“General?” A woman in a power suit hurried toward us. She handed Theo a small sheet of paper. “You’re needed.”
Theo’s expression darkened. “Sophia, can you wait here?”
I nodded.
“Have a seat,” he said, adding, “I’ll be back,” just as he rounded the door.
Out of place and alone, I wandered toward the table but decided not to sit. Instead, I paced the room, holding my elbowsto keep from fidgeting. In one corner, several eagle-topped poles flew different flags.
My hand grazed over the familiar red, white and blue, but I froze at the one beside it.
A sea of white silk framed a black circle with a cross, the same emblem disfiguring my back.
The Brotherhood Cross.
I dropped the fabric like it burned me and backed away. Fetching up against the fireplace, I took in a slow breath.
Tall trees.
Warm rain.
Smell of cypress.
My hand clenched on the mantel, shooting pain up my arms, and I lifted my gaze to the painting above the fireplace. A man on a black horse with three white feet sported a dashing hat and a thick mustache. Drawing closer, I trailed my gaze over the intricate brushstrokes that somehow gave the impression of motion despite their stillness.
“One of my favorite quotes is from Teddy Roosevelt,” a woman said behind me.
I startled, spinning to find a middle-aged brunette in a cherry-red boatneck dress.
“He said,Americanism is a question of principle, of idealism, of character. It is not a matter of birthplace, or creed or line of descent.”
Wary, I said nothing.
The woman smiled and held out a slim hand, scarlet nails matching her dress. “I’m Erica. The Prime Delegate has asked me to make sure you’re prepared for the conference.”
I managed to tell her my name, which only widened her smile.
“I know,” she said. “Come with me.”
She escorted me through a series of hallways, across an outdoor colonnade, and up the stairs into a more private area of the building. This portion of the building was empty of people, and prickles crept up my spine.
“Who did you say you were again?” I asked.
“I’m the press secretary.” She opened a door for me, and I stepped into a bedroom, where three other women awaited me.
“Ah, there she is,” an older one said, pushing horn-rimmed glasses up her nose. She took me by the arm and dragged me inside. “We only have an hour. Let’s get to work.”
“Get to…work?”
The woman didn’t answer. Erica waved goodbye, and I was manhandled into an adjacent bathroom.
“Let’s get that hair washed,” the older woman said, then looked at me. “Do you want to take off your shirt? It’ll get wet.”
Hesitating only a moment, I opted to leave my shirt on. These women didn’t need to see the scars on my body.
While the women chatted among themselves, I was subjected to a thorough shampoo. With their fancy products, they defined my curls into shiny spirals, soft but still wild, a sort of untamed neatness. I gazed at the gleaming black coils, and my thoughts drifted to Lucas…
… telling me I needed a hairbrush …
