Anew: Awakened Part 15

She imparts this wisdom matter-of-factly, as she has other morsels over the past few days, not bombarding me with information but not allowing me to remain in ignorance either. Little by little, she has built up a picture of the world I am about to enter that is more than a little ominous. I appreciate her intent but I am troubled all the same.

"Surely not everyone is like that?" I suggest.

Edward and Adele certainly are not but beyond them I remember Ian's dedication to finding better ways to grow food in order to prevent conflict, the flashes of tenderness he showed, his horror at the idea of hurting me-- But I have resolved not to think of him. As I remind myself several dozen times a day. And even more often at night when the determination not to think of Ian contains within it the seeds of its own defeat, leading me from one thought to the next, memories piling upon each other, my body twisting in the sheets, seeking but unable to find the relief that it seems only he can provide.

What did he say in the spa? That before he was done, it wouldn't be Susannah I was imprinted with, it would be him? I shiver with the fear, delicious and otherwise, that he is right.

"There are exceptions," Adele admits. "But they come wrapped in their own challenges." She shoots me a look that makes me wonder how much she has guessed of what happened at the palazzo.

My grandmother has not mentioned Ian. Not once, not a word. He might as well not exist. Yet he and Susannah were together for more than two years, as I have learned from Edward. Even if Adele isn't aware of my precise legal status, she must have guessed why I awoke in Ian's presence.

She is either a paragon of discretion or she simply sees no purpose in revisiting what she considers to be a closed chapter in my so far brief but tumultuous life.

At the thought that I may never see Ian again, my eyes burn. He has not called or contacted me in any way. His message couldn't be clearer--he had me and he's done. I have to accept that and move on or risk being ground down and destroyed.

Pride is my refuge. I will be d.a.m.ned if I will waste a moment of the precious life that I have been given pining for him. To the contrary, I intend to live it to the fullest.

"You have time for a nap before the performance," Adele says as we are leaving the couturier. "I suggest you get some rest."

I nod but absently. As we approach the car waiting for us at the curb, I remain preoccupied with my thoughts, so much so that I don't immediately notice when a scuffle breaks out nearby.

A young man darts from between the pa.s.sersby, his thin, unshaven face taut with equal measures of fear and desperation. I have a moment to notice how raggedly he is dressed before the shrill shriek of whistles followed quickly by the bark of a siren pierce the quiet of the elegant avenue.

At once, all the workers in their various monotone uniforms stop moving. As though they have been trained to do so, they stand frozen in place with their eyes downcast. A large, armored vehicle bristling with antennae and emblazoned with the words "Munic.i.p.al Protection Services" hurtles around a corner. Men in blue uniforms leap from it.

Several of the more garishly dressed people who, unlike the workers are under no restraint, shriek and dart about in an excess of excitement. But most of them only watch with evident satisfaction as the young man is quickly surrounded, stunned with an electric prod, and thrown to the ground.

No sooner is he down and restrained than the police begin kicking him with their steel-tipped boots. He doubles over, trying to protect himself but to no avail. Hard blows land all over his body, aimed at his chest, stomach, groin, and head. Bone crunches sickeningly as blood spurts from his mouth, spraying in droplets through the air to land only a few feet from where I stand. He cries out in pain.

At the sight of him, the sheltering coc.o.o.n of privilege in which I have existed ever since awakening tears. The dark reality beneath the glittering facade of the city is suddenly in front of me, impossible to ignore. Horrified, I step forward.

"What are you doing?" I cry out.

One of the uniformed men turns toward the sound of my voice but I doubt that he really even sees me, driven as he is by the unrestrained impulse to lash out at anyone who defies him.

In the same moment, a flicker of movement draws my attention back to the young man on the ground. Huddled in his own blood, bruised and battered, he nonetheless lifts his head and stares at me intently. Unlike his a.s.sailants, he does actually see me. For a moment, I look into brown eyes filled with surprise but also with keen, intelligent a.s.sessment.

"That is quite enough!" My grandmother's voice rings out, calmly but with clear authority. Addressing the officers, she says, "You have your prisoner. Unless you wish to answer to McClellan Holdings, you will do nothing further to endanger him or anyone else."

The name appears to have an almost magical effect. Abruptly, the officer who an instant before appeared intent on chastising me, takes in my appearance--the beautiful clothes, the waiting limousine, and the liveried driver who has reached into his jacket to draw a weapon, preparing to protect me.

A scowl darkens the officer's face. He mutters something under his breath and turns away, barking an order. The prisoner is hauled to his feet, dragged to the police van, and tossed inside. Moments later, the vehicle vanishes around the same corner where it appeared. Except for the spray of blood on the pavement, there is no evidence that anything happened.

Almost at once, activity in the vicinity returns to normal. The workers begin moving again, their faces carefully blank. Excitement still ripples among the others, several of whom glance at me with mingled curiosity and censure.

I am shaking as I join Adele in our car. The aftereffects of what I have seen are only just beginning to make themselves felt. I'm vaguely nauseous and glad that I had only a little breakfast.

As we pull away, my grandmother says, "Edward will check on the young man and make sure that he is all right. In all likelihood, he will be released without charges and just dropped off somewhere outside the city."

Staring down at my hands, I take a deep breath, fighting against a wave of panic. As shocking as it was, what I have seen is all too familiar.

If there is anything that I understand, it is that people with unchecked power will inflict pain on others without a flicker of hesitation or compa.s.sion. Yet I still struggle against accepting that this is the inevitable reality of the world in which I find myself. Is there truly no escape from it?

Faintly, I say, "Why did those men act so brutally? Surely, behavior like that shouldn't be tolerated?"

My grandmother sighs. "You're right, of course, it shouldn't be. But if they hadn't responded as they did, you can be certain that some residents who were at the scene would have wasted no time filing complaints against them. Those police officers could very well have lost their jobs. They and their families would have suffered."

Am I hearing her correctly? She can't seriously believe that they beat another man almost into unconsciousness because they were coerced into doing so by the presence of witnesses?

"Most of the people at the scene," I point out tightly, "were doing their d.a.m.ndest to make themselves invisible. I can't imagine any of them daring to file a complaint."

With a weary nod, my grandmother says, "I am speaking of residents, my dear, not workers."

When I continue to look at her, she explains. "Residents are property owners. They have a considerable financial stake in the city, both in the investment that they have made in order to live here and in the taxes they pay. As such, they expect their interests and well-being to be of the highest priority. Incidents such as the one you witnessed are deeply troubling to them. They demand a rigorous response."

"How was that poor man any sort of threat?" I ask. "For that matter, why is anyone in this city so ragged and dirty? With so much wealth, how could anyone be left in such need?"

My grandmother sighs. She is clearly reluctant to discuss the subject but finally she says, "The young man you saw is a scavenger. Unlike residents and workers, he and the others of his kind have no legal right to be in the city. They live in the shadows, surviving on the food, clothing, and the like that are routinely thrown away. So long as they remain out of sight, most people prefer not to think about them."

"But I thought the government provides stipends for those who can't find work."

I have read about this on the link. As technology takes over more and more of the functions once performed by humans, people have no choice but to accept the government's support.

"It does but only up to a point," Adele says, "and not for those who have been convicted of a crime, any crime, of which there is a very long and ever growing list. Inevitably, people in that situation come to the city and other places like it in search of the means to survive."

"Couldn't more be done to help them?" I ask. Criminals or not, the waste of human beings with all their potential for creativity, innovation, and so on strikes me as appalling.

"Of course it could," she concedes. "If there was sufficient will to do so. But the constant flow of mindless entertainment, legal recreational drugs, and empty promises of a better future have a certain tranquilizing effect."

She drops her voice a notch. "Change won't come from the ma.s.ses. They have neither the means nor the will to bring it about. If an organized rebellion does happen, it will have to start at the top, among men and women of privilege who also possess a conscience. The revolution that created our country, and about which almost no one speaks any more, began that way. The same will have to happen again."

As though she suddenly remembers herself, Adele pats my hand. "Don't trouble yourself about this. You're just beginning to know this world. Enjoy the good aspects, and there are many, before you consider the rest."

I don't dismiss her advice but images of the beaten young man haunt me hours later after I have retired for the night. Lying between the cool silken sheets of the bed in the lovely tower room that was Susannah's, I remember the intensity of his gaze, so fierce and strong despite his suffering.

My grandmother believes that change can only come from the top. I can't help but wonder if she is wrong. Surely, men like the one I saw have the will and courage to act on their own behalf. But beyond that, I have to wonder how we came so quickly to talk of revolution. At the very least, I cannot escape the thought that the idea was already prominent in my grandmother's mind. What could have put it there?

I turn over in the bed, nestling my cheek against the pillow, as I wonder what Ian would make of all this. With his background and his resources, would he see the potential for revolution as a threat to be ruthlessly crushed? Or could he be one of those Adele was thinking of when she mentioned people of conscience in the highest reaches of Society?

Scarcely does that latter possibility occur to me than images of Ian fill my mind. Ian walking toward me in the garden, on the balcony in the rain, above me in the golden bed, in the spa, again in the golden room, our image captured in the mirror in which I saw myself, a creature of pure carnality, enslaved to his touch.

I become so caught up in thinking about him that I scarcely notice when my hand slips under my nightgown and down my body to the apex of my thighs. I hesitate but the hollow pain that has been inside me since those moments in the library is suddenly unbearable. I am desperate for some relief from it.

Remembering Ian, how he touched me with his mouth, his hands, all of him, I touch myself tentatively. The sensation is...pleasant. Nothing more, nothing to frighten or alarm me. And certainly not distasteful. In fact, as I persist a little it becomes...enjoyable.

And then more so...enough that...after a few minutes a small o.r.g.a.s.m ripples through me, taking me by surprise, not in the least because it is so mild. I didn't know they came that way. Everything I've experienced with Ian is so vastly more.

I could continue but the hollowness of my actions mocks me. Mere physical relief is meaningless without him. The sense of his body, his presence all around me, and the knowledge that I can give him shattering pleasure in return transform a simple, physical process into an act of true intimacy.

Considering that, I eventually slip into sleep but I don't find any rest there.

I am in the gestation chamber, trapped and helpless. It is my world, all I have ever known. That other world--filled with light, color, sensation--was an illusion woven by my starving mind. A pathetic delusion, its loss only heightening my anguish.

The white-coated technicians are priming their machines. Soon the pain will begin. I open my mouth to scream but my throat is paralyzed. Panic strikes and I struggle to breathe only to realize that I can't. I have never taken a breath, never eaten, hardly moved. My body is maintained. My mind is left to fend for itself. As for my heart...

Where do the people go when they aren't on the other side of the gla.s.s walls? Where am I when I am not awake to see them?

Time pa.s.ses, moments merging one into another. Suddenly, in a flicker, there are more beings on the other side of the gla.s.s, many more, working intently. So many, so busy that I try to brace myself for the agony that is to come. It does but not in any way I could expect.

Motion--I am moving!

Different walls surround me, a room I have never seen before but I hardly notice.

The level of liquid in my chamber is suddenly dropping. Terror fills me. How can I exist without the medium that has sustained me all this time?

I begin to thrash and am restrained. A tube is forced down my throat. Air fills my lungs for the first time.

Light unfiltered by fluid strikes my eyes. Sounds a.s.sail me...the murmur of voices, the beep of machinery...

I am strapped down on a hard surface. Something that I can't see is attached to my head. Pain and fear are so much my normal companions that I hardly notice them anymore. But suddenly there is more...much more...something faint, elusive, growing...

Someone.

Awareness explodes within me. For the first time, I have words and with them a flood of concepts and ideas that they illuminate. From all that, my mind forms a single, transforming thought: I.

I exist. I am.

Like the beaten man on the ground. Like the woman in the portrait. Like all those in the drab uniforms and those who put them there. Every one of us, each singular and unique.

I blink and Ian is coming toward me out of the shadows. His stride is steady, his eyes intent. The world is falling away before me. I reach out frantically, feeling the brush of his fingers, the touch of his breath in the moment before hope slips from my grasp and I plummet into drowning darkness.

I wake sobbing, struggling in sheets so twisted that they confine me like a shroud. By the time I fight my way free, I'm soaked in sweat, my heart hammering in the vise-like grip of terror.

Slumped on the side of the bed, my head in my hands, I struggle to find a center of calm that seems impossibly far away and out of reach. No sound except my own ragged breathing disturbs the silence in the tower room.

The air is bright with the cool, woody scent of the Lombardy pines that stand like sentinels in the garden. The only illumination comes from the street lights on the avenue outside. It slips through cracks in the heavy silk drapes, slanting down the brocade covered walls and across the soft pastel Aubusson carpet to touch the bed set beneath a circular demi-canopy draped, as the windows are, in pale gold.

Soothed by the scents, drawn by the light, I lift my head and not for the first time study the room that was Susannah's. It is like the woman herself, beautiful and tranquil, in the best of taste, more restrained by far than the golden room in the palazzo.

All her personal belongings are gone, whether removed after her death or just before my arrival I cannot say. Yet a sense of her lingers, enough for me to imagine her sitting in this room, weighing the possible extension of her own life for however brief a time against the bestowing of mine.

What prompted her choice? I am grateful to her, of course, wildly grateful for the life I have been given. That is the light pushing back the darkness that threatens to smother me. Yet there are times when I feel so overwhelmed, so unprepared that I wonder how I can ever be what she intended. The ultimate makeover, Ian said. Susannah's own version of the perfect woman.

Is there a more daunting prospect? One that I already know I can never fulfill?

I lie down again eventually but only to skim the surface of sleep. Monsters lurk in the depths--memories I am not supposed to have but cannot escape. They are as much a part of me as anything Susannah intended.

Perhaps even more so for they are uniquely my own. The thought occurs to me that in trying to flee from the monsters, I am really running from myself.

Chapter Sixteen.

Amelia Accompanied by Adele and Edward, I step from the car onto the red carpet laid before the entrance to the Opera House. Ours is one of a steady stream of luxury vehicles dropping off the evening's audience or at least that portion of it destined for the dress circle and the stalls.

There is a separate entrance to the side of the theatre for those being admitted to the balconies. I catch a glimpse of the people lined up there and notice that they are still wearing the same plain, uniform clothing. Are the worker bees of Manhattan never allowed to appear in anything that could distinguish them as individuals or worse yet, lead to them being mistaken for the privileged ones they serve?

The paparazzi are out in force, clamoring for items to feed the private link that Adele has shown me, where the elite are not at all shy about exchanging news and gossip. Edward waves the videographers and reporters off but most of those on the red carpet are happy to preen and pose.

We are held up momentarily behind a couple chattering on about who "dressed" them, when I happen to glance beyond the barriers that confine the workers to their own allotted s.p.a.ce. A young woman is standing there. Although she is wearing a drab brown tunic and slacks, and has her gleaming dark hair sc.r.a.ped into a bun, she is remarkably, even fiercely beautiful. Her high cheekbones hint at an Asian heritage but her large, thick-fringed eyes and warm, olive complexion suggest that she could be a Latina. More even than the loveliness of her features, the pride evident in the tilt of her head and her expression rivets me. For the first time, I'm seeing a member of the worker cla.s.s who isn't striving for invisibility.

Our eyes meet. I am openly curious but I'm also worried. If anyone else notices her staring so blatantly, she could be in trouble. That possibility doesn't seem to concern her. Holding my gaze, she gives me a smile and inclines her head in acknowledgement.

A moment later, she fades back into the crowd. I'm left wondering if I imagined her.

But not for long. As we step into the Opera House, I understand why Adele and Zosimo both insisted that I had to wear something spectacular this evening. The gown that the spiky red-haired wizard created for me is aquamarine silk shot through with strands of gold that together look like bright sunlight falling on crystal clear water. The sleeveless bodice is a stiff embroidered brocade that begins just below the upper swell of my b.r.e.a.s.t.s and stops precisely at the top of my thighs, enclosing my torso in an almost rigid sheath. Below, an intricately pleated silk chiffon skirt ripples down the length of my legs like small undulating waves.

The total effect is as elegant as anything in the palazzo dressing room but it is also completely different. The colors and the look itself are more vibrant and daring than Susannah would have worn. In addition, I resisted allowing my hair to be straightened even after being told by the huffy hairdresser that it was absolutely de rigueur if I am to have any hope of being fashionable. Instead, I've gone for a look that admittedly is a little wild, a ma.s.s of chestnut waves interlaced with small, bejeweled flowers, scooped high on my head and left to tumble below my shoulders. I am confident that my appearance is sufficiently different for me to be accepted as 'Cousin' Amelia.

Looking around at the other women, I know I made the right decision by insisting on my own style. I need to stand out, to appear distinctly myself to a.s.sure that no one will ever guess the truth, and I've achieved that. In contrast, most of the young women I see and some of the older ones who should know better are decked out in the height of the season's fashion trends. Those aren't all bad--transparent bands of lace worn over the eyes create a tantalizing air of mystery. But some of the others...

Of all the excesses--and there are many--the collars stand out. Every slave to fashion is wearing one. They come in a variety of styles but the most extreme extend from the collarbones all the way up to the chin, completely encircling the neck and holding it rigid in splints of leather, lace, or even lacquered metal. The wearers can't turn their heads without moving their entire upper bodies. I touch my own bare neck and wonder how they can even manage to swallow.

Adele appears amused by the excesses whereas Edward seems oblivious despite the attention from many of those same young women that keeps coming his way. He and Adele both stay close to me as we proceed through the crowd toward the curving marble staircase framed by golden statues of cherubim that leads up to the dress circle.

The interior of the Opera House is done in over-the-top Rococo, filled with multi-colored marble friezes, sculpted columns, statuary, and murals. Lavish gilding, rich velvet, and gold leaf have been applied to every possible surface. The whole is lit by the radiance of several hundred crystal and gold chandeliers creating an effect that is more than sumptuous. It is an orgy for the senses as well as a showcase for privilege and power, As we join the crowd ascending the broad marble steps, I put one hand on the smooth banister and with the other lift my skirts so that they won't catch on the delicate, pointed heels from which my bare, painted toes peek. I'm thinking about everything I've seen since coming to the city, the good and the bad, trying to make some sense of it all when I glance up.

In the s.p.a.ce of a heartbeat, every coherent thought dissolves. Only sensation and instinct remain.

Ian is standing at the top of the steps, impeccably dressed in evening wear that, in stark contrast with the excesses of fashion all around us, is austerely elegant. He has shaved recently, revealing the chiseled line of his jaw, and his dark hair is freshly trimmed.

But the veneer of civilization does nothing to lessen the sense of power and fierce will that surround him, made all the more startling by his undeniable youth. He truly does look like a prince bred to rule.

When our eyes meet, his gaze is hard, glittering, remorseless. At once, a cascade of memories engulfs me--water sluicing down his big, hard body as we stood together in the shower, the sun playing over his face as I lay beneath him in the pavilion, those final moments in the library... A bolt of pain makes me gasp.

I am suddenly hollow with yearning and trembling with need. My knees threaten to buckle. I am desperately afraid that I will cry or throw myself at him or simply melt, becoming a humiliating spectacle for the t.i.tillation of Society and to my own abiding shame.

Hot, cleansing anger comes to my rescue. How dare he send me away, then turn up again just when I'm struggling to put what happened between us behind me? He has no right to look at me as he is, the searing intensity of his gaze leaving me no room to think or breathe. Still on the steps, I quake. My hand slips from the banister as my balance falters.