I draw a finger down the condensation of the tiled wall, marveling that I’ve just had terrible, treasonous thoughts about The Reestablishment, and no one will be interrogating me next month to find out.
A sound leaves my body, something like a laugh.
I test the muscles in my face, run my tongue along my teeth, touch the pad of my finger to the soft give of my lips. Water runs in rivulets down my heated skin, skimming the dips and curves of my body.
While I’m here, at least, I belong to myself.
“I’m cutting off the water now,” calls the nurse. She’s been waiting just beyond the shower door all this time.“I’ll be here with a towel.”
Too soon, it’s over. The thunder, the steam.
The quiet.
The heat has turned me bright red, and I stare down at myself in the proceeding moments, a steadydrip dripbattering the tile underfoot. I pull myself up off the floor, my skin embossed by the windowpane design of the tile work. My head is steaming. My stomach, screaming.
The nurse, as promised, is waiting for me.
She does not avert her eyes; in fact, she looks me up and down as if to ascertain that I’m unarmed. I grab the towel and wrap it around myself, and when I finally exit the shower into the cold, concrete bathroom of the holding cell, my hot feet seem to shrink against the icy floors. A chill moves through my body, and I wrap the towel more tightly, hair dripping. I look at the nurse.
She’s tall and middle-aged; dark skin, dark eyes; her face angular and interesting. I remind myself that people in The New Republic still have preternatural powers. Even an unassuming nurse might possess a secret strength, capable of killing me with a single motion.
As if sensing my appraisal, she raises an eyebrow. Then she looks intently away from me, and I follow her gaze to a corner, where a neat pile of folded clothing is set atop a small, unmarked box.
“Those are for you,” she says, watching me again. “Get dressed. You’re being transferred in ten minutes.”
“Transferred?” This information animates me.
Concerns me.
I spent part of my time in the shower trying to sketch out escape options; I knew they’d eventually move me into a proper, high-security prison cell, but I was hoping for time to scan the premises, make a map in my mind. “Transferred where?”
“To a rehabilitation facility.”
I’m reaching for the stack of clothing when she says this, and I freeze. I turn slowly to look at the nurse, my instincts sharpening in warning.Rehabilitation facilityis always code for something worse: asylum; laboratory; a place for experiments and dissections.
“I see,” I say, unfreezing as I gather the clothes into my arms. The material is soft against my skin, and I can’t help but run my hand along the fabric, my eyes unfocusing as the gears shift in my head.
My incident with James must’ve been worse than I feared. Escaping a laboratory—or an asylum—will require an entirely different plan. Especially if they intend to drug me.
Still, in some ways, this is a relief.
Torture is not ideal, but at least it’s familiar. I can deal with pain. Besides, the rebels are weak-willed; they don’t even believe in certain methods of punishment. My mind is working quickly now, running scenarios as I dress myself. I hardly notice that the garments are well-made until they’re pressed against my body: a soft blue sweater and a pair of jeans that almost fit.
These aren’t prisoner’s clothes.
I glance at the nurse,who offers no explanation. She only crosses her arms as I walk over to the vanity. I brush my teeth with the supplies provided, then brush my hair, tying it back, wet, in an unflattering knot. I study my reflection in the small mirror over the sink. I don’t like to look at myself. When I look at myself, I see my mother.Death.My sister.Suffering.My father.Betrayal.
My face has cooled from red to pink. My hair almost has color when it’s wet. My eyes, I realize, are bright and frightening, feverish.
James called me beautiful.
The memory triggers a dormant feeling inside of me, something elemental I’ve never encouraged. I watch as a slow blush flares along my skin, melting into the heat receding in my body. I used to be beautiful, I think. Sebastian used to say things like that to me.
My skin goes cold at the reminder.
I did not take his wedding ring with me. I threw it at his face when he came for Clara, the consequences of which I will no doubt face upon returning home.
I kill the thought as I reach for the unmarked box.
