My stomach tightens. Vague memories of disgust wash through me from his previous visits. “Hardan? Tonight?” I already know it’s him, but I need her to confirm it. Not knowing for sure will just increase my anxious thoughts.
“I’m afraid so. You know how he insists on these dinners twice a year.”
I do know. Hardan Lesson, my father’s supervisor at the library, uses thesesocial visitsto remind my father of his place—to reinforce the hierarchy that keeps every man looking over his shoulder and every woman staring at the floor in submission.
“He’s bringing Eliana?” She nods, and my lip curls at knowing I’ll have to listen to the man berate and dehumanize his wife for the entirety of their visit.
I’ve never met Eliana—or anyone for that matter—but I’ve heard her voice through the floor in the past. I rage over the careful way she speaks, always waiting for her husband to finish spewing his nonsense before offering the most innocuous of comments. The flat cadence of her words, devoid of anything that might provoke a reaction, is almost enough to yank me from hiding so her husband can learn what blood tastes like.
I hate him for what he’s reduced her to.
But I keep my mouth closed from the violence, instead saying, “I’ll be ready,” before turning back to my workstation, dismissing my mother.
I don’t mean to be rude, but I’d rather ignore her presence than say all the things spiraling through my head. She’s too kind for my brand of hate.
She hovers for a moment longer, her eyes on the small collection of jars and bowls that represent my modest laboratory. I know what she’s thinking—that I take too many risks, that my experiments could raise questions we can’t answer if an Enforcer were to demand a random inspection.
But she says nothing of this. She understands what these small creations mean to me.
“Don’t take too long. I am just finishing up the preparations.” She presses a light kiss to the top of my head before leaving me alone once again.
When the door closes, I examine the pale green paste in my bowl. It’s thickened to the consistency I’ve been aiming for—not solid, but not flowing like water. I dip a fingertip in, smiling at the texture. It’s smooth, almost silky, with a cooling sensation as it clings to my skin.
Hope flutters in my chest, a feeling I’ve learned to temper with caution. I’ve been here many times before…thinking I’d finally solved the puzzle, only to watch my creation fail in new and frustrating ways. I understand that’s the nature of everything—retrying until something works or until you die—but it’s frustrating all the same. I want things to work thefirsttime, not the twentieth.
I scoff at my naive thoughts. As if.
Wiping my finger on a scrap of cloth, I reach for a small vial. Using a thin wooden spatula, I transfer a portion of the paste into the vial for later testing. If this batch works, I’ll need to be meticulous in documenting every step I took to create it.
Dipping the same spatula back into the bowl, I scoop out a generous amount and consider where to apply it. Usually, I’d make a small cut on my inner arm—controlled and easy to hide—but today I decide to try it on unbroken skin first. If it burns or causes irritation, better to find out before introducing it to an open wound.
My hand carefully applies the paste to the outside of my wrist, spreading it into a thin layer. The cooling sensation intensifies—a mild tingling that’s not unpleasant. The paste adheres well, neither dripping nor smearing, and I watch with fascination and unsteady anticipation as it begins to lose its green tint, becoming more translucent by the second.
“Please work,” I whisper to every star that will listen, holding my arm steady.
The transformation continues, each moment of suspendedsilence prickling my skin as I wait impatiently. The paste thins further, molding to the contours of my skin. For a moment—one perfect, hopeful moment—I think I’ve succeeded. It appears exactly as I’d imagined: a transparent second skin, flexible and protective.
But of course my dreams stop there.
The tingling intensifies, sharpening into discomfort. Fingernails dig into my palms as the layer continues to harden, growing rigid instead of flexible. My skin beneath it whitens as the paste contracts, pinching and pulling from every direction.
“No, no, no…” I tap the edge of the hardening film, wincing when a tiny crack appears. Then another. And another. The lines spider through the entire layer and, within seconds, pieces begin flaking off, leaving behind redness and a coppery taste in my mouth. I should really stop biting my cheek when I get angry.
Managing a few deep breaths, I finally sigh before brushing the remaining fragments into my palm. Twenty attempts, twenty failures. What did that man once say about doing the same thing over and over again?
It doesn’t matter, regardless that I change minute things each time. This one came closer than the others at least. The paste adhered well initially, and the transparency was perfect. Perhaps a few granules less of sealwort will be the magic attempt? Or maybe adding some rendered pine resin for flexibility?
I make a mental note to try these modifications, though it will have to wait. For now, I need to prepare for an evening of darkness, erasing myself even further from existence for a few hours so my family can maintain our collective lie.
My hands go through the motions of cleaning my workspace methodically, wiping surfaces and returning ingredientsto their proper places. The failed paste goes into a basket with the others—every failure contains a lesson if you’re patient enough to find it.
Once everything is tidy, I fetch myhideout supplies, as I like to call them—a worn blanket that smells of cedar from its storage chest, a small reading light with a clip attachment, and one of the new books my father brought home. This one is about ancient agricultural practices; not particularly exciting, but educational in its own way, and that’s better than nothing when you’re left in a hole with only your thoughts for hours.
Shoving everything in the blanket and holding it to my chest, I wander to my parents’ bedroom, where my father is already waiting. He stands by the far wall with a warm smile I’m sure he’s forcing out just for me, where a section of floorboards has been pulled back to reveal a narrow opening.
“Ready, sweetheart?” He kneels beside the opening, waiting for my go ahead.
“Yes.” I say it with more confidence than I possess; I’m never truly ready for the hatch—the dark, cold, crushing sense of confinement lingers with me for days each time I experience it.
