“Miss Ambrose, I’m happy to say you are most impressive. Just as Mr. Aurick said you would be.” She blots the sides of her face with the back of her hand, ridding herself of the glossy sheen of perspiration. “Is this really a life you could see for yourself?”
I remember asking Scarlett this same question one night while we sat on the roof of her beaten-down house, letting our eyes wander over the thousands of stars in the sky. She had finished telling me about an incident in one of the treatments. A young boy drowned. While the conformist stared emptily at his cold, blue body. Scarlett tried to resuscitate him. She pressed on his bare chest for forty-five minutes, bruising her knees and spraining her wrist. He was only twelve years old.
I couldn’t see why she would subject herself to this kind of torment. Why not leave? She looked at me then, like I’m looking at Suseas now. She said,If more people with compassion chose to see the ugly and not turn a blind eye, maybe this world would be a better place.
“This is where I belong,” I say. And despite the evil I’ve seen, I believe it to be true. I can’t understand my own illogical reasoning, but walking down this hallway, running my fingers over the textured walls—there’s a cosmic pull that is binding my soul to this place. A vortex that is sucking me in, deeper and deeper.
Suseas lifts her chin with obvious pride. “What a delight. It would be my honor to offer you a conformist position. Might you start as soon as tomorrow?”
I take a deep breath. Nod my head. Swallow down the bitter taste of fear and stress that gathers on my tongue like sour stomach acid.
She takes two steps away from the last door, guiding me back to the beginning of the hallway. I don’t follow but hold a hand up to stop her.
“Wait,you’re not going to show me the last room?” It’s the only room without a profile clipboard or a small window on the door.
“No,” she replies sharply, tilting her head and squinting her eyes down at me as if my asking was completely out of place.
“Why not?”
“No one goes into that room.” Her voice is cold and out of character, like a winter’s death.
I should let it go. But it’s like an itch I have to scratch. “Can you explain why?”
She whips her head at me. “Miss Ambrose, this will be the first and last time I address this question. I will not tolerate nosiness or a proclivity for unladylike subjects. Is that understood?”
I nod, frozen in place.What nerve have I struck?
“That room is never spoken of by any individual in this establishment. No one goes near that door. No one steps foot inside except members of the council. You may venture anywhere in the asylum, work with any patient, open any door—exceptthat one.” Her unwavering stare forces me to avert my eyes. “If you value your life, your sanity, and if you prefer to remain employed by this asylum rather than be a patient inside of it—you’ll respect my order, drop your curiosity, and never pick it up again.”
I gaze back at the largest door at the end of the hallway.
The thirteenth room.
7. Home
I let my shoulder relaxand the muscles in my neck go limp during the drive from the asylum to Aurick’s estate.
We’ve been staying at his cottage in the North Saphrine forest, away from the city, away from the people, away from any responsibilities. But now, it’s time for me to learn the customs of living the way the women here do. And thankfully, Aurick’s friendship has extended to letting me stay in his estate.
I lean against the window and take in my new surroundings.
We pass the Dellilian Castle first. It has over three hundred rooms, numerous towers, spires, and peaks the color of coffee grounds. It would be the cover of a child’s storybook if it weren’t for the worn-down stone, as if it were stained by dark oil, lined with dead vines, and surrounded by bare oak trees. Even still, it dominates the area. It bullies the other estates into a smaller, less significant purpose.
The road changes from dirt to shiny gray cobblestone. There are gas streetlights at every corner, followed by shops with windows full of extravagant items, like bottles of wine, jewelry, long gowns, and tuxedos. And there aresomany people outside. My focus gravitates toward a cluster of women leaving a boutique. They have winter wool coats like mine, with fur muffs and umbrellas hovering over their heads. I avoid their faces at first, like the stories I’ve heard make them fictional characters ready to disappear in a glamorous gust of wind if I stare too hard.
But they aren’t fictional.
They’re real and blindingly elegant from their soft, white complexions like porcelain dolls to their silky pinned-up curls and narrow, willowy figures. Their swaying hips flow at a steady rhythm like they’re being guided by the gentle rocking of a boat. My chest tightens with insecurity as the women smile with glistening white teeth like they’re constantly performing for a crowd.
Must I become this version of a woman?
Before we turn the street corner, my eyes flick to a woman sleeping on a chaise lounge in the middle of the sidewalk, her hand outstretched to the cobblestone. Then another on the sidewalk across the street. I open my mouth to question it, to ask what—
“They’re called fainting sofas,” the driver mutters over his shoulder.
I wait for him to clarify, but he doesn’t. Then it hits me—the lady-doll regimen. The starvation. It must cause frequent fainting after long hours of shopping. I shudder at the clear memory of the woman’s parted mouth, appearing to sleeppeacefully.
Our buggy sweepspastthe catalog of enchanting civilians and slows to our desired destination.
