“So . . . that’s what you’ve been searching for the past two years?”
He nods.
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I didn’t want you to think I’d lost my mind. I wasn’t even sure myself if I believed my dad. He was a lunatic, and my mom told me not to listen to him. The bad air and post-trauma made him insane, she said. And I believed her, because there was some pretty off-the-wall bullshit . . .” He stares off into the darkness and continues in a low voice: “Then one day, he disappeared and never came back. My mom told me he killed himself, ‘so they couldn’t find the key.’ He claimed that if they did, they’d destroy the Other Side, same as Bygonne. Mom said . . . he honestly believed he was saving our future world by killing himself, because they could . . . read his mind. He was paranoid. Insane.”
“You never found anything?”
“No.”
“So that’s why things are always rearranged when we come down here . . .”
Jax moves in closer, cups my face in his hands. “Please don’t think I’m insane, Joy. Promise me.”
“I don’t, Jax. I promise.”
Then he kisses me, and my internal flame ignites. With one strong hand on the small of my back, he holds me tightly against him. The other slides into my hair, tugging ever-so-slightly at the roots, sending violent, hot tremors surging through my body. I back him against the door and ease my hands up his shirt, fumbling for the muscular body I only now realize I’ve craved for so long. I’ve never kissed him before, but I know this is right, though mixed with a sad desperation, like it might be the last time.
With a soft nibble to my lower lip, he draws away. “I love you, Joy. I always have, and I always will.”
“I love you, too, Jax. So much . . .” I move in to his warmth again, hungry for more of him, but he stops me with a touch to the cheek.
“Then promise me something—no matter what happens next, you have to survive. Escape and find those keys. Promise me.”
“I don’t understand, Jax. What are you saying? Escape from where?”
He glances up and around, as if checking for watchful eyes, then runs smooth fingers across my cheekbone. “Notice the nuances.” He winks. “Remember?”
I wrinkle my brow in confusion and he pulls my hand up to trace the line where my scar is, except—it’s not there. I suck in an alarmed breath, and he lays a fingertip to my lips. And it’s then I notice his fingers have no calluses on them.
“How—?”
He kisses me again, squeezes me tight, then pulls back to peer at me through soft tears. A gentle wave of citrus-scented air passes between us. “They have us, just like my dad said. We aren’t really here, we’re—”
Darkness.
The gentle clinking of metal against glass wakes me up. Suellen stands over me, stirring the steamy liquid. She hands me the cup, and I recall Aby’s words: Whatever you do, don’t drink the medicine.
“Thank you,” I say.
Suellen nods. “Drink up.”
“Can I have a cup of water for afterwards? It leaves an unpleasant aftertaste.” A wave of nausea makes me sweat and sway.
“Sure.” And as soon as she turns toward the sink, I dump the liquid into the soil of the plant beside me, then I place the cup to my lips, tilting it all the way back and faking a few swallows. She returns to my side and I trade her cups, gulping the delicious water. My head throbs. Great. Now I’ll have to conceal that my head is about to explode.
“Did I already go in there?” I point to the repair pod, trying to mask the pain on my face.
“No, not yet.” Suellen attempts a half-smile, but it falls into a frown. She takes both glasses to the sink and rinses them out.
The headaches will only last a couple more days. Aby’s mind-voice startles me.
“We have something special planned for you tonight.” Suellen tugs back the blankets and helps me up. “Can you stand? Are you dizzy?” She offers her hand and I grip it, rising from my bed.
“A little,” I lie.
“Okay, have a seat here.” She steadies me with one arm, grabs the wheeled chair with the other, and guides me into it. I plop down, trying to remember how I acted the last time I drank the medicine.
“Something special planned, you said?” I slump, doing my best to relax.
“Yes, a dinner. You’ve been drinking your meals for almost a week now. We thought you might enjoy a real one, and a chance to kiss your fiancé. Our sweet lord has missed you so.”
Aby, what do I do?
You’re doing fine, sweetheart. Go along with whatever she says, don’t say too much, and don’t ask questions. If you have any, ask me, not them. They’re the adversary. Do you remember anything from the MemTap?
What’s a . . . MemTap? And you called me “sweetheart.” Are you not really my sister? That’s not something a sister would say.
No, I’m not your sister, but I’m a friend, and I’m here to help you. A MemTap is a mind program in which they probe through your memories for information, tapping into both conscious and subconscious ones to find what they need. Once inside, they may manipulate the memory to gain further passage through the conscious, into the subconscious parts of the memory. They must have blocks in place so you don’t remember anything during the waking hours. That’s common.
I’m so confused.
It’ll all make sense in time. I’m sorry, I wish it were easier. But you must go through some necessary stages before we get you out of here, before all of the pieces fall into place.
What’s your real name? Is it Aby?
You can call me . . . Zee. I promise I’ll explain everything to you . . . when the time comes.
Suellen wheels me out through the sliding door and this time turns to the right. The sky has changed to a deep, bruised purple with a giant lavender moon.
“How is it night?” I ask Suellen.
“You slept for a whole day; you were a tired girl.”
“Where is everyone? The paths were packed earlier—or yesterday, I guess it was.”
“It’s after curfew for the Impures, and only selected Pures will be at dinner tonight.”
A pair of men in white pass us, long weapons at their sides, followed by a pair of young women wearing white helmets. More of them appear, dotted here and there, throughout the dark city.
Zee, why is there a protective dome over Alzanei?
It filters the sun’s harmful rays and regulates temperature and safe oxygen levels. It also circulates the waterfalls by siphoning and filtering the water from the chasm and regulating it back up through the dome, and filtering fresh water for drinking, and rain, when it’s time. Every Thursday, to be exact. Tomorrow.
I grit my teeth. What are you saying? I understand the words, but . . . it doesn’t make sense. Is this how everything is, the whole world? Is this how it’s always been? If I had my memory, would it make sense?
No, but you’ll understand it all soon, I promise. And . . . you will hate it, I promise you that, too. But hang in there, we’ll handle it together. Me and you, Joy.
Joy is my real name?
Yes.
Then why do they call me Lily?
It means “Pure.” And . . . because he likes the name.
My head throbs and burns, muffling Zee’s voice. I squint and cringe. Zee, my head—
We have to stop the telespeak. I’ll meet you in the dining hall.
Suellen turns past another cluster of “Dreamland Booths” where a round, glass building stands atop a raised platform. Beneath it, a dazzling, lighted pool swirls, with white bridges crossing over to the grassy area in front of it. Blinding against the night sky under hundreds of twinkling white-gold lights that reflect in its surface, the dining hall is covered with flowers and vines and statues of golden butterflies and other fantasy-like things. My senses are over
loaded, my vision assaulted by the sudden blast of refracted light from the glass. I fight to keep from shielding my eyes from the pain.
We cross over one of the arched bridges, the swirling pool, and the grassy area, and when we reach the door, a man in white with a silver mustache opens it for us. He bows as we pass by him and another sign that reads: Pures Only. Inside are rows of long, white tables, candles flickering at intervals, piled high with rich, succulent food and shiny glasses. Metal utensils clank and tinkle against glass as the people eat. The savory aromas cause a slight grumble in my stomach, but the hunger is smothered by nervousness. Everyone in the room inspects me, trying to hide they’re doing so.
At the end of one table, talking to an older woman in a huge, floppy hat is “Zee.” When she sees me, she pops something into her mouth and smiles wide, then waves and rises from her chair, dressed in a beautiful, flowing, pale cream dress with sculpted lace layers that accent her curves. She floats over to us, and her beauty makes me insecure in my plain white shirt and linen pants.
“Sister!” She claps her hands. “How are you?”
“Better, thank you, Aby.”
“Great! Open up.” She grins, holds something above my mouth—a little square of sparkling white.
“What is it?”
“Divine.” And she giggles, opening her own mouth to coerce me.
I do so, and she drops the object in. It melts on my tongue, gritty yet sweet and, yes—divine. “Mmm . . . You were right, this is delicious.”
“So . . . I’ve got a surprise for you.” She winks. “Shall I take her to the dressing room, Sue?”
“Oh, sure. I’ll be helping myself to a bit of Chardonnay.” And Suellen heads off toward a table that stretches the length of the whole back wall, topped with an assortment of bottles and glasses.
Zee takes the handles of my chair. “So, are you feeling better, Lily?” Say yes, she says in my mind.
“Yes, thank you. I may not even need this chair anymore, though it is fun to be pushed around.” I fake a giggle.
“Well, I’ll bet! And I’m glad, because we have to get you all dressed up for tonight! Bet you didn’t even realize you were the guest of honor, did you?” Say no.
“No, I had no clue.” Who’s watching us?
Everyone.
Why?
They’re watching to see if the memory implant has been a success.
What are the memories of? The ones they implanted?
A “Pure” childhood, in which you worshipped Lord Daumier, then grew in his image and his likeness, and submitted to him in a way no other person ever has; that you let him . . . control you, do with you what he wants, without fight or complaint. They fabricated the memory to . . . strip you of every inherent strength you possess, to reduce you to a frail, obedient, young and beautiful, soon-to-be wife of Lord Daumier.
I hate him already.
Wait until you remember.
And if they find out it hasn’t worked?
It will complicate things, tenfold.
Two fancy, cloth-covered doors click open to a carpeted area with flowers, mirrors, and a gold-and-red couch. On a door to our right hangs a gorgeous dress almost identical to Zee’s cream one, except this one is a pure, radiant, blinding white.
The door closes behind us.
We still can’t talk aloud, Zee says. Audio monitoring devices are everywhere. He is watching, waiting for the fake implanted memories to register. So this is what I want you to do: put your hand over your mouth and pretend this dress brings back a pleasant memory, one you can’t quite place your finger on but caught a split-second glimpse of it, and it was amazing.
I do what she says.
“What is it?” she asks.
“That dress—I remembered something . . . lovely. For a second, it was there.”
Zee claps and giggles, then squeals. She kneels down and grabs my hands into hers. “You’re getting your memory back! You have no idea how happy that makes me.” She squeezes my fingers. “Now come on, let’s get you dressed for dinner. Lord Daumier will arrive in about forty-five minutes to join us. He’ll be making the official announcement then.”
“Announcement?”
“Of your wedding! Now that your memory’s returning, I’m sure he’ll want to go ahead with the original date—the spring equinox. The purest day of the year.”
Zee, I don’t want to marry this lord guy. I don’t even know him! A low, vibrating throb in my skull makes me drop my face into my hands.
Your head?
Yes, but it isn’t too bad.
“Are you all right?” she asks. “Emotional?” She coaxes my lie with a slight nod.
“Yes. I wish I could remember it all. I hate not knowing.”
“You will. Soon. Now come on, let’s make you even more beautiful.”
She helps me up from my chair, and we disappear behind the dressing area door with Zee carrying the huge, poofy dress in one hand, steadying me with the other. She lowers me down onto a soft, red bench, pulls the doors closed, then whips around, palm out. Something sits in the middle of it—a pink capsule. I almost ask her what it is, but she lays a finger to her lips, then taps my temple. So, I take the capsule from her and examine it before tossing it into my mouth. What have I got to lose? Certainly not my memory. I toss it in, swallowing with saliva, and it’s bitter in my throat.
Zee unfastens the dozens of tiny gold clasps lining the back of the dress, and I remove my plain white shirt and pants. Other than the stitches to my lower abdomen, the rest of me bears a few scrapes and bruises, some moles I don’t remember. So bizarre for my body to be so alien. Even more so is how together I am after such a horrendous accident. Can’t imagine how a machine could repair a body so damaged. Seems impossible.
Or . . . maybe that’s part of the lie, that there was no accident. But what, then? I run my fingers along the tender spot, and a painful, strange sadness, a knife to my heart, brings tears to my eyes.
Please tell me what happened, Zee. Was there an accident?
No.
Then . . . what’s this incision from?
I’m . . . not sure. The information is safeguarded behind an impenetrable fire wall.
She looks away. She’s lying, but I don’t have the strength to push her on it. Maybe she has a good reason for not telling me.
Two more Yromem capsules, spread out over the next two days should do the trick, she says. Then all will be revealed. Provided you don’t take the medicine they give you.
Yromem?
“Memory” spelled backwards. My clever nickname for the antidote to the memory implant they’ve given you. It reverses the effects on your neurological system. Some . . . friends of mine gave them to me. “Okay,” she announces, “let’s get your dress on. Can you stand all right?”
“I . . . think so.” I rise and sway from whatever’s going on in my head, and brace myself against the wall. Zee holds the back of the dress open for me, and I insert one foot, then the other. She tugs it up over my hips and carefully over my incision, until I slide my arms into the sleeves. “It’s beautiful.” I shiver, awkward and stiff in such extravagance.
She hooks the clasps along my spine. “If you think this one’s nice, wait until you catch a glimpse of your wedding dress.” And she leans to wink at me in the mirror.
“I can’t wait,” I say in my best excited voice.
“None of us can! It will be the best USEC we’ve ever had.”
“USEC? I’m sorry, should I . . . know this?”
“Yes, but it’s fine; it’ll all come back soon. USEC means Unification and Sacrificial Execution Ceremony.”
“Oh.”
“No one thought our lord would ever find a woman pure enough to marry, and we’re all so beyond humbled and honored that he chose you. Mother and Father couldn’t be happier.”
>
Mother and Father? And did you say . . . execution? On a wedding day?
She runs a comb through my hair. Go along with it; I’ll explain more when the time gets closer. She sighs. “Once you get your memories back, you’ll remember what a thrill it is, watching young Impures sacrifice themselves to the chasm for the unification of two Pures. And with this being the greatest Pure unification of all time, a significant sacrifice is waiting just for you.” Zee clasps her hands together at her heart. “How perfectly romantic.” And she rolls her eyes in the mirror.
Zee, that’s horrible.
But you have to play along. It’ll be the only chance we have. Please—
Trust you. I know. I’m trying. But it’s so hard.
I know. She kneels, fishing two identical pairs of golden shoes from a wooden bin beside the mirror—And it’ll be harder tonight.—then places them in front of us and steps into her own pair.
I slip into the snug shoes. Why?
Lord Daumier has plans to take you to the Monastery to . . . “test your devotion” . . . for your wedding night. She runs her fingers along my bare arm to console a heartbreak that hasn’t yet occurred.
Why does that sound like something I definitely do not want to do?
Because it isn’t. She brushes strands of hair from my face. But you have to, Joy. It’s the final test, and if you pass . . . well . . . you will understand why.
Ugh, I hate this. Why can’t you tell me everything?
Because I don’t know everything. You came here with a group of children—prisoners—and I recognized you because . . . well, I just did. So, when they asked for volunteers, I volunteered and underwent the tests and “changes” and became . . . “Aby.”
Who is Aby? Someone I’m supposed to know?
The Soultakers (The Treemakers Trilogy Book 2) Page 15