Anew: Book One: Awakened (24 page)

Edward nods, although he doesn’t
appear totally convinced. He insists on escorting me to the entrance and
waiting with me until the car is brought round.

As he hands me into the
backseat, he says, “If you’re worried about Ian, don’t be. He’s the most hard
headed person I know. Not even that errant ball could knock any sense into
him.”

I nod but I also take care to
keep my face averted rather than risk Edward seeing how I really feel. I am
worried about Ian but I’m also worried about myself. Whatever the reasons
behind his behavior, I’m at risk of shattering.

But not here, not in front of
anyone, especially not him. Pride and an instinct for survival both demand that
I not let him know how much he can hurt me.

I hold myself together well
enough during the drive back to the house. But once there, in the privacy of my
bedroom, I surrender to the storm of emotion the day has brought. I have
scarcely cried since awakening that but I make up for that now. My tears soak
the pillows. By the time they sputter out, I truly do have a vicious headache.

At some point, I revive enough
to strip off my clothes and stand in the shower briefly before crawling back
into bed. I pull the covers up over myself as though they can somehow shut out
the world.

It is still dusk beyond the tall
windows when Adele comes to check on me. She opens the door softly and peers in
but I deliberately keep my eyes closed, hoping she will think that I am asleep.
After a moment I hear her soft sigh as she departs.

Deceiving my grandmother leaves
me feeling even worse about myself but I can’t regret it. I’m simply not up to
dealing with anyone just then. The night passes with aching slowness. I drift
through long periods of wakefulness interspersed with dreams of Ian that are
arousing and disturbing in equal measure.

At one point, lying wide awake
on my back staring up at the canopy of the bed, I wonder if this is what it
feels like to be adrift at sea, tossed helplessly between remorseless waves
with no refuge in sight. The stark truth strikes me. I want Ian to be my refuge
and to be his in turn.

Yet I fled from him twice at the
palazzo. Once when he told me the truth about myself and again when he seemed
not to care if I stayed or went. Each time I had provocation but that doesn’t
mean what I did was right for either of us.

The last stars are winking out
when I come to the realization that I have to choose. Move on with my life
without him. Or stand my ground, refuse to be controlled by fear, and fight for
what I want.

My eyes are still red and the headache hasn’t let go but I
can feel the beginnings of hope. And rather more to the point, of a plan.

Amelia

A
week later, I have to face facts. Whatever I thought I would be able to
accomplish when I saw Ian again isn’t going to happen. He has stopped appearing
at any of the exhausting round of social events that I’ve forced myself to
attend. To all intents and purposes, he has vanished.

Adele and Marianne have not. In
our frequent encounters, I get no indication that they’re at all worried about
him. Surely, if he were ill or suffering unexpected aftereffects from the blow
he received they would know?

I tell myself that rather than
care so much about his well-being, I should be angry at him both for his
behavior in the Rolls and afterwards. Instead, I can only hope that he really
is all right. My foolish weakness turns my anger inward and leaves me even more
confused.

If he is well, what accounts for
his absence? Is it just that having withdrawn from me, he no longer has any
reason to endure the social round? That is the simplest explanation but it is
as frustrating as it is painful.

I struggle to take an interest
in the activities going on around me but as the Ian-less days pass that becomes
increasingly difficult. Only with Sergei do I manage to remain focused and then
only because he won’t tolerate any such lapses. However, he does comment on the
deepening shadows under my eyes and even goes so far as to remind me that I
need to eat.

“Your body is your instrument,”
he says sternly. “If you fail to care for it properly, you cannot expect it to
do as you wish.”

I take that to heart and I do
try but as one day fades into the next, the world takes on a gray sameness that
makes me feel as though I am moving through a sea of static, unable to really
think or act.

Finally, I’m reduced to seeking
news of Ian on the private link. As soon as I start searching, I’m bombarded by
photos and videos taken at a slew of social events. None has drawn more
attention than the polo match. It is still the subject of excited comment and
debate.

I briefly view one of the many
videos but stop when I realize that I can’t bear witnessing Ian’s barely
controlled aggression yet again. Instead, I look at the photos, searching in
particular for images of him after I left the reception.

Unfortunately, I find them. In
photo after photo, he is shown in conversation with a variety of young women, all
vying for his attention. He looks relaxed, somewhat amused, not at all tense
and angry as he was with me.

I move on quickly, looking at
pictures taken during the game of people in the stands. Adele and I are in many
of these. In most, I’m controlling myself well enough to appear calm. But in
several, it’s starkly evident how dismayed I was.

Only gradually do I look at the
people who were seated around us. Because of the intensity of the game, I
really hadn’t noticed them before. To my surprise, I discover that Davos was
sitting just one row back and slightly to the right of me. In none of the
pictures is he watching the action on the field. Instead, he’s looking at me.

I want to believe that I’m
mistaken but there are dozens of the photos and they all carry the same
message. As repellant as the thought is, Davos gives every sign of having
transferred his interest in Susannah to me.

But why? How much does he
suspect? What does he
know
?

As much as I don’t want to do
anything to worry my grandmother or brother, I can’t keep this to myself. The
anxiety is simply too great. Unfolding myself from the couch where I’ve been
sitting, I go in search of Edward.

Despite the late hour, he’s in
his office toward the back of the house overlooking the garden. The global financial
markets never sleep, which means that Edward often doesn’t either. He looks as
handsome as ever sitting behind the large burled chestnut desk but I can’t help
noticing that he also appears weary and tense.

When he sees me standing at the
door, he gestures for me to enter. A few moments later, he ends the call he was
on and gives me his attention.

“I thought you’d be asleep by
now,” he says. “Or did this evening’s engagement leave you with an excess of
energy?”

Since I intervened to stop the
officers from beating the young man, Edward has been a bit wary of me. I can’t
blame him. The experience still haunts me but even more, it has raised my
awareness to a degree that I cannot ignore.

Only this evening, returning to
the house with Helene, I noticed the drones flying low in the sky over the
northern part of the city. I have seen them before, of course. They are always
on patrol overhead. But there were more than usual and they were more
concentrated, suggesting that an incident was underway.

I can’t help but wonder if more
people were being beaten or even worse. I could check the link for news but
what passes for that is so shaped and spun as to be nothing more than
propaganda. Useful for those who want to know how they are supposed to think.
Not at all helpful to those of us who prefer to think for themselves.

“The recital,” I reply as I take
the chair across from my brother, “was exceedingly boring. It turns out that I
have a low tolerance for Victorian oratorios. After awhile, they all sound
alike.”

“Then I don’t regret missing
it,” he says with a smile. Leaning back in his chair, he studies me for a
moment before he asks, “Who else was there?”

“The usual.” I pause a beat
before adding, “Marianne asked after you.”

Edward raises a brow. “Did she?”

He’s silent for a moment. His
eyes take on a thoughtful light in which I glimpse what might be a hint of
wistfulness.

Softly, he says, “She’s very
young.”

I can’t resist the urge to tease
him a little. “She’s twenty-two, the same age as me. But I can understand why
you consider that young given that you’re an ancient twenty-eight.”

He shoots me a chiding look.
“She’s led a very sheltered life.”

“At the center of a decadent
society.” As new as I am to the city, I have no illusions about its nature.
“She is hardly ignorant or naïve. That she chooses to be selective in what she
experiences is a testament to her character and judgment, both of which I
believe to be exemplary.”

My brother’s smile deepens. “You
are her advocate.”

“I am her friend,” I say.

Whatever has happened between
Ian and me doesn’t change that. Marianne is a lovely young woman, more than
worthy of my brother’s attentions. But he’s going to have to come to that
realization for himself.

“If you want to know what
Marianne is thinking or feeling,” I continue, “why not ask her yourself?”

He shrugs. “Why not indeed? But
enough of that. What has you awake at this hour?”

I push the link across the desk
to him. It’s still open to the photographs of Davos in the stands.

“These. Would you take a look and
tell me what you think?”

He barely glances at them before
he shrugs. “Don’t worry about this. Ian and I are keeping tabs on him.”

My heart gives a little lurch at
the mention of that name. I do my best to conceal it but I can’t hide my
surprise. “Does that mean there’s cause for concern?”

“There is cause to take
reasonable precautions,” Edward counters. “Davos has an unsavory reputation and
the fact that he appears to have had some interest in Susannah is troubling.
But it would be a mistake to read too much into this. He’ll realize quickly
that you are well protected and beyond his reach.”

I can’t shake the impression
that my brother is minimizing the situation in an effort to reassure me. But
I’m far more focused on Ian’s involvement.

“Is that all Ian’s been doing?”
I ask. “Looking into Davos?”

Edward hesitates. I understand
that he doesn’t want to hurt me but he manages to make matters worse when he
says only, “Among other things.”

I frown as I am left to wonder
what that means. Before I can ask, Edward says, “It’s late, Amelia. If you’ll
forgive me, I have some work that can’t wait.”

I take the hint but before I
rise to go, I hear myself asking, “Did you know Marcus Slade?”

Edward frowns. His eyes, as blue
as my own, darken. “I encountered Ian’s father on occasion but we were hardly
well acquainted. Why do you want to know?”

“Ian didn’t get along with him.
Do you know why?”

“Marcus was a poor excuse for a
husband, intolerable really. I imagine that put Ian off him.”

“There was nothing else?”

“Not that I know of.” More
gently, Edward adds, “You could follow your own advice and ask Ian yourself.”

I swallow against the lump in my
throat and summon a false bravado. “I would but he’s gone to ground. And I
don’t suppose you’re going to tell me why that is either?”

My brother rises and hands me
back the link. “I think it’s something you’re going to have to figure out for
yourself.” In a rare burst of candor, he adds, “When it comes to matters of the
heart, that seems to be the case for all of us.”

I hope that he is thinking again
of Marianne but I don’t ask. My brother has shared as much as he’s going to for
now.

I bid him goodnight and leave
but I can’t help reflecting that both Ian and Edward keep far too much to
themselves. However well-intentioned their motives, that needs to change.

Whether they accept it or not,
my life is ultimately my own responsibility. I am not about to sit back
passively and let others decide my fate.

~~~~~~~~~~~~

Adele sleeps in the next morning
as usual and Edward is off to the office. I breakfast alone, then decide to
take a walk.

It’s a beautiful day, the sky
cloudless and bright. A soft breeze carries the scent of the nearby ocean that,
hidden though it is by the soaring walls of the city, still makes its presence
felt. I step out the door determined to shake off the dark mood that has
stalked me since the events at the polo club.

Lifting my face to the sun, I
close my eyes for a moment and just breathe. Being able to perform that simple
act still strikes me as miraculous. I wonder if I will ever be able to take it
for granted.

To awaken to the world as an
adult, gifted with knowledge but not experience, swamped by sensation, overwhelmed
by desire, left to find my way as best I can--all that has challenged me to the
utmost.

Although I’ve deliberately
chosen not to dwell on my origins, I am all too aware that I am a new kind of
being in this world, born both of human tragedy and technology that can be
considered inhuman, calling into question as it does what has been the one
certainty in human life--death.

What meaning does the death of
the body have when so much beyond it can be preserved through the replica
process--knowledge, will, desire, memory, experience, entire identities
continuing on? We are copies, to be sure. Soulless, those who fear us would
say. But what does that mean? Are we not real? Do we not dream? Yearn? Even
love?

If you prick us, do we not
bleed?

I don’t feel like a threat to
anyone. On the contrary, I am all too vulnerable--physically, emotionally, in
every possible way.

My arrival in the world seems so
unlikely, depending as it did on decisions made by people I will never know
going back decades. Might I not leave this existence just as capriciously?

On this sun-warmed day, when
last night’s rain has washed every leaf and blossom clean, I refuse to dwell on
such dark thoughts. They may skulk after me toward the avenue as I begin my
walk but I will not so much as glance over my shoulder to acknowledge them.

I have just set out when I
notice a young man approaching the staff entrance. He is drably dressed in a
brown uniform rather than the dark blue with burgundy piping that is worn by
McClellan retainers. But it’s not his clothing that draws my attention.

Workers in general strive to
remain inconspicuous. They walk at a purposeful but decorous pace, keep their
expressions blank, avoid eye contact, and so on. This young man is the
exception. He is clearly in a hurry and appears agitated.

As I watch, he waits at the
entrance off to the side, bobbing from one foot to the other as he is scanned.
When the door opens, he looks relieved. Quickly, he reaches into an inner
pocket of his tunic and withdraws a slim white envelope. With a quick exchange
of words, he hands it to a man who I recognize as Edward’s valet.

The encounter lasts less than a
minute before the door closes again and the young man departs. By the time he
reaches the avenue, he has regained control of himself enough to blend in with
the other workers. I follow him with my eyes but quickly lose him in that mass
of anonymous figures.

Briefly, I wonder why in an age
of instantaneous electronic communication, anyone would be delivering a message
by hand. But the question slips from my mind as I stroll along the avenue and
into the park.