And I sink, relaxed, into the carpeted floor for the rest of the ride.
The taxi rocks and sways and stops and accelerates, and it’s starting to fill me with a bout of motion sickness.
I shut my eyes and let it pass over me.
My mind is quick to wander to places I don’t want it to go. Like my mother…
Does she wander with sorrow around my dorm room right now, watching my father pick through my belongings, searching for a clue as to where I’ve gone?
Does she hold back tears that Amelia hides behind her own slender hand?
Is Dray arguing with the hurt security guard, or are all the men in an office, discussing what to do with me once the likes of Mr Younge and Mr Burns drag me back to the academy?
My mind whirls through a dozen different scenarios—until finally my torture is interrupted.
The taxi finally parks, and the driver announces the welcome word, “Here.”
Serena is first to sit up.
Her legs worm and wriggle over mine as she leans for the weighty door and shoves it aside. It screeches open and a moment later, the weight is gone from my legs.
I wiggle out after her.
Before she shuts the taxi door, she shoves my heavy bag into my arms.
The tension on her false face, the sea winds lashing at her cheeks, the alertness of her brown eyes as she steps back from the road and scans the street—it’s all I need to stay silent.
Now isn’t the time to chat.
The gate to the port is just down the lane to the left—but she snubs that in favour of the pub at the corner of the street.
I shadow her to the old pub.
I expect it to be awful, to smell of beer and urine and stale cigarette smoke, but it’s pleasant as Serena leads the way through the door.
Fresh meals stacked onto plain white plates are carried through the bustling dining area, delivered to the seated locals and sailors and drinkers.
The atmosphere is pleasant, talkative, and distracted.
That’s good for us—because Serena spots the toilet signs down the hall that stretches by an old staircase.
Serena drags me into the women’s bathroom, then locks me in a stall with her.
With the toe of her boot, she brings down the lid on the toilet, then rests her satchel there. She rifles through the pockets for a beat before sliding out a thick envelope, then setting it down.
She turns on me.
Pressed against the stall wall, I watch as she brings her hands to my face.
The trickling sensation disturbs my skin again.
And she brings it down and down and down, all the way to my boots, before turning on herself.
In front of my eyes, she transforms.
Not back into herself, but into a woman who is a stranger to me. She wears the pale face of a woman with brown hair and brown eyes, a mole on her cheekbone, another on her smooth neck.
I wonder what I look like.
