Page 79 of Winterveil

Spring 2037

Camp Peary, Virginia

Traumstadt, for all its falsity, was not silent as they approached the winter market. The holograms roamed like real people, their cheeks even pinking in the cold. Deckard’s attention to detail was so excellent as to be almost eerie. Giselle could swear she even felt warmth radiate from their bodies as they drew closer.

Nadiya, by contrast, was not offering much warmth—physical or otherwise. She kept a distance from Giselle, matching her pace but not allowing herself to come within an arm’s length. Her gaze also refused to linger on Giselle for more than the briefest moment. It made the situation awkward, particularly considering that they were supposed to be posing as friends on a frivolous spring break.

Giselle tried to quell the nervousness in her stomach as they wound through the maze of stalls. She smelled baking bread and roasting meat, heard the splash of the oil from the fryers. The flaky crust on the sausage rolls got snagged by the wind and fluttered away. This was far beyond any technology she had encountered at Valeran—even during the exhibition.

And the realness of it all seemed to be taking its toll on Nadiya. She walked without her usual fluid dexterity, more focused on keeping her eyes on the ground than on maintaining her balance. Her motions were tremulous. Giselle’s heart winced.

She had no idea what would turn out to be consequential, so as they traversed the market, she tried to commit everything she could to memory. Well—she didn’t have to try. The trying would come later when she reported it all to Klaudia. Klaudia, who intimidated her tremendously. She had dismal visions of stammering and tripping over her words as Klaudia stared her down with cold gray eyes.

But it was not as excruciating as being ignored by Nadiya. Through some cruel and inexplicable twist of fate, Julian Joyce-Young III had turned out to be her only friend.

Giselle was observing a family—a mother and father swinging their toddler between them while he squealed with delight—when Nadiya’s voice broke the air.

“Watch out!”

Instantly she turned. Nadiya had crashed bodily into one of the holograms, and the force had sent her sprawling to the ground. She pushed herself up onto her elbows as Giselle rushed to her side, pulse pounding.

The hologram muttered something disdainful in Russian and then stomped away.

Giselle offered Nadiya her hand but Nadiya ignored it. Her face was pale.

“It’s not possible,” she said quietly.

“What?”

“The hologram was solid.” There was a quiver in her voice. “It knocked me over.”

Giselle swallowed. “Are you sure . . . are you sure you didn’t just trip?”

Nadiya gave her a black stare. She rose to her feet, but her movements were still shaky, uneasy. Giselle couldn’t help but recall how she had looked during the exhibition, hunched over on the ground, screaming. The memory struck her like a blow. Until this moment she had been thinking about winning, but now she wondered if she should be more focused on surviving.

“Let’s just go,” Nadiya said, shaking her head. “Somewhere less . . . crowded.”

Giselle didn’t argue. She allowed Nadiya to lead her out of the center of town, the voices of the holograms fading into the distance. She wondered if Nadiya, too, was recalling the brutal end of the exhibition, if it had made her too fearful of the holograms to be reasonable. Giselle would hardly have blamed her. A smoldering sense of anger lay low in her belly. How could Professor Blanchard have done that to her? Why had Dr. Iver allowed it?

They came to the edge of the market and the path that led toward the residential streets. There was a slight incline and Giselle felt the strain in her calves. Nadiya marched on ahead, ponytail bobbing, dark hair lifted by the wind.

The cottages edging the cobblestone road were something out of a fairy tale. They had rickety chimneys, each wafting smoke, peaked wooden roofs and ivy wreathing the trellises. The vines should have been dead and brown in the winter, but Deckard had neglected that particular element of realism. Maybe he was trying to emphasize the whimsy and charm of the setting—but for what purpose?

Nadiya paused and allowed Giselle to catch up. She asked, “Do you see anything that seems significant?”

Giselle couldn’t tell if it was a rhetorical question. She studied the houses, making note of the markers on their doors and mailboxes. Maybe some clue lingered there. But it was nothing she could discern at present.

“No,” she admitted. “It just looks like Barbie’s Dream German Village.”

The corner of Nadiya’s mouth twitched, as if she were trying not to smile. “I think that’s what Deckard was going for.”

“But why?” Giselle’s gaze skimmed once more over the houses. “Why this setting, for the mission? He could have built anything, sent us anywhere. What’s so important about this place?”

“I think,” Nadiya said slowly, “that you’re asking the right questions.”

The snow fell and gathered on the cobblestones. Flakes of it caught in Nadiya’s hair and melted. There was something overwhelming about the scale of it—how it came down so thickly that it blanched the air itself. How many snow machines did Deckard have?

They continued down the road, past streetlamps that flickered on and off, as if uncertain of whether it was night or day. Maybe it was difficult for their wiring to make sense of the artificial light. Giselle herself wasn’t sure of the real time outside the simulation.