“Nothing . . . and don’t even think about it. The Gardens are off-limits.”
I wanted to ask why, but it seemed better not to. Instead, I added it to my mental list of things to investigate. I followed Marisol across the grass toward a magnificent circular building not too far from Edison’s lab. As I got closer, I could see that it was actually less of a circle and more of a spiral—a wall of thick blue glass wrapping in around itself like a snail shell. I paused outside, reading the words engraved over the entryway: RECREATION CENTER.
Marisol waited for me to catch up. I got the feeling it wasn’t so much out of consideration, but so we would enter together. Side by side.
We stepped into the opening of the snail shell—not really a hallway since there was no ceiling—more like a walkway between two curved walls of glass. The walkway pulled us deeper into the spiral; the light was cool and blue as it filtered through the transparent walls. And even though I could see the blurry, scurrying shapes of people on the other side of the glass, it was blissfully quiet on this side.
Marisol and I walked two full circles before the spiral opened up and we arrived at the center of the building. And then the spell was broken. The noise of the vast courtyard washed over us. Women were everywhere. Blanketing the benches and grass. Running along a black rubbery path that bordered the courtyard. Talking in the shade of the trees. About seventy-five of them in all.
Marisol beamed and spread her arms wide. “Welcome to the Sanctum.”
Then she took me on a sweeping tour of the courtyard. Clearly the story of what had happened with the magfly preceded us. There was a preoccupied, manic energy electrifying the place. Everyone looked busy—little clusters of Kisaengs strummed instruments or painted or stretched their bodies into complicated poses—but their heads swiveled toward me as we passed. And they all wore pasted-on smiles.
Marisol paraded me along a narrow stream that ran through the courtyard—crossing the lawn, and becoming a rippling waterfall on the far side. We strode across an ornamental bridge to get to a small circle of girls sitting on elaborate pillows next to the creek. The six girls fell silent, ready to lavish us with their full attention.
“Girls!” Marisol beamed. “Edison has brought us another sister.”
They made tiny hand clapping motions as Marisol pulled me down onto a pillow next to her. All smiles and welcomes. It was surreal. No one said a word about the accident or the injured Kisaengs. They just laughed and nodded and chatted to each other.
Marisol rattled off names and I tried to pay attention. The girl next to me was Gabriella. Or had Marisol said Isabella? I recognized her vaguely from the party. She was pretty, but her dark hair and brown eyes were nothing special. Not much different from the girl next to her. Not different at all, in fact. And the girl next to them looked exactly the same too.
“Triplets. You can just call us the Ellas,” they said all together. They were wearing identical pink dresses too. “We’re pleased to meet you.”
They inclined their heads in a slight bow, not so much smiling at me as looking amused. I was so distracted by seeing the same snub nose turned up on all three faces, I completely missed the name of the next Kisaeng. But she had dark eyeliner that made her eyes pop: one of them was pale green, the other a light brown. The fifth girl in the circle, Aaliyah, had no hair at all. No trace of eyebrows or eyelashes either. She’d painted her naked head with intricate swirls and patterns of color that spiraled down her neck and down her equally bare arms, making her look otherworldly.
I glanced down at my own six-fingered hands and at Marisol’s distinctive bright red hair. I was starting to get what this circle had in common. Some anomalies, like my fingers, or Marisol’s hair, were spoken of in the Rememberings. They disappeared from Pleiades for generations only to suddenly spring up again—a fresh rebuke from God. Others were simply unusual. But any aberration made the Abuelos nervous. We were all Corrupted.
“And this is June.”
I couldn’t see anything that made this last girl unusual, except that she was incredibly glamorous and the only one to give me a real smile. And instead of a pillow she sat on a flat, metal seat that curved up slightly at her back. Before she looked up, she nervously brushed grass off her wide, velvety blue skirt.
“We’re so happy you’ve joined us!” June beamed at me, tucking away a loose strand of her black hair, which fell in graceful waves to her waist.
“Yes!” said Aaliyah. “You left dinner so early last night, we didn’t get a chance to introduce ourselves.”
“Not that we blame you!” June grinned. Her round face seemed to be made to smile—her lips permanently turned up at the corners. Unlike the others, June seemed genuinely unaware of how beautiful she was. “Edison is quite enough to satisfy any girl’s appetite.”
One of the Ellas gave me a coy non-smile and said, “Or three girls’.” And the triplets laughed and nodded their heads.
And I suddenly understood the real link between these Kisaengs. Evidently, our Corruptions weren’t the only thing we had in common.
CHAPTER 18
SISTERS.
Edison has brought us another sister. That’s what Marisol had said. And now I knew what she’d really meant. This circle of Kisaengs wasn’t just joined by what made us different. We were connected by something that made us the same. Someone. Edison.
The “sisters” were all watching me, waiting for my reaction. As a Kisaeng, should I be angry? Did I have a right to be? I honestly didn’t know. I didn’t even know all the rules here yet. Clearly they were hoping for drama, but I couldn’t bring myself to give it to them.
Instead, I made myself smile back at the Kisaengs around the circle, sharing the Ellas’ joke.
But figuring out my own feelings was so much trickier. I was mad. Of course I was. All that time together and Edison didn’t bother mentioning this one little detail.
Out in the Indigno camp he’d said, This time I came to find you. Now my face flamed. Was this why? So he could add me to his collection? And suddenly everything that’d happened since I’d met Edison became suspect. Had he been scheming to get me here ever since we’d met at the Exchange? Is that why he’d been kind to me?
Then again, I had my own agenda . . . Should I really be surprised that Edison had one too? And it was painfully clear to me that you could use someone and fall for them at same time. Hell, you could hate them and fall for them at the same time—I saw it all the time in Pleiades. The real question was, if emotions overlapped and crisscrossed and contradicted each other like this, how were you ever really sure about anyone?
But there was one certainty in all this: Edison knew he was sending me into the lion’s den today. He knew and he’d said nothing.
I looked away from the group of Kisaengs, blinking hard, and my eyes fell on a girl who was sitting by herself in the grass about five meters away. The girl was sewing a complicated-looking dress, but every few seconds, her eyes flicked up from the needle and landed on me.
And I noticed that the girl on the grass wasn’t the only one in the Sanctum staring at us. It dawned on me that the “sisters” might look relaxed—lounging on pillows, absorbed in their gossip—but it was an act put on for the benefit of the entire courtyard. Because just as Edison was the center of the room, so were his Kisaengs. They looked so natural, chattering and smiling, but it was hard to get comfortable with all those eyes on me.
It didn’t help that I had no context for anything or anyone they were talking about. I’d expected the Kisaengs to grill me about their families and friends. But no one so much as said the word Pleiades. As if nothing outside this Dome even existed. I could understand why—we’d made our choice and it couldn’t be undone. Once you entered the Dome, you weren’t allowed to leave again. After the amount of food at last night’s feast, I could see that the Curadores had secrets they’d like to keep that had nothing to do with dis
eases or death. That information would not do much to alleviate the mounting suspicion surrounding the Curadores.
But even if the Curadores allowed Kisaengs to leave, we would not be welcomed back. Kisaengs weren’t demonized in the eyes of the Citizens. It was worse than that. They were forgotten. Erased from conversations, from family stories. Because stepping inside the Dome took you outside of God’s salvation. You would not see your family again in this life, or the next. And that was not a comforting thought.
So instead of speaking about anything that mattered, the Kisaengs jabbered about parties and dresses and Curadores. And I tried to make the appropriate responses. But there was the girl on the grass. Still watching me.
Finally, I couldn’t stand it any longer. I was not going to be an object of curiosity or ridicule. I stormed over, planting myself in front of her.
“Would you like a closer look?” I thrust my hands in her face. She cringed away, hugging her sewing to her chest.
Now that I was closer, I realized she was the Kisaeng who’d been singing at the party. I hadn’t recognized her before because her dark hair—which had been long last night—was now very short and messy like mine. But instead of going spiky and wild, hers had feathered out around her face. What was also painfully obvious now was that she wasn’t recoiling in disgust, but in fear. Not of my hands. Of me.
I felt the eyes of the courtyard on me again—eager to see what I would do. Under the beautiful dresses and friendly smiles, there was a pack mentality within the Kisaengs. The sisters . . . they were clearly the alpha dogs of the whole group. And Marisol was the alphaest.
No, that wasn’t quite right. We were the alpha dogs. I was one of them now.
My face burned again, this time with real shame. I took a step back, giving the girl room. When I spoke again, my voice was gentle. “I’m Leica. I don’t think we’ve met.”
I nodded a greeting and she returned it automatically. Then I stood there, quiet—a trick I’d learned with Lotus a long time ago. Some people simply need the space to speak . . . especially if you’ve just terrorized them.
The girl nodded again, as if making up her mind about something, then shoved her sewing aside and unfolded her long legs. Her tawny-colored tunic and pants blended with her skin, obscuring her. And yet when she moved, the cloth rippled around her, drawing attention to the girl anyway. She was like a moth, strange and fluttering.
Marisol was at my shoulder now, glaring at the girl. “What do you want? It’s rude to—”
“I want to speak to Leica.” The Kisaeng’s voice was quiet, but not weak. Her face held that same balance—straight nose, small, rounded mouth, pointed chin—strong, but subdued. And her eyes had steel in them. The effect was echoed in her clothes—a crisscrossing sash made from tarnished belt buckles laid heavy over her soft tunic. It should’ve looked cumbersome, but it suited her.
“How dare you interrupt me!” Marisol said.
“What’s your name?” I stepped in front of Marisol, trying to limit the damage. After all, I’d started this.
“Riya.”
Every ear was listening. Waiting to see what would happen. “What do you want to talk about, Riya?”
“How did you do that last night?” She swiveled her wrist back and forth in the air. “With the Curador and the arm twisting and the . . .” She made a whistling noise and let her arm drop.
It was the last thing I expected her to ask. “It was a move my dad taught me. It’s simple, really. You just use your opponent’s hold against him. Or her.”
I only had to show Riya once and she repeated the movements flawlessly.
“This is ridiculous!” Marisol tried to insert herself again. “This is the Sanctum, not a fighting ring.”
I started to snap at Marisol, but then June was at our side—defusing the situation with her easy tone. “Could you do it again? Looks like a good trick. I’ve put up with one too many pairs of groping hands.”
I smiled gratefully at June. I didn’t want my first morning to deteriorate into a shouting match between me and Marisol. But when I turned to June, I was speechless. She was looking straight in my eyes—but she wasn’t standing. Instead, her torso was perched, midair, on a floating metal seat. Her velvety skirts draped over the front of the hovering board, but she had no legs dangling under the cloth folds. No legs at all, in fact.
A soft hum, similar to the magflys, filled the awkward silence. As I gaped at June, it dawned on me that I was on the wrong side of all the rude stares I’d ever endured in my life.
“I’m sorry, I—” But then I stammered, afraid that apologizing would just make it worse.
June generously pretended that she didn’t notice my unforgivable behavior. The permanent half smile still on her face, she busied herself with smoothing out her skirt so it cascaded dramatically into the empty air between her torso and the ground. Waiting until I managed to find something coherent to say.
This time I was saved by Riya. “But what if the move doesn’t work? What if he manages to keep hold?” Riya’s gaze was intense and I could tell this was something she’d had experience with.
Suddenly I wondered how many other Kisaengs had found themselves in situations like I had last night—or worse. Edison had been clear that our relationship was my call, but was that always the case with Kisaengs and Curadores?
“Well, if they’re too strong, then you have to find a way to weaken them first.”
By now, five or six other Kisaengs had wandered over to join us and right there on the grass of the Sanctum, I gave an impromptu lesson. We moved to an open stretch of grass, leaving Marisol and her circle by the creek. June didn’t follow us, but she swiveled a little on her seat so she could watch.
The Kisaengs worked together in pairs, going through the motions of the arm twist, as well as attacks on some the most vulnerable points. Groin, shins, knees. I decided to save throat punches and eye gouges for another day.
“Okay, Riya. Show me what you’ve got.” I grabbed her wrist, and with surprising force, she twisted my arm behind me and continued the momentum, flipping me over her back and onto the ground.
“Well done!” Edison suddenly towered over me, laughing as he offered me a hand up. “I see we’ll be in for more of the entertainment we got last night.”
“Entertainment?” I pushed myself off the ground, refusing his help. When I looked at Riya and the other Kisaengs around me, their faces—which seconds ago had been fierce with concentration—were now embarrassed. He had no right to treat me—to treat us—like that.
“Kisaengs, I want you to remember that these are more than just party tricks. Let them laugh. Let them underestimate you . . .” Anger over meeting my new “sisters” caught up to me as I put a hand on Edison’s chest, and I was surprised by the intensity of it. Feeling his heart beating though his shirt, our eyes met—in that split second, he saw what I was about to do. “Then take them down.”
I pushed his chest and, at the same time, hooked my foot around his legs—yanking them out from under him. I won’t deny that it felt good.
Everyone gasped as Edison crashed to the ground. Only I knew that I hadn’t used nearly that much force.
He lay there, eyes closed. Unmoving. Whispers went through the crowd. I nudged him with my foot. Still nothing. Finally I knelt down next to him. “I know you’re fak—”
But I couldn’t finish, because Edison grabbed me and drew me to him in a consuming kiss. And heat flared up inside me. Embers still glowing from last night. I was back in the church, his fingers in my hair. Breath in my ear. The hunger calling out to me.
And when he let me go, I felt seventy-five pairs of eyes on us.
Edison threw up his hands. “I relent! Please stop! Forgive me!”
I pulled away and got to my feet. But Edison was up on his knees now, still making a spectacle of himself. “Please, my sweet lady,”
he begged. “Forgive my foolish ways.”
I tried to put on a smile—acting the part—but I hated the spotlight. Hated being player in his spectacle. “Yes. Okay. I forgive you! Anything to make you stop.”
“Good!” Edison said, leaping to his feet, used to getting his way. He held his hand out to me. “I’ve come to fetch you for your checkup.”
I was happy to do whatever would make this uncomfortable scene end. But as I reached for his hand, Marisol casually insinuated herself between Edison and me. Smiling like nothing unpleasant had passed between the two of us. “Surely, you’re not going to steal Leica from us so quickly. The girls were just getting to know her.”
I hated her tone. Like she’d arranged the whole fighting demonstration herself. To help me make friends. And I was struck by a sudden memory from childhood. I couldn’t have been more than eight and the four of us, Marisol, Taschen, Lotus, and I, got up early to weed Sarika’s garden.
It’d been Taschen’s idea actually—a surprise for Sarika, who had been absorbed with tending the giant pitfire for days, smoking agave for the latest batch of mezcal. We’d worked hard as the sun came up. And when we were almost done, Marisol had suggested the three of us take a break and get a drink.
I’ll finish up, she’d said, as long as you guys bring me back some water.
I’d thought it was so nice of her. We’d gathered around the spigot, taking turns sipping at the dripping tap. Then I noticed Sarika walking across the Commons, smiling at her daughter working diligently in the garden. They were talking and I could tell that Sarika was impressed by the work. And I understood why Marisol had offered to finish up. She’d wanted the credit.
Clearly Marisol hadn’t changed in the decade since.
“Sorry, Marisol.” Edison barely glanced at her, putting an arm around me.
Marisol’s face went rigid. And her look of shock showed me what should’ve been obvious from the beginning. Marisol was not just one of Edison’s Kisaengs; she’d been Edison’s favorite. And now I was.
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