Unforgotten(5)
Later that morning, as soon as we’re dressed and outside and the front door closes behind us, Zen pulls me toward him, capturing my mouth with his. It’s a hungry kiss. Eager. It takes me by surprise. I love how he can still take me by surprise. Zen’s lips gently pry mine open and his tongue starts to explore. I remark how much better the porridge we had for breakfast tastes on him than it did on my spoon five minutes ago. I feel his fingertips press into my lower back, urging me closer. Then his hands are under my cap, in my hair, massacring the tight bun that I spent the morning coaxing my hair into, but I can hardly bring myself to care. I’m too swept up in Zen’s fierceness. His famine for me. It spreads over me like a wildfire.
When he breaks away, I’m breathless, gasping for air. Although I’d take his kiss over oxygen any day.
“What was that?” I ask, resting my forehead against his lips and inhaling his scent.
I feel him smirking into my skin. “A goodbye kiss.”
This makes me laugh. I tilt my head and gaze up at him. “Where are you going? Saturn?”
“Nah. Just the wheat field.” He reaches out, his fingertip tracing the hook of my ear and drifting off my cheek, heating my face to a boil. “But without you, it may as well be another planet.”
I open my mouth to speak but only stammering air escapes.
He smiles, teasing me with his eyes. “Bye, Cinnamon.”
And then he’s gone. Disappearing in the direction of the wheat field. I rake my teeth over my bottom lip, attempting to savor him for another second before reluctantly starting toward the barn.
October is only a few days away, which means it’s time to harvest the fruit in the orchard. Mrs. Pattinson has assigned me the task of picking the apples and pears. I wouldn’t mind it so much except for the fact that it requires me to work with Blackthorn, the Pattinsons’ horse.
He hates me, too.
With a sigh, I grab the rope halter from the hook on the wall and let myself into the stall. Blackthorn stiffens the moment he sees me, his head jerking up and his eyes narrowing. Then, upon noticing the halter in my hand, he whinnies and stamps his foot.
“I know,” I tell him. “I don’t like it any more than you do.”
I take a step toward him and he startles and kicks his back feet against the wall.
“Come on,” I implore. “Don’t be like that.”
But my coaxing doesn’t seem to be doing any good because he edges himself into the corner and stares me down, ears pinned back, nostrils flaring. I have no doubt he’s planning to charge if I get any closer.
Mr. Pattinson says Blackthorn only reacts this way because I’m too tense when I’m around him. I have to learn how to relax. Horses can sense fear.
Unfortunately I don’t think it’s my fear that he senses. Even the horse knows there’s something off about me.
Before we came here, I’d never seen a horse before, or any animal, for that matter. I didn’t even know what they were. When the Diotech scientists designed me, they were very particular about what I knew and what I didn’t. Even down to the words in my vocabulary. Zen says that was just another way to control me. By controlling what knowledge I had access to. And apparently they didn’t think horses were important enough to add to my mental dictionary. I made the mistake of nearly leaping out of my shoes and letting out a piercing shriek when we arrived on the farm and I came face-to-face with Blackthorn for the first time.
Zen was quick to cover for me, stating that since I was born and raised on a merchant ship, I’d never come in contact with any farm animals before. But once again, I don’t think Mrs. Pattinson ever completely believed the story.
All the other tasks I can handle—cooking dinner, baking bread, working in the garden, chopping firewood, sewing clothes, washing laundry. I was designed to pick up skills quickly—after only one demonstration. And I actually enjoy the manual labor. It keeps my mind calm.
The jobs that require interaction with the animals—feeding the pigs, letting the chickens out of their coop, milking the goat—are the ones that I’ve come to dread every day. Because animals see right through me. Zen can’t dazzle them with well-crafted stories to put their doubts to rest. They know something is wrong with me.
I take three slow steps toward the horse and attempt to ease the halter up over his nose. I proceed cautiously, careful not to make any sudden moves. His eyes follow me with the same distrust I see when Mrs. Pattinson watches me. I flash the horse a beaming smile to show that I’m perfectly nice and not a threat, but the action seems to have the reverse effect. He flinches and whips his head up, knocking me in the chin. The force of the blow sends me flying backward and I fall into a soft patch of mud.