A touch of warm air surrounds my face, heating up the tip of my nose and fingers. It carries a strong scent of wood and leather, a crisp impression of luxury—but underneath it, concealed somewhere like under the lid of a trash can, is a lingering whiff of stale urine and an elderly woman’s musty body odor.
I can’t say I’m surprised by the immediate impression. Scarlett once told me this place was built on deceit.
Suseas guides me and the other women to brown leather couches to the right of the lobby. I’m herded over to the mahogany-finished armchair, sitting on the cushion upholstered in elegant jacquard fabric. There’s a tea table between the women on the couches and me, and the furniture creaks as everyone gets settled in. They straighten, resisting the tempting urge to relax against the back of the couch.
Suseas waves over her shoulder and a younger woman wearing a gray dress and white tights carefully sets down a tray holding a fine porcelain tea set, including a steaming kettle. Before I can thank her properly, she glides away, like she’s avoiding a stench just released into the air.
I mimic the postures of the women instinctively. Back straight, chin up, legs crossed at the ankles. The shorter woman on the far right kneels to pour the tea and passes the teacups out among us. I try not to let my curiosity get the better of me, but her cheeks catch my attention with little effort. They’re gaunt, sucked in around her cheekbones, like a vacuum had tightened everything up around her eyes and lips. The caps of her shoulders could be compared to the indentation of bones to skin on a starving animal. Even her hands are frail—the veins on top are protruding, blue and raised.
My attention is jerked back to Suseas with the wet clearing of her throat.
“So,”—she blows lightly on her tea, pursing her lips into prominent smoker lines—“the asylum isn’t usually a desired place for young women to seek their profession. What brings you here?”
I hesitate, taking this opportunity to reach for my tea. What a simple yet awfully complicated question.
“I believe I could advance here quite nicely if given the opportunity.” They watch me with predatory eyes. “It’s been my dream to be a conformist.”That’s a lie.I used to pray that I’d never have to step foot into this glorified prison.
Suseas nods, narrowing her deep-set hazel eyes. I try not to let my eyes wander to the other women. If judgment was tangible, it would flow out of them in a slow wave of steam, seeping from every hole and pore on their bodies.
She chuckles softly, like the lie I told was evident to everyone.
“Well, as I stated before, Mr. Aurick Dawson is an exemplary reference to have. May I ask how it is the two of you met?”
Oh, she’s launching grenades now.
“Old family friends.”Funny you ask, I had just watched my sister’s body burn in the fire that destroyed her childhood home, and Aurick lent a helping hand out of pity for the girl that had just lost everything. He knows little about me. I know little about him.
“Good on you.” The woman sitting to Suseas’s left scrunches her nose and gives me a sugary smirk. She tucks a strand of short black hair behind her ear and looks at me expectantly, like I’m supposed to know who she is.
Suseas sets her tea down uncomfortably, tightening her lips together, keeping her eyes nailed to the floor.
“Before we discuss details about the position and the nature of the asylum, there is one matter I would like to bring to this discussion, if you don’t mind.” She places her hands politely in her lap and pulls back her shoulders.
I nod cautiously. The tension added as a secondary layer to this conversation has transitioned to my chest and neck. A coil tightens under my breast bone, twisting clockwise until my shoulders begin to slump forward to relieve the pressure.
“Your… twin sister. She was a conformist’s assistant. My condolences for her passing. But, I’m afraid my staff has heard the rumor of how she died. Thatyouburned her alive in the house you both lived in. Now, I’ve done my homework and made sure I saw the incident report. I believe the rumor to not be true. But—you know how people can be. They enjoy a theatrical story to share among themselves. That being said, I must ask—is there any truth to this story? Anything I need to worry about?”
Her body. I left her in the closet.
This time, I can’t stop my eyes from darting to the other women. The one who spoke before, with raven-black hair, raises an eyebrow, and the corner of her mouth is tugged upward smugly. The others gawk at me.
My mouth opens to respond, but only an audibly stressed sigh escapes. I don’t know how to answer.Just say no. No, there is no truth to those stories.
“Her name was Scarlett, wasn’t it?” The smug, black-haired woman adds. My jaw constricts, and a thick lump forms in the back of my throat. She said her name like it meant nothing. Like she was an insignificant cog in this machine.
Scarlett.
We reunited at the age of fifteen. I had no one. Only her.
We hadn’t known the other existed until she found me in an infirmary outside of the city—broken bones, bloodied face, all at the hands of my father. He wasn’t always bad. For the first five years of my life, he was kind and gentle. But when I was six, my father, Jack, had a breakdown that changed him into an insidious brute, a beast, a monster, a devil of a man that took every happiness away from me.
She found me. Yes, her name was Scarlett.
“No, there is no truth to it, madam,” I direct to Suseas. “Yes, thatwasher name.” I give a tight, rigid smile to the nosy one. My smile threatening to turn into a frown.
“She was a peculiar girl, wasn’t she? Always sitting alone. No friends, old dresses, very little makeup.”
Peculiar.Alone.No friends.
