His face hardens and I get a glimpse of the man he is capable of being apart from a caring brother--hard, determined, as ruthless in his own way as is Ian.
“You needn’t concern yourself with any of that,” he says with casual arrogance that I can only think must be the product of generations of wealth and privilege. “So far as the world is concerned, you are my cousin, Amelia McClellan, newly arrived in the city. There will be curiosity about you, of course, but nothing more.”
I’m shaking my head before he finishes. “People will believe you have a cousin who just happens to look exactly like a younger version of your late sister?”
“Fair point,” Edward concedes. “But you should know that the moment I saw you, I was struck as much by the differences between you and Susannah as by the similarities.”
I look at him uncomprehendingly. “Our DNA is identical except for the mutation that was removed. Physically, I should be an exact copy of her.”
“And perhaps you would have been,” Edward allows, “if not for several factors. When she was seven years old, Susannah broke her nose and cheekbones in a bad fall from a horse. The surgeons worked from holographs of her and did an excellent job of reconstruction. But there must have been lingering effects that altered how her features developed from that point on, effects you never experienced. In addition, being sealed away from the world in the environment that you were for so many years was bound to influence your own physiology. The end result is that while you certainly look like Susannah, you also look like yourself, different features and expressions, different body language. Even the timbre of your voice is different.”
I stare at him, wanting to believe yet afraid to do so. Several times, I caught Ian looking at me with what seemed like puzzlement but this is the first I have heard that my appearance is truly my own. I hesitate to let myself hope for too much but perhaps Edward is right and it will be possible to conceal what I am.
“Still, won’t people wonder when I pop up out of nowhere?” I ask.
Grudgingly, he says, “About the only thing Ian has done right recently is to put an identity for you in the works. It will be ready in a day or two. When it is, anyone curious enough to look will find everything necessary to convince them that you’ve had a perfectly normal life from birth to the present day.”
“Can it be that easy to construct a false identity?” Given what I gleaned from the link about the scarcity of anything resembling privacy for most people, I have trouble believing that.
“It isn’t,” he acknowledges. “Let’s just say that Ian has the necessary resources.”
I want to ask how that fits with a business focused on developing high tech defense technology but Edward moves on quickly. He begins to fill me in about what I can expect in the coming days. The spring social season is getting underway. The non-stop whirl of activities is the perfect opportunity to introduce “Cousin Amelia” to the world, or at least the wealthiest and most powerful part of it that claims the city of Manhattan as its own.
I find the prospect daunting but I have to admit that it also excites me. To be out in the world, to have the chance to meet new people and have new experiences. As profoundly as Ian’s dismissal of me hurts, I am deeply glad to have a means of occupying myself that involves more than just brooding about how wounded I feel. And even worse, how much I already miss him.
The car turns onto an elevated highway and picks up speed. Miles whip past, little more than a blur of small cities interspersed with suburban communities. We move into a specially designated lane and begin travelling even faster. Traffic around us thins, becoming mostly delivery trucks and a few other luxury vehicles like ours.
Suddenly up ahead I glimpse a wall of gleaming glass and glittering spires so unlike anything else I have seen that for a moment I think I must be hallucinating. But the vision remains in front of me, growing in intensity.
Sunlight dances off the peaks of buildings that don’t so much scrape the sky as boldly thrust into it. I have a moment, scarcely more, to take in details--metal twisted into ornate shapes, glass shot through with color, impossibly delicate lattice works of steel, crystal domes reflecting entire cloud banks, liquid light spilling down steep cavern walls in shimmering falls of pure energy.
A story embedded in my mind casts up a single word: Oz. But this is so much more, a dream of a city, the triumph of power and beauty that not even gravity seems able to restrain.
Then it is gone, vanishing as we are swallowed by a tunnel.
“Almost there,” Edward says. His face appears pale and stark in the harsh light that leaves no space for shadows, nowhere for anything to hide.
“This tunnel and another like it to the south are the two major routes into and out of Manhattan,” he says. “No vehicle can enter either without a special pass. There is a handful of bridges but they are similarly restricted.”
I understand that he’s telling me this because of the concerns I’ve voiced about my safety but the information raises more questions in my mind. What kind of world is it where the wealthiest and most powerful possess a private playground of unparalleled opulence set apart from everyone else? What makes them feel the need to seclude themselves to such an extent?
The car begins to slow as we get farther into the tunnel. I can make out raised platforms to either side manned by armed guards who look as intimidating as Ian’s men.
With a start, I realize that I’ve gone from the heavily guarded palazzo to an equally well protected enclave of the elite. Either one offers luxury and security but both are in their own way prisons. I have to wonder if at some point in my life I will be able to experience genuine freedom.
Before I can dwell on that the tunnel is behind us and we are out into sunlit, tree-bordered streets that look as though they must be scrubbed down nightly. Neighborhoods flow past distinguished by rows of elegant brick townhouses mingling with larger loft buildings until they are overtaken by the soaring towers I glimpsed earlier, faced in marble and glass, hinting at vast, opulent interiors. Edward smiles indulgently as I stare in amazement.
The most startling sight is the people themselves. They are divided into two distinct groups. One is richly dressed, the men no less striking than the women, both given to extremes of fashion.
I can only gape at the sight of multi-colored silks and satins crafted into wildly ballooning trousers, fitted velvet vests from which gossamer wings extend, jackets with absurdly exaggerated shoulders, impossibly high boots, tightly girdled waists, hobble skirts that require the wearer to mince along, gossamer veils that drape the entire body but more than hint at the flesh beneath. Everyone seems engaged in a competition to be more outré, more visible, more sensually outrageous.
“Is a carnival going on?” I ask Edward.
He looks surprised, then chuckles. “I’m afraid not, although there will be soon.” He gestures at the passing scene. “This is just the city in all its frivolous glory. You’ll get used to it.”
I will try but I have no interest in making any such spectacle of myself. Edward’s quietly elegant appearance reassures me that not all the privileged elite are fashion mad.
“What about the others?” I ask.
He raises a brow. “Others?”
“The other people, the ones who are plainly dressed.”
They are by far the larger in number and are wearing drab colors, mostly muddy browns and various shades of grey, in simple, strictly utilitarian garments. As we slow at a corner, I notice several of them step off the sidewalk into the street to make way for a boisterous group wearing what to my eye look remarkably like clown costumes complete with wide frilled collars and parti-colored jumpsuits.
“You mean the workers,” Edward says. “Their liveries designate their functions and to which household or corporation they belong. You’ll learn to recognize them quickly enough but basically they include everyone from domestics to office workers below the highest professional levels.”
I nod but I’m really far
from understanding. “Why do they dress alike?”
He hesitates and I sense that he is uncertain how much I can grasp this soon. But finally he says, “The city is a hierarchy. The wealthiest and most powerful are at the top and everyone else is arrayed below. There’s nothing new about this. With few exceptions it’s how human societies have been arranged for thousands of years. On the one hand, people know their place and what’s expected of them. That provides a sense of security and stability.”
“And on the other hand?” I prompt.
He looks reluctant but admits, “It can become stultifying and there is always the potential for discontent. However, there is a safety valve of sorts. It is still possible to rise within the city to a degree that is achievable almost nowhere else. As a result, the most gifted and ambitious compete to be here, and do whatever they have to in order to stay.”
I want to ask if he approves of this arrangement but our acquaintance is still too new. My instinct is to wait until I have a better sense of him before intruding further into what may be sensitive areas.
Looking again at the passing scene, I understand what Edward means about those who are drawn to the city. Even among the worker class, the most ordinary human imperfections have been banished. Everyone is attractive, and seemingly filled with youthful energy and purpose.
Combined with the perfection of the physical surroundings this world looks more virtual than real. Yet when the car comes to a stop and the door beside me opens, I have no difficulty stepping out into it.
We have drawn up to the covered entrance of a three-story mansion facing an expansive park. The scents of newly mown grass and daffodils sweeten the air. I can hear the cries of happy children at play and, strangely, what sounds like the trumpet call of an elephant. Otherwise, the city is remarkably quiet. Luxury cars and other vehicles glide by soundlessly, no horns toot and there isn’t a siren to be heard.
I am contemplating this seemingly unlikely combination of energy and serenity when a faint rumbling far below vibrates up through my feet and legs to reach my consciousness. The sensation fades just as I become aware of it, leaving me unsure if it was real.
Directly across the park, about half-a-mile distant to the west, other residential buildings rise. A mile or so to the south where the park ends the glittering towers begin, the tallest of them a marvel of steel and glass that disappears into the crystalline sky.
I turn and survey the mansion that apparently is ‘home’. Nothing I have seen elsewhere, not even the palazzo, is more redolent of centuries-old wealth. Designed in the style of a French chateau, it boasts twin peaked towers standing at opposite corners of a crenellated roof covered in black slate. The walls are white limestone with marble accents around the large windows from which balconies extend, fronted by delicately carved balustrades.
Beyond the porte-cochere, a short flight of broad stone steps leads to the entrance. Wide double doors of polished mahogany inlaid with panels of etched glass are flung open. Light spills from beyond them.
A woman stands at the top of the steps. She is tall and slim with pure white hair elegantly arranged to frame a face of remarkable beauty. Simply dressed in a pale blue silk sheath with a narrow gold belt at her waist, she looks the epitome of ageless grace.
At the sight of me, her face dominated by aquamarine eyes that are misty with tears dissolves. For a long moment, she stares at me with a mixture of disbelief, sorrow, and tentative hope. Her smile, when it comes, is filled with unmistakable warmth and excitement.
Opening her arms, she says, “My dear girl, what a delight! Come and give your grandmother a hug!”
Adele--as she insists that I call her--strikes me at once as a force of nature in her own right. I give a fleeting thought to what she must have been like in her youth before I am swept up by her enthusiasm. She wastes no time tucking my arm through the crook of hers, her hand over mine as though she fears I might suddenly vanish. Edward follows with a patient smile as she leads me into the mahogany paneled entry hall.
“I could not believe it when Teddy here told me the news this morning,” my grandmother says. “How utterly astonishing. One is aware that such things are happening, of course, but one never expects to actually experience such a marvel.”
She casts me a sidelong glance at once kindly and perceptive. “You must be overwhelmed, poor dear, but you needn’t worry. You’re home now and all you have to do is relax and let us take care of you.”
“Thank you,” I murmur, blinking back tears. Coming on top of all the emotional upheaval I have experienced since awakening, her heartfelt welcome threatens to undo me.
She pats my hand gently as she leads me into an elegant parlor dominated by a large marble fireplace and an art collection that I can only guess has been accumulated over generations. So, too, the furnishings are a blend of centuries-old antiques of varying styles that together create an effect at once distinctive and gracious. Again, I sense the confidence of old money--very old by the look of it--and the respect for tradition that goes with it.
“Tea, I think,” Adele says with a further glance at me. I have no doubt how I must look--pale, wide-eyed, and rather disheveled. I haven’t eaten since the previous day but the thought of trying to do so makes my stomach clench.
Simple tasks--swallowing, speaking, moving--are still so new to me. At the palazzo, I pushed myself fiercely, eager to experience everything and driven by the overwhelming impact of Ian’s presence. Now, without him to constantly enthrall and encourage me, I have the sense of slowing down from a mad rush, and of finally confronting my own limitations.
I have so much to learn about this world and about myself. I scarcely know where or how to begin.
Edward--I will never be able to think of him as ‘Teddy’--gives instructions to a servant hovering nearby. I take the opportunity to study my surroundings. At once, my gaze is arrested by the life-sized portrait of a woman at the far end of the room. Slowly, hardly aware that I am doing so, I walk toward it.
The woman is young--in her early thirties--and very beautiful. She is standing in the same garden that I glimpse beyond the nearby French doors. The cut stem of a lush white peony dangles from the fingers of one hand. She, too, is all in white, a pleated gown of Grecian design that leaves one shoulder bare and skims her perfect figure. Her head tilts slightly to one side. She appears lost in thought, unaware that she is being watched. There is an aura of delicacy about her and a whiff of sadness.
Her hair is chestnut, her eyes glimpsed beneath lush lashes are aquamarine. But--I see with a rush of breath--that Edward told me the truth. She and I are not identical. Her features are subtly different, the cheekbones a little lower, the jaw a bit rounder. Her hair is straight, perhaps not naturally as my own is a tumble of curls. But the greatest difference of all is in the pose of her body, what I can only think of as demurely elegant. She seems to be waiting for something that she accepts may never happen.
On my best day, I could never manage such serene acquiescence. While I still have a great deal to learn about myself, I know instinctively that my nature is far more inclined to impetuousness and defiance.
My breath catches. Ian said that he cared a great deal for Susannah. Far from being a true replica of her, I am distinctly different. While I can’t doubt that he desired me physically, how could I imagine that he would feel for me any semblance of what he felt for her? She looks so ethereal…so pure. Whereas I--
I flush, thinking of how wanton I was with him, how bold. For a moment, a wave of shame threatens to overwhelm me but I rise above it, buoyed by anger.
I was hardly alone in what happened between us, nor was I ever more than superficially in control. Ian bears just as full a measure of responsibility as I do. He fueled my passion, claimed my body, and left me helplessly yearning for more even as he sent me away. And for that I am not sure that I will ever forgive him.
Adele has come to stand beside me. Gently, she says, “Susannah was a wonderful young woman. But if seei
ng her like this disturbs you, we can--”
I don’t let her finish. That she would even think of removing the portrait for my peace of mind is simply too much.
“I’m deeply grateful to Susannah,” I say. “For me, the painting is an expression of how rare and precious the gift of life truly is.”
Despite all the pain and confusion assailing me, I cling to this profoundly simple truth. Whatever I face, I will never let myself forget it.
My grandmother blinks back tears as she takes my hand. “Dear girl, you remind me of her in some ways but I must say, the differences are fascinating. Come, sit down. We have so much to talk about.”
Taking my seat, I encounter Edward’s gaze. His look of understanding and approval warms me.
“Susannah was my older sister,” he says as he joins us. “I adored her but I’m delighted to finally get to be a big brother.”
Again, I struggle not to cry. My emotions are in turmoil, torn as I am between hollow sadness at leaving Ian and tentative wonder at finding a place where I may truly belong.
The servant returns with tea and an array of small sandwiches. I manage to eat a little and even to engage in conversation. Yet my thoughts keep slipping to Ian, the too-little time we had together, and what will happen when--I cannot bear to think in terms of ‘if’--our paths cross again.
Chapter Fourteen
Ian
Having briefly relinquished control to Amelia, I take it back with a vengeance. She was right to suspect that I’d make her pay. My hands span her slender waist, thrusting her up and down on my cock as her head falls back and her body arches helplessly in yet another orgasm. As it shudders through her, I wrap my hand around the back of her neck and pull her down onto me. She slumps against my chest, quivering.
I give her a few moments, not more, before I turn her so that she’s on her knees under me. Arching over her, I hold her hips up and thrust deeply into her. It occurs to me that she’s hypersensitive by now and probably sore, whether she’s in any state to realize it or not. But I don’t stop. I bring her up again, driving her higher and higher, relishing her moans, her soft cries, the sound of my name on her lips, even the tears I wring from her as the pleasure becomes almost too much, teetering on the edge of pain.
Anew: Book One: Awakened Page 14