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.
The horse looks over and I
swear
I see him smirk.
Groaning, I push myself up and do my best to brush the mud off the back of my skirt. This will definitely require laundering later today.
I’m about to go in for a second try when I hear the door creak open and Jane, the Pattinsons’ six-year-old daughter, slinks into the stall. She’s wearing a dress with a ripped hem that will surely be added to our mending pile any day now. Her sunshine-blond curls are still matted and tangled on one side of her head from sleeping on them. She brushes them clumsily out of her face, revealing a pair of large, inquisitive blue eyes.
Dangling from her hand is the tiny doll, about the size of my hand, that she carries with her wherever she goes. She calls it Lulu. Its body was made from the stained white fabric of one of Mr. Pattinson’s old shirts, and its blue short-sleeved frock was crafted from one of Jane’s outgrown baby dresses. It has a painted-on nose and smile and buttons for eyes.
I’m surprised to see Jane here. Since we arrived, she’s never spoken to me. None of the children have, really. Maybe a few perfunctory words here and there like,
May I have some more bread, please?
but beyond that, I might as well be a ghost in this house.
There have been a few times when I’ve looked up from my work and caught her watching me from a distance but she always scampers away as soon as she sees me notice her. I’ve convinced myself that she’s terrified of me. But she shows no fear now.
Without a word, she gently places the doll in the front pocket of her dress, walks toward me, removes the halter from my hand, and proceeds to approach the horse.
Blackthorn towers over her and for a minute I wonder if it’s a good idea to even allow her into this stall. One little jerky move from him and she could be crushed to death. I consider dashing after her and scooping her up into my arms but I soon see that this won’t be necessary because the horse actually relaxes the moment he sees her. His nostrils stop flaring, his ears bounce straight up in the air, and he lowers his head so that his eyes are level with hers.
“That’s a good horsie,” she coos, rubbing the top of his nose. His eyes sink closed. She easily slips the halter around his head and ties it. Then she silently points to the harness on the wall behind me. I grab it and take one pace toward him. He tenses again but Jane is quick to soothe him with a soft clucking sound.
I manage to get close enough to toss the harness over his back and buckle the strap around his chest. Then I fetch the fruit baskets from outside his stall and secure them to the hooks on either side. He doesn’t look happy about any of this, but he seems much more tolerant of my presence while Jane is here.
I’m about to say thank you to Jane when I hear an angry huffing sound behind me. We both turn to see Mrs. Pattinson glaring at us. Her eyes drift down from me to her daughter.
“Jane,” she says tightly, “go inside.”
Jane bites her lip and scuttles away. Mrs. Pattinson lingers to give me one more distrustful glower before following her daughter.
She must think she’s out of hearing range when she turns the corner toward the house because she whispers gruffly to Jane, “What did I tell you about conversing with that girl?”
There’s no way for her to know that my actual hearing range reaches far beyond any normal human being’s. That, in reality, I can hear horse hooves
clip clopping
down the dirt road five minutes before they actually arrive at the house, a hawk flapping its wings in the next valley, or even the hushed early-morning bickering between her and Mr. Pattinson in the kitchen when I’m sitting on the knoll five hundred feet away watching the sunrise.
Although I fear that even if she had known I could hear her, she wouldn’t have cared.
I swallow the stinging in my throat and hook the lead rope to Blackthorn’s halter, pulling him out of the barn and toward the orchard. He follows me obediently but uses the entire length of the rope to put as much distance between us as he can.
3
PRECAUTIONS
One, one thousand. Step.
Two, one thousand. Step.
Three, one thousand. Step.
I take vigilant, measured paces as I walk, counting a full second per stride, just like Zen taught me.
It’s one of the numerous things I have to do on a daily basis to avoid drawing unnecessary attention to myself. To hide who I am. If I move too fast—at the speed my scientifically enhanced legs are capable of carrying me—people will notice.
When I lift heavy objects, I have to pretend to struggle with them. Carrying in the wood for the bread oven is especially frustrating because I could easily carry the entire bundle at once but that would seem unnatural for a woman to be able to do. So instead I have to take three agonizingly slow trips from the chopping block to the kitchen, timing my steps the entire way, and throwing in a few grunts and other exertion noises to make it sound realistic.
Diotech is sure to be monitoring all historical records. From all time periods. They probably have a hundred people assigned to the task, scouring the digital archives for any clue to my whereabouts. It would only take one slipup, one sliver of unwanted attention, one mention of something unusual in a printed pamphlet or an official document and that would be enough.
They would send someone here to investigate.
And my new life—my new home—would be gone forever.
By lunchtime, I’ve already collected eight baskets of apples and pears from the orchard and delivered them to the house, with Blackthorn’s help. Mrs. Pattinson is thrilled and she claps her hands ecstatically when I report back the yield. It’s actually the first time I think I’ve ever seen her happy. Apparently this was a “fertile season,” which means there’s enough to take into town and sell.
I manage to finish my workload today with enough time to wash and hang my mud-stained skirt on the line outside before helping Mrs. Pattinson with dinner. Zen and I were each given two pairs of clothes when we arrived. “One to wash and one to wear,” we were told.
The garments definitely required getting used to. The bodice sometimes feels like it’s suffocating me, I often trip over the heavy linen skirt that falls to my ankles, the cotton cap itches on my head, and the long shirtsleeves are thick and hot in the afternoon sun. But I suppose it’s a small price to pay to be here with Zen.
To be safe from them.
After dinner, Mrs. Pattinson and I sit down at the kitchen table to mend clothes while everyone else gathers around the fireplace with Zen to hear another one of his adventure stories before it’s time for bed.
As my fingers move deftly, weaving the thread in and out, in and out, I allow the sound of Zen’s soft, melodic voice and the crackling fire to silence my thoughts. Drifting away for a few peaceful moments. Reveling in the quiet end of the day. The promise of what’s to come when everyone goes to sleep and Zen and I are finally alone.
It’s Mrs. Pattinson’s nasally grating voice that eventually brings me back to the present when she asks me to pass her another spool of thread.
I smile politely, bend down to retrieve the black bobbin from the basket near my feet, and then reach across the table to place the object in front of her.
I’m just about to withdraw my arm when Mrs. Pattinson lets out a horrified, deafening gasp that stops everyone short. Zen is no longer speaking. Mr. Pattinson and the children are no longer listening. Even the fire seems to have been shocked to a subtle flicker.
Everyone has turned and is staring at me.
I look instinctively to Zen and his dark eyes widen in alarm. Since we arrived here, we’ve begun to master the art of communicating without speaking. With the Pattinsons almost always around, sometimes a glance is all we get to convey something important. It’s a necessity when living with secrets. Secrets that, in this day and age, could get you killed.
He nudges his chin ever so slightly in the direction of my outstretched arm. I glance down and suddenly understand. My stomach clenches. A peculiar icy heat slithers up my legs. And for a moment, I’m completely paralyzed. Staring at the sight before me that cannot be unseen. Feeling the palpable panic in the air that cannot be erased.
The sleeve of my shirt has slid up, revealing the bare skin on the inside of my left wrist.
Or more specifically, the razor-thin black line that is inked
across
my wrist.
I call it my tattoo, even though that’s not an accurate term. But it’s what I originally thought it was. In reality, it’s a tracking device that was installed by Diotech when they created me.
Zen warned me that I would have to keep it hidden under my sleeve here. That I was never to reveal it. And now I understand why.
Mrs. Pattinson’s mouth finally closes from her prolonged gasp and she’s able to speak. “Is that the mark of … of…”
“No,” Mr. Pattinson chides her. “Not in front of the children.”
She’s flustered and breathless as she continues to stare down at my exposed wrist. I start to pull my arm away but she grabs my hand and clutches it tightly, her nails digging into my flesh.
I know I could easily yank it away. I’m about a hundred times stronger than she is, but I also know that it would be the wrong thing to do right now.
“It is!” she exclaims, studying it closer and clearly ignoring her husband’s warning. “I’ve heard Mary Adams describe it.” She sucks in a hissing breath through her teeth. “That’s Satan’s mark!”
I don’t know who Satan is but I can only surmise that he or she is not someone you want to be associated with. All four children shudder in unison and seven-year-old Myles whimpers and climbs into his father’s lap, his small brown eyes narrowing accusingly in my direction.
“Mrs. Pattinson,” her husband roars. “That is enough. You are frightening the children. I’ve warned you before about listening to the likes of Mary Adams. She’s a gossip and a meddler. I’m sure Sarah has a perfectly reasonable explanation for her”—he looks toward my wrist and clears his throat anxiously—“for whatever that is.”
Everyone turns expectantly to me and I turn to Zen, my eyes pleading with him. I don’t know how to fix this. I don’t know what to say. Whatever I do will undoubtedly only make things worse.
I watch Zen’s expression shift. Sliding effortlessly from one of disquiet to one of calm. He chuckles and I immediately wonder if
laughing
at Mrs. Pattinson is really the best choice right now. But Zen appears to know what he’s doing.
“Oh,
that
,” Zen says, casually flicking his hand toward my wrist, which is still pinned in Mrs. Pattinson’s mighty clutch. “That’s a great story! You’re going to love it!”
His easy movements and the buoyancy of his voice calm the tension in the room almost instantly. Zen then launches into a flawless account of the time my father’s merchant ship was raided and seized by pirates when I was only eight years old. The invaders took everyone captive and tattooed us with this special mark, branding us as prisoners.