Like a lone flame flickering in an old room, warmth spreads in my chest, illuminating corners of my heart I didn’t know were darkened. I hide the smile threatening to grow so wide it sails off my face.
“Yes?”
“Good night.”
“Good night, Taylor.”
Morning arrives on rapid feet.I’ve barely fallen asleep when one of Delilah’s employees wakes me up and informs me ofa breakfast served at my leisure in the main dining room downstairs. Attire is left up to me, so I dress in a sweater and jeans tucked into boots. After untangling my braid and leaving it down, I brace myself and stare at the door between our rooms and rap on it with my closed fist.
“It’s unlocked, Lucy.”
I duck my head and wait to wipe the stupid smile off my face. When I open the door, the bed is empty and made, blankets tucked into neat and tidy corners. Taylor is on the floor doing push-ups. Clad in only a bra and camouflage capri pants, the injured side of her body faces away from me, but the crawling fingers of purple bruising slither along her back like tribal tattoos. She grunts and continues her workout, punishing herself with each dip toward the floor. Her eyes haven’t left the ground—I’m sure she’s counting to a million, or however many push-ups is sufficiently unreasonable—but she senses my disquietude from across the room. “Is something wrong?”
Her legs come under her stomach in a crouch, and then she stands up straight and exposes her wounds. I gawk at the giant smattering of bruises along her side as well as the thick bandage on her ribcage. I’m shocked she can get out of bed, let alone exercise. She plants her palms on the ground and kicks up into a handstand, bracing herself against the wall.
“What do you think you’re doing? You are under strict orders to stay in bed.”
Turning on her palms to face me, somehow, upside down, she conveys exasperation. “Who is going to enforce those orders? You?”
“I told you I can be very persuasive.”
Taylor flips down and swivels to face me. “Persuade me into bed? I don’t think so.”
The sheer volume of retorts pummeling their way to the tip of my tongue is astounding. To her credit, Taylor appears blissfullyunaware of her innuendo; instead, she’s full of challenge and earnest bravado. I let out a low, humorless laugh. “You need to sleep.”
She furrows her brow. “Sleep?”
“Yes, you know, sleep. It’s what us non-androids do to recuperate after life-threatening injuries.”
“Look, I already slept more than five hours.” Taylor has a lot of talents, but I think the one I’m always most impressed with is her ability to turn the reasonable into the preposterous. A knock on the door interrupts us. “Come in.”
A woman hurries in, hands overflowing with medical supplies. She’s older—well, older than me, younger than Delilah. Somewhere in her late thirties with plump cheeks and dancing green eyes. Attractive enough, I guess. “I’m sure you don’t remember me. I was new when you were here last. My name is?—”
“Abigail. I remember you.”
“No need for code names, my dear,” she says in a drawl, and suddenly the inside of my mouth tastes funny. “Katrina will be fine.”
Taylor cocks her head to the side. “Okay.”
Katrina’s shyness is insincere and I find myself growing edgy and impatient. “I’m surprised you remember me.”
“I remember everyone,” Taylor replies with a halfhearted smile. “This is Luciana Piccolo. Miss Piccolo, this is Katrina.”
“Trina.” She rearranges her items to stick a hand out and shake mine. “Huh. I thought they’d at least handcuff you or something. You are an Order prisoner, right?”
How I wish my manners were poor because I’d like to leave her hanging. But I don’t. Instead, I shake her hand a tad too hard. Maybe Taylor senses the nasty retort I have on my tongue, because she quickly asks, “Do you mind telling me why you are here, Katrina?”
“Delilah sent me to check on you. A quick examination of your wounds. And to offer medical help, if you need it.” She provides Taylor with a handwritten note from within her brassiere.
Taylor examines the note, and then returns her gaze to the woman. “Where is Jacqueline?”
She hands the note off to me. In delicate script, it explains to Taylor that she’s not to come down to breakfast without her wounds being attended to by Katrina. Signed with an oversized, flourished D.
“I don’t know.” Doesn’t sound like she cares, either. “Following Delilah’s orders.”
“Fine, but be quick about it, please.”
Katrina removes the bandage from Taylor’s ribs and inspects the cut. Her wound is not as bad this morning, but it remains crimson and scary. The woman applies a dollop of salve from a white bottle, using thin fingers to smooth it across Taylor’s skin. Two butterfly bandages are placed over the wound in thirds, keeping the skin closed. She takes another bottle and coats both her hands in a milky, off-white liquid. It fills the air with the scent of fresh daisies, and Taylor scrunches her nose in displeasure. Katrina spreads the cream on Taylor’s bruised sides, making the blonde tense and squirm under her touch.
