by Emily Shore
I eye her ensemble—the blue body paint of expertise trussed all over her skin with silver and green undertones to mimic scales even along her face. It accentuates her marigold locks even more, particularly with the silver flecks freckled all over her skin. Between the black eye makeup, the crimson claws she wears, and the prosthetic fins attached to cover her feet, Chrysanthemum looks like a siren lured straight from ocean depths.
“I didn’t know the Swan was here,” the man comments while approaching Chrysanthemum with a sultry grin, his muscles flexed. Hungry and expectant. “And we don’t mind a little extra company, do we, my little mermaid?”
He reaches over to cup her paint-scaled breast, and I don’t hesitate to scramble out of the water. Hear him snigger in response. “Fly away, little bird.”
I look back just once. Wish I hadn’t. He was spreading Chrysanthemum’s thighs.
For the rest of the day, I barricade myself in my room, staring out the window, watching clients come and go, reading here and there, but find I lack the patience for words. Unlike Sky. No. Don’t want to think to think about Sky. So, I put the book down, glance at the table where my dinner is so cold it might as well be frost. The sun’s gone down, but I still haven’t managed to eat much. Everything tastes like congealed oatmeal.
When I hear the knock at the door, I’m afraid it’s Luc, but I look through the peephole to see Forget-Me-Not standing there along with another Flower. Judging by the toasted brown skin and cocoa dark hair, I assume this is Chocolate Cosmos. She arches her head back, much too far, and when I open the door, Chocolate Cosmos’s eyes don’t center on me. No, in fact, she doubles over, and that’s when I notice the blood. One large splotch blots the gray nightgown just between her thighs. And there, I see the pronounced bump on her stomach. No wonder Forget-Me-Not didn’t want to call for her friend. Wasting no time, I open the door and usher them into the room.
“I wasn’t sure where to go,” Forget-Me-Not tells me once the door’s closed. “She’s having a miscarriage. She needs help.”
“Why don’t you take her to Jade?” I ask as she hauls Cosmos’s body to my bed.
She shakes her head. “Cosmos isn’t as popular as me. Jade can afford to lose her. If she finds out Cosmos is fertile, she’ll send her to the breeding line. And Cosmos won’t do well there. And I don’t want—especially after—I—”
As soon as her voice cracks, I touch her shoulder and then help get Cosmos into my bed. What can we do? She needs medical treatment, especially with a bump that size. When Cosmos shrieks once, it dawns on me who might be able to help.
“Stay here with her,” I order. “I won’t be long. I know someone…”
Forget-Me-Not doesn’t need to know anything else, and I rush away, skedaddling out the door as fast as I can and down a few different halls of the manor until I reach the numbered door I know to be hers.
“Gale,” I call in a fierce whisper after I’ve knocked a few times, scanning the hallways and other doors on this floor.
She opens the door. “Serenity.” Nightingale doesn’t phrase it as a question. To everyone else, we are the Skeleton Flower and Black Orchid. But to each other, we are Gale and Serenity.
“I need your help.” I pour as much dire sound into my voice as possible.
At first, I think Nightingale is going to ask me questions, but she glances at my frazzled state, my bare feet, and the nightgown and robe hanging loose off my shoulders. Then, without putting on any shoes, she issues out of her door and follows me down the hallway to my room.
By the time we return, Cosmos is worse. Writhing in the bed from the pain, tears that have turned to rivers on her face. I smell salt and iron, copper and metal like Sky’s coin collection I always played with as a child. Only one other time I remember this much of the scent. The night Mockingbird killed Gull—the same night I killed Dove—the same night Mockingbird slashed me. Remember all the blood.
But Nightingale knows exactly what to do.
Cosmos screeches.
“We have to keep her quiet,” Nightingale says to Forget-Me-Not.
Then, she proceeds to search through the pockets of Cosmos’s nightgown. Puzzled, I simply observe and then see the half-gnawed pixie stick there. How did Nightingale know?
“Crush this up and put it in water.” Nightingale hands it to me. “It’ll get into her system faster.”
I do as she instructs, hearing another shriek while in the bathroom. My hands fumble, dropping the full glass of water before I punch the porcelain sink. My second punch is to crush the pixie stick, and I wipe all its contents into the water glass. The liquid turns milky. Nightingale lifts Cosmos up to help her drink. Within moments, what I assume is Bliss does its magic. Morphine would be best, but we don’t have that luxury.
“There, she’s settling now.” Nightingale nods to Forget-Me-Not, who kisses the top of Cosmos’s head.
I narrow my eyes when Nightingale lifts Cosmos’s nightgown, then wrenches her legs apart to determine. “There’s no cervix left. She’s fully dilated.”
Forget-Me-Not understands even if I don’t.
“The sheets are already stained. Might as well use them.” Nightingale looks around, finally gestures to the opposite side of the room. “Serenity, hurry and grab me that towel over there.”
After I scramble over to the towel, I practically chuck it at her. She’s just in time when the unbelievably tiny and waxy preborn emerges from Cosmos. Covering my mouth to stifle a gasp, I stare at the pale, bloodstained body before it’s followed by the placenta. No spontaneous movement. No heartbeat. The baby didn’t make it. Too early. Listening to Cosmos humming during all this is the hardest part. Humming from her high with her eyes glassy as if sugar crystals cloud her irises. Her eyes wander without focus.
I start to approach the opposite side of the bed from where Nightingale is wrapping the preborn in the towel.
She asks Cosmos, “Do you want to see or hold—”
Cosmos waves her head back and forth. Singsongs, “No, it wasn’t finished!” She circles her head to me and beams. “Can you hold my hand? I might float away!”
From here, my eyes keep diverting to the bundle. So small, small enough to fit inside my open palm. Tiny lips open in a part, a gap no bigger than a sunflower seed. Hands just as tiny lifted to touch his shin. It was his. Not finished just like she said. And then, Nightingale hands it to me.
“Take the elevator to the first floor. On the back side of the south wing, there’s an incinerator. Burn it. Forget-Me-Not and I will clean off Cosmos. Please take care of this.”
Tentative, I accept the bundle. It feels heavier than I expected. It has substance. It has meaning. It had life not an hour ago. My mouth trembles. My eyes water. I never imagined this would be the first time I’d hold a baby. Hot tears drop like descending musical notes on my cheeks. Nightingale’s words echo like war drums in my ears. Incinerator. Incinerator. Incinerator. Cosmos didn’t even hold the preborn. How can I—
When I see them lift her off the bed in her delirious state, I understand how I can. Because Cosmos is alive, and that’s what matters most right now. I remember Forget-Me-Not’s words about how Jade would send Cosmos to the breeding line. How Cosmos wouldn’t survive. She must survive now. It’s what she needs.
Terrified at the idea someone will see me, I wrap all the sheets and bundle in one more towel, then place everything in a laundry basket. Blood still seeps through but not as much as before. The elevator is my largest concern. Adrenaline stokes my blood, holding back the tears for now as I repeat Nightingale’s directions. I want to do more. Wipe off the preborn inside the bundle more, say something to it. Some Flowers pass by me in the hall, forcing me to slow my pace. A few eye me because there are maids who do laundry, but it’s not such a rare event to see a Flower with laundry if the maids are late.
I avoid the main wing area where many Flowers are wrapping up their exhibits for the night. Some will go to clients while others will return to their rooms, but
most client appointments happen during the day unless one has reserved an overnight. With all the activities afforded here, daytime pursuits are more common.
Once I reach the door to the south exit, I follow the little dirt path that winds behind a row of trees and bushes bordering the building. About midway down, I can make out the incinerator. I want to throw the laundry basket in with the bundle, but it’s too large. So, I put it on the ground and gather up the toweled preborn. I may not be the mother, but I think it deserves some words all the same.
“You always knew her like no one else could. You heard her heart like no one else could. You touched her like no one else ever will.” I touch one meager hand to the bundle before opening the incinerator door and releasing it to the fire that springs to life after I push the button on the side.
When I return to my room, more exhausted than ever, Forget-Me-Not and Nightingale are wrapping Cosmos in one of my robes. Her arms are limp, and I get the sense she’s coming down off her high.
“What about her nightgown?” I ask, motioning to her bloodied dress.
“It will go with the morning laundry,” Nightingale answers. “Cycles come and go here without success. It won’t be noticed.”
“Thank you, Gale.”
“Thank you for coming to get me.”
Forget-Me-Not nods to us. “I’ll get her back to her room now. I don’t know what would’ve happened if—” Pausing, she surveys the two of us before sighing and kissing Cosmos’s cheek. “Thank you. You saved my cousin’s life.”
“Cousin?” I wonder.
She brushes away the hair on Cosmos’s face. “We were born two months apart. Our mothers sold us to a carnival when we were children. We were painted clowns until Jade paid a high sum for us. But once we came here, more clients asked for me over Cosmos. I just happen to be naturally gifted with many of the fantasies here. And Cosmos doesn’t try very hard.”
I get the sense Forget-Me-Not compensates by trying harder for them both.
Once Cosmos and Forget-Me-Not have left, I tell Nightingale that Magnolia will be arriving in a few hours to prepare me for my exhibit. It’s more an excuse to get out of my room, which still smells faintly of blood despite the constant circulation of fresh, cool air.
Most exhibits are still open, so I can’t wander the main Museum floors. Instead, I buy time by searching for Magnolia. At first, I’m afraid she’s helping with the exhibits or tending to a client since she’d said one of her regulars was due to arrive soon. Even so, I make my way down the south hall of the third level until I reach her room. Knocking, I wonder if she might be helping another girl prepare but then remember Jade insists all other Flowers dress and apply their own makeup.
Right after my knock, I think better of it, decide to wait until she comes to my room, but just as I prepare to leave, the door opens. Swinging it open a little more, I enter to find a private glass exhibit in which Magnolia stands inside. She’s dressed in nothing but pale pink paint and a smearing of white shimmer on each side of her body. She must have pressed some sort of button to permit the door to open.
I avert my eyes, but though she’s blind, she can sense my discomfort.
“Yes, Serenity…” I hear her say from the exhibit speaker. If there is a client here, I find it odd she would address me by my regular name. “Is there something you need?”
“No…I…I want to talk to you about Cosmos.” I’m going to choose my words carefully, bring up my concern for the Flower without revealing anything about tonight.
My eyes wander to her frame. So many times, Magnolia is the one who prepares me. I am used to the exposure. Not the other way around.
“You don’t need to concern yourself.” She traces a line to her chest. “I’m extremely comfortable with my body. And we will speak tonight when I prepare you.”
“I’m confused. Why—”
Magnolia interrupts, already surmising what I’m going to say, “I have a client coming. Mother does not have me for public view. And trust me…you shouldn’t want to interfere.” She tiptoes on the last word. It is light. Not a threat. Just a simple truth.
And then, I turn around. He is a good ten feet away in the doorway, but I can still feel the ice drifting off his body into mine. Colder than teacups left to crack in winter. I feel the cracking as he approaches me, his expression puzzled. One brow raises, the other low but not deadly.
I swing my head around to Magnolia. “Luc’s your client?”
“Why do you look surprised?” she asks, eyes alert and focused. “He has very refined needs, and I am the only one with the experience to provide them.”
As soon as Luc reaches my side, he tries to touch my shoulder. “Serenity—”
Careless of his inhibitor, careless of anything but the holocaust inside me, I feel the lightning rise once again. Like it’s striking a hoard of Skeleton flowers. Smacking his hand away, I raise mine instead. Too fast for him, I strike his left cheek, attempting to stun him for one moment so I can slip out the door, but Luc isn’t one to retreat in the wake of my fury. History repeats itself when his hand bars my wrist, but I’m not having it.
“It’s not what you think,” Luc denies.
Ignoring the pulsing under his wrist, I yank my arm, only managing to bring him closer. “I don’t care! Let go!”
Gripping my jaw in his other hand, Luc holds my face still and murmurs so his warm breath feasts on mine. “Magnolia can remove the inhibitor.”
I try to bite his hand, but he coils it around under my hair instead. I seethe in a fierce whisper, “Yes, I’m sure she’s very good at that naked.”
“She’s not you, Serenity. She will never be you.” He tugs on my neck, but his lips only connect with my cheek when I twist my wrist and slither out of his grip. I’ve grown better at escaping unless it’s just an illusion with all credit to the inhibitor—a bad jester laughing in my face.
I’m going back to my room.
Suddenly, I can’t wait for my night with Neil. He’s more honest than Luc will ever be.
20
O n E N i g H t w I t h N e I l
“You seem different,” Neil remarks after I come out of the shower already dressed in the customary white dress, some of my damp skin clinging to the fabric. “Even in your exhibit…you were somewhere else.”
Feeling my hair drip again, I wind it to my front and wring out some more water before responding, “I have some…things on my mind.”
Neil slides a chair out from the table for me. “Anything I can help with?”
“Maybe.” I don’t deny it.
Once I sit, I snatch up one of the petit fours—little confectionary packages wrapped in frosting. After I’m done, I pick up the small charlotte russe cake topped with a swirl of whipped cream. Famished from my all-day fast, I sample every treat on the table from ladyfinger cookies to macarons to chocolate éclairs to custard tarts to the floating island of meringue on crème anglaise. Nothing left but cream smears and crumbs within just a few minutes. And the butterflies in my stomach revel in the sugar rush, dancing with their wings creating sugared flurries.
“Color me impressed,” Neil notes while finishing the last bite of his decadent chocolate cake. He’s left no crumbs behind.
“If it hadn’t been for that first meeting, I’d think you are giving me all these aphrodisiacs for a purpose.”
Neil reclines in seat, then folds his hands behind his head. “Who says I’m not?”
I flick my eyes to him, but he only grins before releasing his hands to his sides and reminding me, “Not without your consent, Serenity. But the thought has crossed my mind countless times just as it has every other man in the universe who’s been afforded the pleasure of seeing you. I would even settle for a sample. But again…your choice.”
“Can you tell me more about my sister?”
Neil places his arm on the table, palm up and fingers curling. “In light of last night’s development, I’m curious to know if you have more questions about who I am.”
“You’re a graphicker.”
He nods. “I developed a talent for the camera from an early age. The Temple is filled with animated portraits and studios. I remember growing up more in studios than anywhere else. I made a name for myself in the industry. Of course, I go by a pseudonym. Perhaps you recognize the name: Nile Bedolo.”
A hundred different images flash before me. Nile Bedolo is an internationally renowned graphicker who’s photographed model runways in Europe, celebrity boudoir shoots, foreign princesses, and even high-ranking Family starlets. His start was as the marketing photographer for the Temple for five years. Everyone still says photography even though everything is shot via lasers now. Featured in magazines all over the world, Nile Bedolo’s real name has always been a secret. Until now.
“Time for me to be impressed.”
“Do I detect a hint of loathing?” Neil slides his hand across the table, casually leaning it on its side.
“I’m not fond of graphickers.” And not just due to my experience.
“Hmm, I’ll try not to hold that against you.” He winks.
I change the subject, fearing he might ask me why. “What about this Museum of yours?” I fold my hands on the table.
“I have a name for it: The Fantasy Museum.” The title conjures images, and I bristle just a little until he explains more. “This Museum will be strictly for display. Not clients. If I intend to counteract this impending virus, I will want my subjects to remain as healthy as possible.”
“Subjects?”
“Throwaways, of course. Ones who have already contracted the virus or happen to be carriers. I’ve received a steep discount on ones from orphanages, Glass Districts, Carousels, graphicker studios—they are receiving the utmost of care now. Most are quite young. No more than children. Any one of them can provide a beacon of hope for humanity. Wouldn’t you say that is the very definition of a child, Serenity?” Neil leans a little closer to me to thumb away a smear of powdered sugar on my lip. His touch lingers.