That’s a bad sign . . .
When the driver stops the car I can’t feel my legs. Fear has settled in deep. Derek takes my hand in his, squeezing tightly and pulling me through the door. When I get a good look at the driver my stomach starts to sink. He’s familiar. All familiarity makes me nervous. It means the person has been part of the charade since at least midway.
Or is it now midway and the end is not actually ever going to come into sight? The fear that I will be on the dance floor for the rest of my life, dancing the same dance and twirling in the arms of these partners, is a very real fear.
I look up at the massive building, preparing for it to be the asylum they use to erase my mind. Or worse. Maybe it’s the prison I have to stay in while they wait for my scenario training to start next time. Maybe they will just put me into my coma here. Maybe this is it. My heart starts to beat, echoing around in my empty body.
Derek drags me to the front door. It’s politely done, but it’s forceful enough for me to know I have to cooperate.
His side is bleeding still, but his grip is tight nonetheless. The huge wooden door opens as we draw near, revealing a wrinkled old man in a butler’s suit and tie. He nods his head. “Doctor, ma’am, how lovely to see you both again.”
Again?
His accent is English, not French. How odd. He closes the door after us. I pause, taking in the splendor and grandeur of the room. Everything is so large I don’t really have anything to compare it to, to justify the size. It is just bigger than any room I have ever been in inside a home, which this clearly is. The ostentatious art, the arched doorways, the sweeping stairs, even the dog is huge. The giant hound—a wolfhound, I think—walks to me. He runs his face over my hands. I think we might know each other, and I don’t want to offend him, so I scratch the places I think he might like—behind the ears and between the eyes.
The butler leads the way, directing us through the halls of the home that seems less and less likely to be an asylum. I can’t deny that makes me feel better.
Derek’s grip on my hand becomes part of my body. I don’t feel like I am being held or protected or dragged. His hand and mine are meant to be.
I feel that in my heart, separate from everything else, we are meant to be.
The butler stops outside of a room with a tremendous amount of light flooding it. There is a wall of glass and many skylights in the ceiling. A sunroom, perhaps. A woman with gray hair and a wrinkled face to match the butler’s awaits us. I know she expects us, because when her bright-blue eyes flicker to my face, they light up with recognition.
“Sam, how are you?” She is also English. She doesn’t stand, but holds her hands out for me. “I was your friend once, Samantha Barnes.” Her eyes are not the same shade—they are light blue and dark blue, like mine.
I don’t release Derek’s hand or run to her; I wait for it but it doesn’t come. I do not know her face.
She swallows hard, wincing. “It’s all right, my love.”
I suck my air. I know those words. She called me those words, those names. My love. They make more sense in my head now, the accent. My skin crawls with shivers.
“Do you know me at all?”
I shake my head. “But you shouldn’t be insulted—I remember almost nothing and everything, and the stories don’t match in my head or on paper.”
She laughs at that. “I have missed you, my love.”
“Who are you?”
Her eyes sparkle. “Your grandmother, Emily Starling. I was your mother’s mother, before the accident.”
Of course, my real parents were killed in a car accident. And they were English. I recall that detail. I was alone in the world; apparently not as alone as Derek must have assumed. Unless he too has known my only living relative all this time.
She holds a hand toward a fancy floral couch. “Have a seat. We will take tea, Thomas.”
The butler nods and leaves.
Derek releases my hand, making my skin cold instantly. “If I may excuse myself, Madame Starling, my injuries would stain the couches badly. I will tend to myself and see you both at dinner.” He kisses my cheeks, whispering in my ear, “You are safe here.” He slips from the room, leaving me.
I don’t know where this game is going to take us. I sit on the couch, wishing it were slightly less firm.
“Your parents took our firm to America. They were so excited to become Americans and see the sights. They never realized how alone we were as a family, just the five of us.”
“Five?”
She nods, taking a large black book from the shelf next to her, again not moving her lower body. I am scared she can’t move it at all. She opens the book, placing it on the large glass table in front of her and flipping through a lifetime. It’s my lifetime. My parents—they match the flickers in my head. I refuse to attach myself to the images of the dead. I do not know when this reality will be a lie.