m getting into bed with before I take off my pants.”
“So do I,” Morgan replied. Dr. Smith waited as if expecting Morgan to say something else, but she remained silent.
He ran his hands through his greasy hair. “Well, miss, you tell me what you want, and I’ll tell if it’s possible.”
“I want him out tomorrow, unsterilized.”
He laughed out loud and flicked a wad of ash onto the carpet. “If that’s the kind of deal you are looking to make, then I’m out. You’re talking about breaking him outta the asylum, and trust me, lady, no amount of money is worth taking that risk. There is no escaping that place. Anyone caught trying to break out is immediately executed, no questions asked, and the same goes for anyone thought to be helping.”
“Can’t you just fake it? Make it look like you sterilized him?”
“Fake he’s had his testicles removed?” he scoffed. “No, there’s no way to ‘fake it.’” Leaning forward, he whispered, “But I’ll give you some advice for free, ma’am. I wouldn’t go around talking about busting anyone out of the asylum. People don’t look too kindly on unfit sympathizers.”
“I’m not a sympathizer,” Morgan said. “I’m just trying to help someone I care about.”
“Here’s what I can do. You pay me two hundred credits, and I’ll have your boy-toy snipped and back home in three months.”
Morgan knew trying to get John home without being sterilized was a long shot, but she had to ask. And even though she now knew her request was impossible, she didn’t believe three months was the best he could do.
“I’m sorry, but that’s not good enough,” Morgan replied.
“Come on, lady. I’m the one taking all the risk here. Do you think you can just walk in here, into my home, and demand the impossible? Don, or John, or whatever the hell his name is, he’s locked away in a fortress, guarded by a hundred armed men. So, unless you have any other ideas on how to get him out, you gotta work with me a little. But, just so we’re clear, he’s getting sterilized no matter what.”
Morgan regarded the man sitting in front of her. She knew his type, the type who liked to make you think every simple task required them to move heaven and earth. Perhaps what she was asking for was impossible or perhaps he just needed the proper motivation.
“All right,” Morgan said, “here’s my offer. I’ll pay you five hundred credits if you can get him out in a month.”
“Now we’re talking.”
“But it’s an even thousand if you get him out in a week.”
Morgan could tell she had his attention now. She stood her ground, her eyes fixed on him as he considered her offer. Finally, he grinned.
“That’s a lot of money,” he said, almost reverently.
“It is,” she replied. “It would be a shame if you missed out on such a lucrative opportunity.”
He smiled. “I like you, kid. You got spunk. But a thousand credits is more than most Southenders see in a lifetime. How do I know you’re good for it?”
“I’m good for it,” Morgan responded confidently.
Dr. Smith eyed her for a moment. “Yes, I suppose you are. But there’s one more condition you have to agree to before we make any kind of deal.”
“Name it.”
“He can’t have any
visitors for the rest of his time at the asylum. Including you. Especially you,” he said.
“Why not?” Morgan asked.
“Draws too much attention,” he explained. “The keepers make a record of every visitor that comes in and out of the asylum, as well as who they visit. If anyone were to look too closely at what we were doing here, some people might frown on it. So it’s important your boyfriend keeps a low profile ‘til he’s out.”
Morgan didn’t much like the idea of not being able to visit John again, but it wouldn’t be for long. When considered objectively, the sacrifice more than outweighed the reward.
“All right. I can do that,” she agreed. “But I have a condition too. I need you to get a message to him. Just let him know what’s going on and why I can’t visit him anymore. I don’t want him to think I abandoned him.”
Dr. Smith shook his head and let out a small laugh. “You’ve really got it bad for the poor, unfit bastard, don’t cha? I can’t promise anything but if I get a chance I’ll do my best to let him know. Sound fair?”
“Fair enough. Do we have a deal?” Morgan asked.
“You have yourself a deal. A week from today, your boy will back home safe and sound, miss.”
“Hunter,” she said, extending her hand to him. “My name is Mrs. Hunter.”
Dr. Smith stood and reached forward. Shaking Morgan’s hand, he smiled and said, “It’s a pleasure doing business with you, Mrs. Hunter.”
With our growing numbers and the growing number of unfits being revealed within our borders, it has become necessary to detain those citizens declared unfit in order to ensure they are processed and sterilized without incident. We will reclaim the asylum for this purpose and dedicate it to the memory of Dalton Emerson for his extraordinary contribution to the development and execution of the Genetic Fitness Evaluation.
-Council Address, reign of the Council, Year 43
It was an unusually cold day, the kind of day that never seemed to warm up even though the sky was perfectly clear. John sat with Amos in the yard, who was chattering away about standard sterilization techniques and other happy topics, but John’s mind was elsewhere. He kept retracing his steps from two nights before over and over again, wondering if he would be able to find his way back to the library so he could find the journal again. He supposed he could just ask Amos to show him the way, but for some undefinable reason, he wanted to go alone. If he asked Amos about the library, then he might have to explain the journal. John supposed that it didn’t matter. It wasn’t as though a journal that had been stashed in the asylum’s public library was private or even necessarily secret, but it was one tiny little hidden gem John didn’t feel like sharing. No, if he ever made it back to fetch the journal, he wanted to be alone. Unfortunately, someone—usually Amos—was always around.
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