And other times … it can mean they are angry.
Please do not be angry. I only buried it in the woods so the Supervisors wouldn’t find it.
To my relief, Owen doesn’t say anything more about it. Instead, he goes back to cleaning out the stall. I take a seat on an upside-down bucket and watch him work, noticing how pleasant his features are. The arch of his brows. The sheen of his hair. Even the scar above his lip, like a tiny crescent moon. When he’s done, he wipes his brow, and I notice a flash of silver on his wrist.
“I like your bracelet,” I tell him.
The silver glint makes me think of Nia’s bracelet and I sharply remind myself why I’m really here.
He glances at his arm. “It’s a medical ID, actually. Not a bracelet. But thanks.”
A medical ID?
“Are you sick?”
“Nah,” he chuckles. “Healthy as a horse. Just something I’ve gotta wear.”
“Then why?”
His dark brown eyes meet mine. “You sure ask a lot of questions, Ana.”
“Curiosity is a key component of my program,” I explain, burying my embarrassment. “I’m sorry if it’s bothering you. Or … if I’m bothering you.”
“Not at all.” Owen shakes his head. “Honestly, it’s nice having someone to talk to.” He motions to the horses in the next stall and grins. “You know. Besides them.”
I feel another flash of curiosity about this boy—I’ve never met a maintenance worker so involved in hybrid care—but my curiosity is accompanied by a jolt of something else, something like diving into cold water on a very hot day.
“Okay.” I feel a tickle in my chest as I mirror his smile. “I’ll stay.”
We talk for some time, just the two of us, during which I learn many things.
First, that he is nineteen. Young for a maintenance worker.
Second, I learn he speaks three languages.
English, French, and Taiwanese.
Not as many as I speak, of course, but impressive nevertheless.
And third, I learn it is no coincidence Owen spends so much time caring for the hybrids in the FES program. That, in fact, there is a reason.
“Hybrid species have always been my passion,” Owen explains, when I ask him. “I wanted to be a trainer—that’s actually what I planned to study in school, animal physiology and behavior—but I’ve got a heart condition, and the Kingdom said that legally, they couldn’t give me a spot in the training program because of it. But I guess they still really liked my résumé, so even though they hired me as a maintenance worker, they gave me a higher clearance and make sure most of my work’s with the hybrids. This way, I can still be around them most of the time.” He looks at the horses and grins. “It’s not a bad deal, really, minus all the literal crap shoveling. I’m lucky they hired me at all.”
Higher clearance, I think, recalling his ID card. That makes sense.
But then I pause. “Heart condition? What kind of heart condition?”
“Oh.” His smile wavers. I realize my question has surprised him. “I’ve got an artificial valve,” he says after a moment, and I notice something in his voice, a kind of darkness, of detachment, that makes me think this is not his favorite topic. “It’s no big deal.”
“Artificial? What does it look like?”
“The valve?”
I nod.
“I mean…” He clears his throat. “Like an actual valve, I think. It was grown in a transplant lab like any other replacement organ, but there’s also a gadget in there to give me a jump start in case the valve fails.” He shrugs. “Sort of like a backup motor, I guess. So I won’t keel over and die.”
I feel my eyes go wide. “You’re a hybrid,” I blurt, before I can help myself. And then we are both laughing—a big, surprising sensation that fills me with light.
The feeling is so pure and so perfect I never want it to end.
“You know something?” he says once we’ve both caught our breaths. “I guess I’ve never thought of it like that. Maybe I am.” For a minute, we just grin at each other. Something about him, I can’t put my finger on it, makes me forget that he is a maintenance worker and that I am a Fantasist.
Right now, we are just Owen and Ana.
Then, without warning, he leans in and nearly brushes my cheek. “Your skin seems so real.”
“It is real,” I scoff, and pull back, though the very idea of him touching me makes my pulse race. “It was grown in a lab, too, you know. Probably right next to your valve.”
“Sorry, force of habit.” Owen’s face erupts into a big, sheepish smile. He looks down at his hay-scuffed shoes, but after a minute I notice him watching me again. Studying me. As if he’s trying to understand how, exactly, I work.
I suddenly feel brave. Like maybe the rules I’m used to operating within no longer apply.
“There’s—there’s something else I wanted to ask you,” I offer, reaching into the jacket’s pocket. But just as my fingers locate the cool metal chain of Nia’s bracelet, there comes a sudden crashing sound, followed by a sharp, earsplitting scream.
“Oh no.” Owen jumps up, just as one of the winged horses, EFC141, slams wildly against his stall.
“What’s the matter?” I rush to follow Owen. “Is he glitching?”
EFC141 is a large gray Arabian gelding, nearly eighteen hands tall, with ice-blue eyes and massive, blue morpho butterfly wings. Of all the Kingdom’s many exotic species, the horseflies have always been among my favorites, and this male in particular has forever stood out as one of the park’s most stunning of the crossed hybrids. When he was younger, large crowds would gather just to watch him flutter and race around Imagine Land’s rolling green paddock, though nowadays, I rarely see him there, since the newer, more exciting models tend to get more attention.
My eyes go wide when 141 continues to buck and thrash violently in the pen, as if he is possessed. That sweet, playful horsefly from the paddock and this horsefly cannot possibly be the same. “Is he sick?” I ask.
Owen tries to grab 141’s bridle, but the horsefly beats his wings wildly and bares his teeth, nearly biting him. “Not physically,” Owen grunts a reply as he dodges a second nip. “At least—not yet.” The horsefly eventually stops bucking and instead begins pacing around his stall in tight, repetitive circles, wings back. Now his eyes stare ahead blankly, as if he’s in a trance. I can hear the clicks and murmurs inside his motor as it runs rapidly—like a train barreling dangerously down a track—and I worry he may suffer a stroke. Unable to take any more, I rush to the gate. “Ana,” Owen says sharply. “Be careful.”
“I know what I’m doing.” I slip my hand inside my pocket and pull out a small handful of vitamin supplements disguised as sugar cubes, which I always carry with me when I visit the stables. “Hey, you.” I hold a cube over the door of his stall and let out a low whistle. “I brought you something.” After a few seconds, the horsefly blinks and slowly ambles toward me. He lets out a soft, almost bewildered nicker—as if even he doesn’t understand what just happened—and finally helps himself to a cube.
“Wow.” Owen sounds impressed. “How’d you do that?”
“I’ve known these guys forever,” I say softly. “They trust me.” I pause and then ask, “How long has this been going on?”
“As long as I’ve worked here,” he replies. “So at least eight months? And like I already told you, it’s not just him; I’m seeing this sort of behavior across the board. With all the hybrids.”
I frown. “Have you told the Supervisors?”
Owen tenses and looks at the hay-strewn floor. “I don’t think that would be such a good idea.”
“Okay,” I utter in response, and immediately feel frustrated by my lack of tact. Typically, I have little difficulty talking to humans. I know how to engage them. How to mirror them. How to make them share, smile, laugh. I know how to make them feel special, as if they are the only person in the world. But now, suddenly, all I can think about is the si
lence between us. A silence as deafening as it is quiet. A silence I created, by having said the wrong thing. I scan my memory for backup conversation topics—the weather, the season, his favorite flavor of ice cream—but nothing seems right.
And so I say the first new thing that comes to mind. “Have you ever considered talking to Mr. Casey about it?”
Owen’s expression darkens even further. “Never,” he mutters. “I hate that guy.”
“I hate him, too,” I blurt out, then immediately clap a hand to my mouth.
What is wrong with me? Being around Owen is dangerous. He makes me say things I don’t mean.
“I didn’t realize Fantasists hated anything,” Owen says with a little smirk.
“We don’t!” I say quickly. “I don’t know what came over me. I’m sorry. Please don’t tell the Supervisors.”
“You don’t have to apologize,” Owen says, his voice assuring. “Anything you say is between us.” He reaches out and touches my arm. “Thanks again for your help just now.”
Suddenly, I cannot move, or even breathe. The sensation of his skin against mine is … indescribable. Every nerve ending. Every cell.
Burning.
How is it possible to feel so good and so confused at the same time?
I swallow. “You’re—welcome.”
Our eyes meet, and for a brief moment, though I wonder if I have misread his nonverbal communication, it is almost as if he is seeing me differently. Not as an object, but as something else. Something known, but also unknown.
“They keep some of the older models in here for days at a time,” Owen goes on. “It’s like they think just because they’re hybrids, the animals don’t need the same level of mental stimulation as bio-typicals.” He shakes his head, and I can see from the anger in his eyes just how much he cares.
Something inside me stirs. I like that he cares.
“The thing is, horses are intrinsically social creatures, you know? Even cross-bred horses. They need to engage. They need to play. They need to run.”
“It’s true,” I say softly. I notice the way 141’s wings now hang limply at his sides. “They do.”
“Anyway.” Owen looks as if he’s embarrassed to have revealed so much, especially to a Fantasist. “Never mind. I shouldn’t have said anything.”
But this is my job, I want to shout. Tell me anything, tell me everything, and I will make all your wildest dreams come true.
“I should get back to work.” He shoots me another faint smile before turning to leave. “Nice talking to you, Ana.”
My feet don’t move. My mind says, Go with him. But Fantasists must be invited.
“It was nice talking to you, too.”
We part ways—he heads toward the paddock, while I head back down the stable’s center aisle toward the front entrance—but when I pass the first stall, I notice something small glinting at me in the hay.
Something silver.
Something sharp.
Slowly, I kneel down, my silky gold skirt spreading out around me like sunflower petals. “Borrowed, not stolen,” I whisper before slipping Owen’s knife into my pocket. After all, stealing is when you take something you do not mean to return.
I smile to myself.
And on my honor … I fully intend to return this.
27
KINGDOM CORP. SURVEILLANCE FOOTAGE TAPE 1
[Court views digital video footage taken on September 3 and into the early morning of September 4 from Security Camera 1A09, positioned at the back end of North Lot B, the Kingdom’s cast parking lot, behind which we see a sprawling tract of woods.]
11:41: Two figures—Owen and Ana—enter the scene, arguing visibly.
11:44: Owen turns to walk away, but Ana grabs his arm, pulling him to the ground. He cries out. A physical struggle ensues.
11:45: Owen frees himself from Ana’s grip, gets up, and tries to run.
11:45: Ana dashes after him, tackling him to the ground again. Something glints in her hand.
11:46: Owen defends himself and gets away a second time, stumbling toward the trees.
11:47: Ana chases him. They disappear into the woods.
12:12: Ana staggers out of the woods, alone. Her dress appears to be torn in several places, and stains are visible on the fabric. Dark, like blood.
28
THE JUNE OF THE NORTHERN ROCKHOPPER PENGUIN
FIFTEEN MONTHS BEFORE THE TRIAL
I press my dirt-streaked palm against the Fantasist Identification Screen, triggering my bedroom doors to airily whoosh open. But to my dismay, the room is not empty.
“Eve?” I say. “What are you doing here?”
My older sister startles at the sound of my voice. “Ana?” She whips around and stares at me with big hazel eyes. “Why aren’t you at the Princess Ball with Yumi and Zara?”
The real question is, why isn’t she? But I am more curious as to why she is changing her gown this late in the evening, just two hours from curfew. And—my eyes wander to the floor—why the hem of her dress is streaked with mud. “Did you fall?” I move closer. “Are you hurt?”
“No!” she cries, fear marring her lovely face.
I can’t recall a time when she has ever seemed so distressed. “Eve?” I sit down on my bed, the gold hem of my gown dusting the bare, pristine floor. “What’s the matter?”
Suddenly, she looks almost … afraid. “I found something in the woods.”
“What is it?”
“A baby deer.” She hesitates. “A fawn.”
“A fawn?” I eye her closely. “Are you sure?”
“I think its leg may be broken. Will you come and see?”
Eve is using our code, I realize. She has a secret. A secret she wants to tell me in a place where the Supervisors cannot listen in over the security cameras.
Where they cannot watch through our eyes.
In the woods, our signals fade. And without a strong signal, our live stream goes dark.
“Of course.” I rise swiftly to my feet. “The poor thing.”
Soon I am following her through the sleek glass doors of our bedroom and down the immaculate hallways of Level Twelve toward the elevators. We pass the Dressing Suite. The Beautification Center. The fitness room. Downstairs, just before we swipe our wrists to exit, we pass the VIP Suite, one of many locations around the park where the Supervisors entertain special guests throughout the year. People who come from faraway places to tour the Kingdom and our state-of-the-art Fantasist facility.
Scientists.
Military personnel.
Company Investors, on one of their semiannual retreats.
“What do you think it’s like?” I whisper as we walk. “What happens inside the VIP Suite?”
Eve shrugs. “I’m not sure. Maybe you should ask Kaia.”
I have heard those rumors, too—we all have—but it’s not clear to me why the Supervisors would ask Kaia into the suite without the rest of us. Does she have special privileges, like Eve? My eyes wander to the top of Eve’s head, where a glittering crystal crown is nestled into her platinum, silver curls. An unpleasant feeling stirs in the pit of my stomach.
Is there something more I should be doing to please the Supervisors? Have my ratings suffered?
When will I get my tiara?
By the time we pass the dumpsters and enter the woods—chilly and silent, save for the dead leaves crunching underfoot—my mood has turned as dark as the night sky.
“You should set a better example for our newer sisters than spreading rumors,” I remind Eve, now that we are safe to speak freely.
“Unless they’re true,” Eve says. “Why do you think Kaia is so slow?”
“She’s not slow.” I cross my arms. “That’s mean.”
Eve sighs loudly. “Come on, Ana. Don’t you notice how foggy she is when they all go home? How she remembers so little?”
I stop walking. “When who goes home? What are you ta
lking about?”
“The Investors. Whatever they do to her during their weekend retreats, the Supervisors clearly don’t want her remembering.”
I stare at my sister in shock. “You think the Supervisors … erase Kaia’s memory?”
Eve nods, and even in the path’s dim lighting I can see her shoot me the same condescending look she has perfected over the seasons. “Maybe they’re erasing yours, too, now that I’m thinking about it,” she adds.
“But—why would they do that? What would be the point?”
“To keep her quiet, of course!” Eve groans. She backtracks to where I am and takes my hand, pulling me deeper off the path. “Kaia can’t say anything if she doesn’t remember, can she? Now come on. Come see what I found.”
We walk in silence through the trees, gowns swishing with every step. Suddenly, all I can think about is Nia. Could something have happened to her memory while she was gone? Something that caused her to change permanently? There are things they can do, she’d said. What did they do to her?
After fifteen minutes, we reach the clearing. Many seasons ago, Nia and I nicknamed this spot the Graveyard. Not for any morbid reason, though we certainly buried many fallen baby birds here over the years—but because this place was our secret.
A place to keep things hidden.
A place to visit and remember.
I shoot Eve a look.
This is my spot. Not yours. The place I buried Owen’s jacket.
“Isn’t it peaceful?” Eve asks, unaware. “Listen. You can even hear the brook.”
I place my hands on my hips. “It’s late, Eve. What was it you wanted to show me?”
“Just a second.” She selects a patch of earth to the left of a fallen log and sinks to her knees, the silk of her dress spilling around her like large, lavender flower petals. “It’ll be worth the wait. I promise.” Then she starts to dig.
It is an odd sight, watching Eve—perfect Eve—work so hard. Watching the hem of her gown become dirty. Seeing her manicure spoiled, caked with mud. “Lavender is a pretty color on you,” I comment as she digs. “You’re lucky the Supervisors let you pick your own gown.”
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